I've confessed to everything and I'd like to be killed.

Now, if you please.

I don't mean to be difficult, but I can't bear to tell my story. I can't relive those memories—the touch of Trigon's Hand, the smell of copper, the gulp and swallow of the Sea of Fire.

How can you possibly think me innocent? Don't let my face fool you; it tells the worst lies. A girl can have the face of an angel but have a horrid sort of heart.

I know you believe you're giving me a chance—or, rather, it's Robin giving me the chance. He's desperate, of course, not to lose another innocent friend to the hand of evil, but please believe me: Nothing in my story will absolve me of guilt. It will only prove what I've already told you, which is that I'm wicked. Can't Robin take my word for it?

In any event, where does he expect me to begin? The story of a wicked girl has no true beginning. I'd have to begin with the day I was born.

If Beast Boy were to tell the story, he'd likely begin with himself, on the day he arrived in Jump City. That's where proper stories begin, don't they, when the "handsome stranger" arrives and everything goes wrong?

But this isn't a proper story, and I'm telling you, I ought to be killed.