“You know, it is the strangest thing,” she said, pausing in her writing. She lifted the obsidian pen from her paper, biting one end and smiling through her teeth.
“What is?” asked absolutely no one. But she heard the question, anyway. She often heard what she wanted to. Just like everyone else.
“How people’s minds work, really. What coaxes a reaction. How, sometimes, it’s only apparent that people were listening when you shut the hell up. No, wait. I mean, when you insinuate that you’re shutting the hell up.”
“Well,” Voiceless responded, “you can’t have a conversation with someone unless you shut the hell up every now and then.”
“Was I having a conversation…?”
“Were you? …are you?”
She paused for a brief moment before writing down, quite confidently, psychotic.
Voiceless grinned. “Such a tragic little drama queen you are. In every respect, truly.” A soundless laugh, like hauntingly discordant music. It made her brain itch in a place she couldn’t quite scratch. “Do you think anyone is listening now?”
“So… What are you saying, then?”
She twirled the pen around in her fingers and thought about that. Eventually, she shrugged, and somewhere near the bottom of the paper began to write:
‘…in the end, none of it had mattered. Perhaps it was inevitable, that he would let this cleansing fire into his open wounds; welcome it, even, so that it could incinerate his ice-sculpture bones. Because it just felt so good, even if it was damning, even if it was wrong…’