Rovele stared at the sky and took note of stars blocked out by streetlights. She screamed out in mental agony of being so isolated. She stared down at her blood-red fingernails, then at the notebook full of words that she had used to try and maintain sanity. None of it worked. Her emotions had begun to move so fast that her mind couldn’t keep up, let alone her hands.

She knelt beside a new pen and opened the notebook again, trying once more. She held it gently against the one rough side of her left ring fingernail and began to write. The pen spilled ink-blood onto the paper, and she smirked. The bright red color of the ink was new, and certainly different from the old black.

She dropped the pen, hands shaking after a full two hours of nothing but writing, stared up at the now blue sky, and cackled. She wasn’t the same… nor was the pen. the pen was covered in blood, she had written so vigorously that her finger had bled. She stood, looked at the world with new eyes…

and dropped dead.