She drops the pen and massages her sore hands. Ink markings dot her fingers. A band-aid covers her pinkie tip, the fabric melting into the rest of her hand. Her rough knuckles are in need of some lotion, but she’s too focused to bother. Writing deaths are stimulating; it makes her want to scream and laugh and cry all at once.

She sits back and runs her sweaty fingers across the page, tracing her fragile words. Her fingernails are dangerously short, but she bites them anyways while creating and deleted sentences in her head. She finds herself absentmindedly spinning the Wal-Mart ring on her right finger. Should Danny find Angela’s body? Is it a secret? Is he informed by the police?

Words and images burst in her mind while her fingers tap against the desk. She cracks her knuckles and tries to smooth out her nail with her teeth, but her fingernail turns red and blood appears. No, no, no! She sticks her finger in her mouth, shakes out her other hand, and picks up the pen. Her hand is burning and trembling.

She writes anyways.


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