The Writer's Double-Edged Sword

           Speechless. Surely no one in the history of mankind had felt what she was feeling, and she thought herself too uncreative and uninventive to create such a word to express it.
           “But aren’t there words?” a voice in her head questioned softly.
           “No, not this time,” she replied. This time was different. “This time” was always different.
           “There are,” the voice asserted politely. Just that light disagreement caused her hands to start shaking.
           “The words I have won’t suffice. I don’t know the right ones,” she stated timidly, her own voice dying.
           “Say the ones you know, say it how you know it,” the voice advised gently.
           “I’m so exhausted, please some other time,” she pleaded. The voice snapped after hearing her pitiful excuse.
           “Every second is some other time! Some other time is now!”
           “Some other time can be later,” she tried to counter in a murmur.
           “No! What you keep locked in your chest is poison! But when you unlock it, it becomes a jewel to the world! How harmful and selfish to keep it chained shut when the key to release it is sitting so patiently at your desk!”
           “Please stop,” she begged, overwhelmed from the screaming. The voice could not listen in its craze.
           “Go! Take your weapons, your paper and pen, and slaughter the resistance! Ravage your resistance to write! The first battle is already won the moment you start!”
           “I’m not skilled enough to-”
           “Now!” the voice snarled. She wanted to say no. Even hesitation to the command would have been a great rebellion. Nevertheless, her fear of the voice far outweighed any other, so she threw herself into her desk chair. She took a shaky breath and closed her eyes, pen already in hand. Then the voice returned.
           “Just write anything, any word you know, you can always change it later,” it coaxed her, suddenly calm.
           “I can’t-” she began.
           “The first part is always the hardest, but you have within you all the words you need,” the voice stated reassuringly. She couldn't resist opening up to the voice, not after it spoke to her with such care. The voice obviously had her best interest at heart.
           “Now, I have the idea, but the way it flows-” the voice kindly interrupted her again.
           “Your mind is an infinite body of water, your thoughts are only the surface of it, and your hand is a floodgate, holding it all back, trying to release it through the smallest stream of ink. What strength it takes to allow a stream through the gates, without the force and pressure of the water overpowering and destroying what the gates separate.”
            Such silver words won her over, and she immediately began to write. The voice relaxed and said nothing for a long while. Then the girl spoke.
           “This is worse,” she said, terrified.
           “Is it really, though?” the voice began to argue, although it knew the truth.
           “Yes, yes! This hurts much more than before! You said the poison would become a jewel! Before it was only trapped in my chest, but now I feel it spreading! This hurts so badly, I just want it to stop!” She shrieked, then stopped writing for a few seconds. The pain refused to subside.
           “I never said it wasn’t going to hurt,” the voice defended itself coolly.
           “It’s in my veins! It’s going to be in my bones!” she yelled accusatorially.
           “Stop, don’t be the victim. You’ve known all along. Why did you ever try to convince yourself that you could get through this without having to bleed?” The voice was cold and collected. She didn’t answer.
           “Just pick up the pen and bleed a little,” the voice crooned persuasively. She was at its mercy. With great reluctance swelling within, she took the pen and began to write, tears brimming her eyes at yet another defeat.
           If there was a window to look out, it had been boarded by the voice. If there was a door to leave through, the voice had removed all of the handles. She believed these things without a doubt, and therefore did not bother to look up at all, much to the dismay of her aching neck. For too long ink neatly fell, filling the page, but her heart poured just as much, as she struggled to accept the pain.
           “It’s all done,” she finally said, as she leaned back in her chair, relieved. The voice was silent.
           “Is the poison gone?” she chuckled, a little hysterically. “Is the pain I feel now the same kind a person has after having surgery? Recovering, but not yet healed?”
           “I always get the poison out,” the voice said quietly, ignoring her other questions.
           With eyes closed she said peacefully, “I know, but please, never again.”
           When her eyes opened, she realized that she was alone, the voice was already gone. It always left a moment before she made her request.