A story starts at the beginning, and that is where mine starts.
It does not start at the beginning of life, nor the beginning of a journey, or a magical adventure, it starts at the beginning of my warm insanity, when it first pulled me into its body, the first time I felt its comfort.
I remember waking up one morning to carvings. On the floor. Ripping the wallpaper and digging into the plaster underneath. And I looked at my hand and sighed, because I held a pair of scissors, and they glinted in the grey light. And they were very pretty. And I accepted my mind was going, and that I had carved the walls and floors. And for the first time in many years I felt comforted, I felt satisfied at my insight.
From there my moments of consciousness- moments I knew who I was, where I was, had control over my hands and limbs and expressions- declined rapidly. I wake up now sometimes to cuts in my legs and spiderwebs of scratches on my belly, and unreadable words written on the walls in my own blood.