She picks at her nails. Soon enough, flakes of blue and pink polish covered the table. She picks at them some more, desperate to scratch all the polish off, but there remained some stubborn flakes clung to her fingernails.

Her nails were her sanity, her soul. On good days she painted them, the colours nice and bright and summery, on stressful days she bit on them, on sad days she picked at them. 

Many a time, her friends who would look disdainfully at her broken nails and exclaim that she could get them manicured. 

What they didn’t know was that her nails were her soul, and they were and broken as she was. The demons clawed at her heart every night, planting horrible thoughts in her head, watering the seeds every night, watching it reach it’s roots deep into the depths of her fragile heart, once so innocent and pure, now stained. 

Insanity was coming for her. And nothing could save her this time.

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