She sighed, and set to work.
Yet again, a story to tell.
In tangles, of ink. Tangles of lines running together, parallel, sometimes across. Scribbled in the margins, thoughtfully little Ed notes in the corners. All tangled. Black, blue, red, words. Picked and arranged, lost and disarrayed, askew, vainly set right again.
Where did it go? Where did everything go? Where did everyone go? Every few minutes the hush would return, preternaturally quiet, before the whispers came flooding back, running in electric lines across her mind. Arcing through her, in little shivers of anticipation, and maybe dread, maybe excitement.
There was a story here, a story to tell. Who had time for tears, when there was so much to do?
The ink spoke to her, as a coherent extension of the blur behind her eyes. It made sense, it always did. No wonder she gravitated to it, like the proverbial dumb as fuck suicidal moth to the cruel smiling flames, burning blue, burning black. Like her thoughts. Like her bruised and bleeding thoughts.
She raced across the page, hair lank and windswept, feverish with need and agony. Had to get it out. Have to get out. She spoke in a multitude of voices in her head. Arguing, debating. Supporting, condemning. Back and forth, rhythmically. Like a piercing, wailing violin, like a silent weeping cello. Back and forth, back and forth, blades shrieking across the tight cords. Bass pounding like a heartbeat, like a pulse in her temples. The music playing in her ears was a distraction, it needed to be changed. It had suddenly become too happy. Too cheery, borne of good times. Moments of love, moments of peace, of companionship. All gone. All lost. It didn’t match the song in her head anymore. They all go away in the end. What use had they of her?
Despite what need she had, of them?
The words flourished to life before her, growing stronger with every instant, feeding off the despair. Feeding off the hopelessness, the anguish, the neglect. Feeding off her soul. Verse by verse, page by page, she was less in herself and more in the ink she bled her pain into. Tangle after tangle, eyes glittering madly.
A single drop of salty water rolled down, making a clear trail on its fiery way down the stained canvas. She flicked it away irritably and kept writing.
There was work to be done.