A warm hand rests over my left as I begin to write. Black eyes watch my pen move like a protective parent overlooking its creation. A steady breath keeps my pen moving. Everything explodes from me. Emotions, ideas, thoughts, my very soul is flowing into the pen, onto the paper. The eyes leave me to peace. A cool, yet comforting hand rests on my writing hand. Another hand lies on my shoulder, telling me someone cares.

A sad smile spreads across my lips. Almost there. My mind wanders from my task, wondering too many questions. I think about my writing, and fear imperfection. I open my mind and ask the empty room.

Is it right beginning it like this?

If it is the beginning, then there is no other way.

Am I showing the real story, or telling more lies?

If that's what happened, it's not a lie.

Am I telling them too much?

What do you have to lose if you tell too much? The moon glows solemnly while the wind whispers soothingly, answering each question, except the most important.

Will this be in vain? The faint sound of pen on paper fills my ears. I keep writing. The hands are still on my shoulder and hand, relieving the pain in them. My writing hand speeds across the parchment faster, with the aid of an invisible energy. I whisper a word of gratitude. Almost there.