It wasn’t a very bright morning. The dullness of the weather outside resembled the gloom that prevailed inside her.
She sat at her desk and looked out of her hotel room window. Writing comes naturally to her, no that’s not the problem. She wasn’t worried about her publisher’s deadline. Master storyteller she was. At least that’s what her friends and relatives praised her for. She weaved imaginative stories of demons and witches. Her stories often followed a standard path of intro, event, revenge, and conclusion. The details found in her characterizations have often contributed to her story writing skills. The facial expressions, the viscousness, the anxiety, the pain, the horror and the final retributions. It all added a finesse to her storyline.
She knows she just needs to start writing and the faces and events from her dreams will come alive on her laptop screen. It will become a story for the world to read and enjoy. She knows those demons and witches are a figment of her imagination. Those gory details certainly were.
But only she knows that the storyline and the characters are all too familiar to her. She weaves a fine tale around them while reliving the agony of her nightmares. The insecurities, the anxiety, the horrors, the hidden emotions inside her. All out there for the world to read. Yet no one understands them. No one understands the cry for help.
She turns to her keyboard and starts typing. Praying with all her heart that this would be her last nightmare. Even if it meant that it would be her last masterpiece.