She has no answer to that, no good response, and she feels an awareness creeping back into her - the sensation that she might have gone too far again, let her inner thoughts speak when perhaps they should have remained in. Answering his questions seems more difficult than facing off against a whole host of mindflayers, and the only mercy that can be found is that everything's not being shouted down by the desire to kill, cut her way out of the situation.

(As if she could cut herself open with this knife in particular. It's like her fate would stay her hand.)

"...why do you call yourself a butcher?"

Easier to ask than to answer.