When you're alone essentially your whole life, it should be easier to disassociate yourself from other people. It isn't though, and Dahlia knew this firsthand. That idiot of a boy followed her like a puppy when she happened to be around instead of Iris, and the way he looked at her… It made her sick. Oh, it made her sick to her stomach and she was so tired of it.

She giggled lightly, thinking about it, her cellmate taking a puff of a cigarette in the background. "What the hell are you so happy about?" She asked, in her gruff voice.

"Oh, nothing~" She chimed softly, flashing her usual smile.

Well, there was plenty to be thinking about, at least; the look on Iris's face when she heard Dahlia planned to kill Wright, perhaps? Or maybe it was something more along the lines of her impending hanging?

All the same, Dahlia wore that insincerely sweet smile on her perfectly rounded lips, one the guards knew not to trust but did anyways. She was quite popular there, after all, and she knew it. Oh, she got special treatment, or at least as special of treatment as a lady on death row would get. She was even given writing utensils, real ones, not just dulled coloring pencils and markers, sharpened and lovely pencils, with which she made lovely little drawings of flowers, especially her namesake. Oh, she did enjoy dahlias, with their beautifully blooming petals and split levels of colors. They made her smile, sometimes it was even a real smile instead of her usual fake ones.

Finishing up a little picture of just that, a little dahlia with pink petals and a bright green stem, she set down the drawing supplies and made a content little sigh, eyes darting over to the clock outside the cell. She pursed her lips, thinking over something unmentioned.

There was an awful lot of free time these days. She hadn't had this much free time in normal life, really, always busy doing something to cover up some sort of incident…

She stretched out, catlike, and trotted her way to the bed, mind whirring as always.