The soul is ripped from my body savagely. I stare at you, my eyes holding questions that I know you can answer.
The sticky and hot sensation of blood dripping down my chest, breasts and belly, soaking through my shirt. I grin at you, the smile holding all my insanity. You grin back, the thing in your hand; I know from your mind, is my soul. So that is why I can hear your mind and you mine. I bet you didn't know what you were taking on, did you?
Your smile falters, trying to hold onto me, through the mind link. The beast you have freed, and it is releasing everything, all my pain, injuries and deathly thoughts. You are my writing. You are what I pour every ounce of my mind into.
The art I draw is good and well, but I can never draw what I want without people thinking something is wrong.
Nothing is wrong, but everything at the exact same time.
Your grin comes back, and I feel warmed by it. We both laugh, my insane one with your deep one mixes in a strange combination. It is music to my ears.
You are my writing personified. You come to me in dreams, help me through everything. You know everything, yet nothing at the exact same time. We are one, but different.
My soul moves, morphs, becomes the beast. It snarls at you, and with a nip to show its point, leaps on my shoulder. I reach up and pet it. It makes a delighted sound. Its grey, unsubstantial coloring hardens and becomes a deep, dark aqua, mixed with purple and dots of red stand out as bloodstains would snow.
I look down at my bloodstained shirt. I feel no pain, yet pain screams through every ounce of my body. I look up at you, a question on my face. 'Why am I not dead?' I ask through the mind link, my heart race increasing, the blood pouring.
Your grin grows wider, more insane. "This is your writing. Everything that you think happens here!" Your laugh is more insane than mine.
Art cannot express this. Only writing can. I laugh with you, and the beast on my shoulder lets out is strange metallic cry.
KYYYARRRRRRKKKKAAAAYYYOOOOKKKAACKLARCK!