Never had Genevieve loved the thought of blood before know. Her mind, that was once free of woes, was consumed with a confused hunger that she had no idea how to fulfill. Her mind trembled with a piercing ringing as if she were standing in the middle of a bell as it was dung. She ground her pearly-white teeth at the aching rumbling through her bones, sending an electrical jolt through her being. Her gums started to burn like they were on fire, yet Genevieve knew that was impossible.

Seconds ago, she was fine. Utterly fine—so fine that she could have slept the rest of the night away. Now, however, she felt like she would never endure this pain long enough to see the sunlight. When she tried to focus her chaotic mind elsewhere, something would always remind her of fresh, crimson blood.

Like when she thought about the glass of water on her nightstand. When she looked at the glass, all Genevieve saw was her shattering that glass and cutting herself with it. When she thought of her loving, gregarious mother she thought of wringing her wrist of blood.

Genevieve felt irrevocably mad. Not the angry kind of mad, the crazy, aloof and psychotic kind of mad. She could see nothing but disorientated silhouettes of things in her room, and her vision was switching from her normal, colorful vision to a rather dark black and white vision.

It was killing her.