As an author’s note, I sort of feel I need to make it clear that this isn’t somehow about me or about anyone I know. I’m just a sick puppy and like the imagery of paper, ink, and beatings.
Black and blue ink splattered across the pages of her skin, soaking through one page after the next. Each chapter is just more of the same. Her beginning will be the same as her end – nothing but an unbroken circle of bruises and scars. The only unbroken thing about her.
He was the typewriter, authoring her story, his unforgiving keys punching the words into her letter by painful letter, only pausing momentarily to reset for a new page. Then it starts all over again.
Page after endless page. And there was nothing for her to do other than let herself be written.