I anxiously paced the length of the hallway, my boots making a satisfying noise against the floor. Deep in thought, I found myself biting my thumbnail. I forced myself to stop, and contemplated what I was going to do. The idea wouldn't die so easily, as much as I wished it would. It was a story of death and vengeance, and the nearly lost image of the girl's blood soaked hands was not leaving me.

The story would be about progress at a cost, but I worried I could not do it justice. They would just have to sit in my brain for all time and die there. Even so, something about the premise was eating away at me. Who caused this insanity? If I cannot read the story, I must write it, but if I have no idea how it would go...

Was it really real?