She wrote because there were things in her head that would not be quiet. It frightened her a little --perhaps more than a little. Had one been watching her in that moment, one would yearn deeply to utter that she had not reason to be afraid. For the voices, they existed in all humans, and they always have. She had begun to hear them as she advanced in age, and in every passing day she grew to be increasingly silent, for there became by now nothing she saw in words. They were profitless, feckless, and slowly she stopped speaking. It was then that the voices came, at first one and then all in the same instant. And as the days passed, all she could hear were voices, voices increasingly brazen, dangerous, but inimitably enticing. They were speaking yet again, hinting of the brilliant gush of crimson she should witness as her translucent skin was pierced. She was tempted... so very tempted. Her gaze flittered to the jagged tip of a fountain pen, barely a few inches away from her touch, and she shut her eyes. Her fingers clutched the pen, trembling, and she began writing, ever so furiously, as if her young life should depend on it. She wrote and wrote, and she never stopped.