The only positive of this circumstance was that it was the tip of her left index finger that was injured. Her grotesque injury wouldn't be featured front and center, at least. Having him help and touch her left a sour taste in her mouth, though. Again, she thought to press him on why it mattered. Why bother healing her when he had already decided not to care?

Blood dripped down the side of her hand and onto the sleeve of her dress. "Do me a favor," she said as she spotted a towel (dirty, but a towel nevertheless) and pressed it to her wound. Her tolerance for the pain and grief the past week had left her with had now all but eliminated her patience. "Stop acting like you care, okay? I'm fine, I've obviously suffered worse -" she waved her right hand up and quickly dropped it back to her side, "- and can fix it myself. You don't care that I'm leaving and not coming back. You don't care whether or not I learn wandless magic. The only thing you care about is whether or not I'm alive, which is just fucking perfect. " She was exploding, her frustration and grief pouring from her without caution. "So just stop, alright? Just fucking stop."