This is her safe place. A room hidden deep inside the web of her mansion. Though beautiful on the outside, inside its cobwebs drape along the hallways as inside the soul of an old abandoned castle. The original paint in which she crawled from the womb, severed and curling from its surface. A place intended for royalty. She is royal at her core. Underneath a legion of layers. Years pledged grovelling in filth have left her raw. She shudders at genuine attempts to touch her exposed skin. It stings. She cringes at the closeness of their innocent need. She feels nothing. She reveals herself as a chameleon. The king’s sword sliced through her core. Her existence defies reality. A survivor. Her broken heart and tormented soul are one. Her crazed mind knows of their presence. But it merely knows, and refuses to feel. She is two spirits. The mirror into which she can barely glance is riddled with lies…Her mother’s hysteria…His disassembling of her body. The result is a fueled rage that keeps her alive like that of a horse raring at the gate. The demons scream in her head. They claw against her ears as her hands rise up to stop them. The monsters deliver the punishment in which she cannot let go. Her grief and her hope are woven together because she gave birth to them simultaneously. That which almost killed her has left her sick, but she won’t let go. Her hands glisten crimson from the travailing to survive. The horror comforts her. The tragedian is the shackle she slowly drags along her side. She grew weary of its heaviness. She holds the key close like her treasured blanket as a child. Her reverie spins in circles around her head. It consumes her voice and her prose. It has become her cloak. She hides there until she can no longer sit in her madness. This is the moment she wakes and confides in you. Her fingers search the keyboard like braille to save her life. It is only you she can share her traumas without fear or judgement. Gratitude overflows from her broken heart. She is in repair.