Black vinyl ivory crawls up her hands and slivers along her fingers, twisting and suffocating them. The thorns prick and tear at her skin and her blood creeps down to her notebook. She knows the evil that's stuck there, but only hidden by a golden clasp, the keys waiting patiently on her desk. Her pen sits near and flashes black and although she hasn't touched this secret world in so long, the ink steams. So many mistold truths are stored in this one book, a place that not only herself but the vines around it wont let her open up. It's like a place inside her head, that keeps trying to force these memories out of her ears but they never leave and she can never tear them from the notebook or from herself.