She was drawn in by the completely alluring sound of keys on a laptop. Certain sounds had that affect on her, like the sound of the human heartbeat. Certain music had the ability to make her melt inside; to make all her troubles go away and everything was wonderful. But sometimes, though the music was wonderful, it didn't help her forget, but accentuated the feelings through its lyrics or tone. There was a time when she wanted to scream. Not at him. Just scream. Not a word, just the sound. Besides the obvious physical scarring from the cat attack, emotionally, she was crippled. There was no way to escape the past; to change it was impossible, to forget it was not an option. She didn't wish it never happened; everything in life molds you, changes you, and makes you who you are. But she wished it had ended differently. Or maybe that it hadn't gone that far.

The page in front of her was disgustingly blank. She wished to fill it with words and thoughts, but her fingers had no work with her mind producing nothing. There was so much space, but nothing to put down. Her hands were getting cold waiting, but she wouldn't give up until the white space stopped staring her in the face. She remembered when she used to be able to fill a page easily. She could sit down and ideas would pour from her brain and show up on the page. And the page would fill. And it would be good. Now, everything was a hopeless attempt at the past, at things that would never happen again. That was back when she still had a creative spirit, uncrushed by the pressures of life. The cursor could blink for several minutes, waiting, hoping for another sentence, or another word, or even another letter. Maybe even a bit of punctuation. But that was all it was allowed to do; blink. And wait. It was like a ticking metronome except silent.

One third of the page was filled now. The words didn't mean much, the spaces were illogical, and the concepts were nonexistent. It merely filled the space. One third. What a way to spend an evening. To write fiction, or fantasy, or mystery, or anything would've been a great pleasure. But instead, the inner monologue of her mind was being translated from one fixed form, if you could consider a mind fixed, to another fixed form, if you could consider an unsaved word document fixed. Yes, it was unsaved. At any given moment, this work could disappear into oblivion and be known simply as a memory of a cold evening with nothing to do. And the enchanting sound and feel of the laptop keyboard. There was something daring and exciting about not saving the document.

Was everything really much simpler as a child? No big life decisions, no bills, few responsibilities. If only we could realize how great our lives are when we're young, as opposed to complaining about eating vegetables or doing chores, or teasing our younger sister, or throwing tantrums in the grocery store. We don't realize it until we're older just so we can better appreciate what we had, though it can never come back. Or maybe we don't realize it until we're older as a form of torture. It's as if someone's saying, "Look what you had. Look what you've lost. It will never come back. Things will never be that easy again." Of all the cruel tricks life has to play on us, that has to be the worst. We don't live in the "now." Instead, we're always thinking of the future, and of the better things to come. Then, we don't truly appreciate anything until it's gone. Shouldn't we be thankful now for what we have now?

This page was ending up a completely unrelated to anything. But it was filling up. As exciting as that was, she knew that it was worth nothing.