She burst into her apartment barely breathing. The door swung wide open and slammed violently behind her—the keys still dangling in the lock. Immediately recognizing the safety of a familiar space, she suddenly stopped in the middle of the room. For a few long seconds she remained perfectly still. Her glance froze in a dumb stare, her mouth stretched into a cadaverous grimace. When she finally remembered to breathe, her lips made several desperate gasps and the long, slender body fell to the floor.

It’s frustrating how heavy eyelids can be just when you need to stay focused! Lack of strength tempted her to slip into darkness, but the craving pulled her out of the engulfing trance. The skin felt tight on her face. Cold beads of sweat tickled the back of her neck. Eyes were spacing out. She blinked vehemently and lifted herself off the floor. She felt the room spin once or twice around her. A swift shake of the head took care of that in an instant. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time—she had to get to the bedroom, she had to get what she came here for.

Blank pages. Tissue paper . . . cardboard . . . old bills . . . envelopes . . . anything to write on, and anything to write with. If only she found some paper she would live again. As soon as she let the pen glide on the white surface, she would have a name again. She would once again be Nancy. She would exist in every way that other people exist. Her fears and frustrations would line themselves up like soldiers in front of her. Her passions and ambitions would weave intricate designs upon her command. There would be a place for every emotion, and every emotion would be in its place. Frantically, her quivering fingers searched for a pen. Success! She tore the cap off with her teeth, and spit it out. Paper . . . paper . . . Ah, at last!

Words spilled out onto the pages like anxious, flapping, gasping fish. They told stories of her childhood and painted pictures of her hopes, disappointments and betrayals. On a few plain pages they created a world of contrast and drama. They mixed elaborate portraits with rough sketches. Within half an hour these words evolved into a passionate symphony of unintentional secrets. But, like the desperate fish, they eventually ran out of fighting energy, and stopped breathing. She didn’t even put a period. Nancy had nothing more to say.
The weary hand slipped off the pages and let the exhausted pen slide through the fingers and fall. The phone rang. She looked at it, casually. Picked it up.

—“Nancy?”—she heard a concerned voice.

—“Yes?”

He begged her to talk to him. Nancy had no more words.