(no subject)
She wrote furiously, the sweat streaming down her furrowed brow. Words formed at the speed of light at the end of her fingertips. Her hands started to cramp, but she didn't care. Her physical pain didn't matter. Her mental fatigue didn't matter. All that mattered was the writing. It came upon her like a demon, and she could not think of anything else, could not concentrate on anything else, until it was written out. Before, it would come at the most innoportune times, but in her small cell, any time she wasn't eating or sleeping was opportune.
She could feel the blood rushing from her whole arm, making it feel heavy and sore, but if she didn't start to write above her head, she'd have nowhere to go when it got long. For a moment, she stepped back to read over her work, and suddenly smiled at the notion of the old life; the taboo of writing on the walls. She had run out of paper long ago, but the demon didn't take notice.
She pulled the dull end of the pin out of her mouth, and pricked her ring finger, wincing a little at the slight sting. Her pencils had run out with the paper, but she was resourceful. Or rather, it was resourceful. She couldn't take all the credit. When she tried to fight it, or make up excuses, it made up better excuses on why she should write.
And now she looked at her fingers. They were bruised from constant pricking, and were extremely sensitive at first, but she had soon learned to get used to the pain. Pain held little leverage in the face of it.