Just Another Struggling Writer

gravel

The voice in her head was like gravel grating against the fragile walls of her psyche. What started as a tender whisper, like that of a lover’s sweet nothings, had since grown into the hoarse, desperate mutterings of a madman. Night after night it begged, taunted, and cajoled by turns – whatever it deemed necessary to persuade Marceline to follow its siren call.

And night after night, damp with cold sweat and clinging to her bedsheets, she resisted. Yet, Marcie knew, in her heart of weary hearts, that her fortitude would not last forever.

Oh, how she hated to be right.