I lay awake, my sheets covered in sweat and her scent. Even after three months, my bed still reeks of her. I sit up and look at my wrists, the scars tell the story and her scent speaks of the hope I hold in my heart. Breathing slowly I walk to the window and look out into the midnight-bathed landscape, the Urge coming upon me. The Urge is powerful and I can hardly control it. I sit at my cold metal desk and pull out my pen, dipping it in the bottle of black ink at the top left-hand corner and write. The words drip from my mind, to my hand, through the pen and on to the parchment. This is how the Story begins.