Mafuyu's eyelids were heavy, and an unpleasant tiredness trapped her like a thick, gloopy syrup. She kept on writing, with sore, pale fingers, her desk coated in layers of paper, full of words and scribbles.
"No!" She gasped, and scrunched up the yellowed paper, before tossing it across the room. "Why can't I write anymore? Why can't I write something good?"
Frustration. Anger. Sadness. A single teardrop landed on a piece of paper on her desk, making the ink smudge. She slid another piece of paper out from the leather bag on the floor. She wrote. Her hands were sore, and felt as if they were going to start bleeding any second now. Her wrist throbbed. Only the sound of her gentle sobbing and the scraping of the quill against the wrinkled paper.
"No. No. No. This isn't...This isn't right!" Anger consumed her, and she used her sore fingers to violently rip the paper in half, before ripping it into smaller pieces. "Why can't I do what I've always done...I..I!"
She wanted to scream. She wanted to be free. She wanted to, most of all, disappear.
"Why..." she murmured, under her breath, under her sobs.
More writing. More words. More meaningless, empty, joyless words. Nothing. She felt nothing. She felt no joy. She felt no happiness.
"God...No...This isn't it either..." She tossed the paper onto the floor, and covered her face with her hands.
More. More. More. She wrote and she wrote. She wrote things of no worth, no emotion, no meaning. Nothing.
"Why can't I..." Those words again, the same words. "Why can't I do this?"
Mafuyu Asahina has everything, the skill, the mastery, the technique. She has everything.
"But then why..?"
to be continued next chapter.