Whispering Madness.

Her fingers, they traced patterns in the zig-zag path of the falling raindrops on her window, beckoned by gravity to fall to the ground. Her heart, it beat out a tattoo of grief, with every beat, ripping itself to shreds. Her mind, it whirled and scrambled, crazed and frightened, calling up the rising fear inside of her. Her hands, they fell to the blade she'd kept beside her since that day, that one day.

It hurt to think of it, oh how it hurt.

Her fingers, they trembled, her eyes, they stared, then darted, panicked, panicked.

Despair etched in every crevice, every line and hollow in her old, old face.

A moan, brief but heart-rending.

A sob, of endless grieving.

Then the pain. White-hot, searing.

The young man glanced back at his charge, the woman he was supposed to care for. He couldn't care less about her. A small sound escaped her, but otherwise she sat dull and lifeless, in the chair she'd been sitting in for two days, in the clothes she'd been wearing for twice as long. Moved, she hadn't, in 2 days. He wondered for a fleeting moment, what went on in her crazed mind, what made her make those tiny sounds every once in a while, detached from reality. Sometimes, she scared him. Sometimes. He snorted. Her hands and feet were tied, she couldn't possibly harm him. But her eyes. The way they watched him. Her eyes. Frightening, with creatures living in them. Her eyes.

Madness, they called it. Crazy, they called her.

A whisper, a whisper of the madness sliding over your skin, sliding up the back of your neck, down to tickle the base of your spine.

Wait. Just wait.

Madness.