Diary of a Wraith

A sliver of humanity was our greatest punishment. We could not talk, nor hear, but only write. Writing came to us like instinct, no – like a desire, that needed to be fulfilled. It was a constant reminder of what we lost, and what we had become. The blood from our scraped flesh was our ink, and our fingers a pen. Our sorrow were our words, and the book itself a constant, small reminder of how far we were slipping away from ourselves.