Introduction
She drew a deep breath, put pen to paper, and began to write. Her hand was unsteady at first, it had been too long since anyone she knew had held a physical pen, a fact of the age that did not exempt her. She wrote without fear or trepidation. She had been warned against this act for longer than any of her casual acquaintances would believe.
But it came so easily. The words flowed onto the almost ancient sheets of paper that cost more than she could afford, had she not had boxes of them stashed away for this moment.
The feeling of the ball in the pen gliding over the thin paper got smoother as her hand adjusted to the feel of it. The act of writing, it was a luxury in this world. A tingle in her hand told her that the adjustment would take time, but the slight cramping was so opulent, so familiar and intoxicating.
She could have just written the alphabet, or her name, over and over with pleasure. Such pleasure.
But this story, her story, had to be told at least once in her own words. It was dangerous to do so, she knew this. Writing it all down, the implications of it were more than any could understand.
She had hidden from the task, had cut herself off from her desire to write, to create, to understand the world she lived in through reflection.
Because it was dangerous.
So she had been told. And monitored. They watched her always. "They" changed over the years. Men, women, the power-hungry, the religious, the criminally insane. Always under the same name. Always with the same purpose in mind.
To keep her enclosed. To stop her from writing.
To stop her pleasure, her creativity.
She smiled to herself. Had anyone been watching, the smile would have been described as on the edge of maniacal. The smile of a villainous from an ancient cartoon.
She caught, out of the corner of her eye, her reflection in a nearby window. Her grin widened.
Villain?
For them, she can do that. It's been a long time coming.