On a semi-busy street, almost like lunchtime in a college town, sits a small Mom-n-Pop coffee shop. A tea colored sign reading Industria casts a shadow of cool relief over the patio on an unusually warm day in Oregon. Mismatched tables cluttered the walk, a few of them home to chatter and gossip of the locals. Near the door of the establishment sits a woman paler than pure mountain snow with dark hair tied in a knotted clump on the top of her head. To her left sits a letter opener, a quil, and an inkwell that is desperate for a refill, she sits hunched with her head in her hands and a pen in her mouth. A furrowed brow suggests she’s deep in thought and a closer look would reveal her bottom lip to be utterly abused and shredded from nervous chewing. Paper covered in scribbles and crossed out lines seem to be the center of her frustrations.

“I,” a heavy sigh, “Fuck!” concerned glances from passersby, she quiets her tone but continues her thought, “I can’t do this. It’s this stupid-” She growls and looks at the near empty inkwell. The pen clatters against mesh steel and the letter opened replaces it in her left hand, she’s done this enough times to know that speed is better than accuracy. The pain will come, but better it come after the deed is done. In a quick movement a thick black liquid begins to seep from the fresh wound on her wrist. Refills never left scars, but they seemed to hurt more than any other wound. She held her wrist above the well and let it drip, glancing around to ensure no one was too curious. The process feels excessively long and she is terrified of being caught, there’s no real way to explain the ink dripping from her veins.

“Stupid fucking curse.” She muttered angrily, “Stupid fucking Disney movie evil step-mother.” One last squeeze and she began to wrap the wound in a bandage she always kept handy in her pocket. The veins down her arm showed a deep black through her paper skin- which was annoying and revealing, but no one would think it real.

With one final exasperated sigh, she brought an ornate quil out of the bag hanging on her wobbly chair and dipped it in the fresh ink. Whatever I write is true, whatever I create becomes my reality.

“Makes it such a pain to edit.” Mel dug to through the destroyed white paper for a fresh page and began writing once more, occasionally glancing at her first draft in regular pen.