They always scream at her not to clam the door, but she goes ahead and does it anyway, out of habit. What would they rather her break, she thinks. The door, or her own hands? Without her precious hands she couldn't write, couldn't play the piano, couldn't paint or draw. But now that she thinks of it, that would be a load off her mind...
(Right now she's envisioning a car crash...)
What's wrong with me? she thinks. She's always known her oddness, but recently it's been worse, troubling. Words don't come out right. She gets scared, and it's hard to breathe for a minute, then afterwards she's strangely empty. She feels weightless - she keeps shedding pounds due to her lack of appetite. Sleep patterns? Those are gone too.
She's written all this down and still, it makes no sense. It useless and it doesn't even sound pretty (she dreams of a fire, turning paper to ash).
Page by page, she undresses her journal and tears the last three months into jagged scraps (she ponders the fine edge of a razor) on her bedroom floor. Destroy, destroy, destroy because she can't create anymore and she's forgetting she ever could...
(Eyes open, she dreams of a blissful nothing...)