The sparkling blood of a new glitter gel pen poured across page after page and I watched its journey with wide eyes. The clock hands made their rounds along its face, passing by an hour as I watched in awe. The leather bound pages were soaked and shining as half of the book was drenched in pumpkin orange ink.

When the ticking hands paused at six o'clock, the two hour mark, then, and only then, was the pen capped and the book flipped shut. Not a word was uttered as she stood, placed the book on the table, and walked out of my office.

It was the same way every session; she would write and I would watch, neither of us interrupting the other until six o'clock or later. Nothing else went on between us. I learned on the first day that she would not respond to me, no matter how much I talked to her.

I stopped trying after the second session. I let her do her thing, and it seemed to help her – or, at least, it didn't harm her.

I didn't have some sort of silent connection with her, not at all. We were merely two people sitting in a room together. It was when she left and I opened the book to read her life – that was when we finally had a tie between us.

At first, she had merely told me how she had found me, how she had been to many other doctors of my kind. She believed there was no hope for herself; no one could ever fix her.

It was like any other case, really, but she seemed… special, in a way I couldn't pinpoint. I had not been surprised by her yet, but I was sure she would shock me someday. It was entry number four that finally got my attention. It was longer than the others, and her words were cramped so that more of them fit on the page. Some letters blurred together but I could clearly make out the odd words. It was as if she had started writing a fantasy novel for me.

My years of studying human behavior weren't much help when looking at a book full of words. She would have to tell me in person before I could determine her levels of sanity. Deep down inside, though, I knew she wasn't crazy; it was a gut feeling, almost. The words she wrote me were not lies; they were memories.

She herself believed that she was mentally ill. Years upon years of having doctor after doctor tell you that you're insane… it makes a person believe it themselves. She doubted every recollection of life that she had, sinking away in fits of fear, unsure of what was true and false. She has a gap that ranges from the years when she was ages fifteen to eighteen. It's a big, empty void of space she's been trying to fill with memories.

At first, she knew only a little, but for the past two years, memories came to her in dreams and flashbacks. Piecing strange information together, the frightens herself with her knowledge.

She remembers a man, some magical being that calls himself the Goblin King – she refers to him only as GK, now. He is her most frequent vision. He plagues her dreams and infests her thoughts, always there to remind her of something she forgot. I fear that he is a bad memory come back to haunt her.

"So many puzzle pieces, so little time…" she writes. I don't quite know how to help her yet. I am as stumped as she is. I have to reread her passages, review her story once more. Perhaps I will be able to come up with some way to sew her past back together again. I think there is something about GK that she sees. She doesn't want to remember him, but she must. He might be the only key to open the gates that will clear whatever is blocking her from seeing the truth in her past. This strange Goblin King – whether he is fictional or not – might even be the key to cure her.