Her eyes are bloodshot, burning from the lack of sleep, but she cannot stop. The pressure renders her unable to breathe until she gets them all out of her chest.
They weigh so heavily there.
They multiply. The pressure builds again until she can no longer process anything else, crowding out every other thought she might want to think, every other feeling she might want to feel.
So many words.
Her hand trembles as she writes with his old fountain pen. Ink now runs black through her veins.
I will read them when you are done, he said.
So all she can do is bleed onto the page again and again and again and again while her sanity slips farther away.
Writing has become her disease.
He is her infection and her elixir.
Words written in the dark, flowing so fast she cannot catch them all.
There is only one cure. Just one.
He holds his hand out to her. This time, she takes it.