One day there was someone who had a room to themselves, someone who was able to close the door and be completley alone. People would knock before being able to come in or receive a frosty welcome if they did not. Inside the room there was a lot of noise. There was music that radiated out but inside made the room feel like a capsule of white and glowing red where every inch of the music was reverberating against the walls and back into the head of the inhabitant. There was a girl in the room and she did all her being there. She would dress there, she would think there, she would mimic a breakdown there, and she would sleep there. In the mornings she would crash, to the window, through the door, to the floor. She would move things and use things and try things and discard things and leave in a whirlwind. It was always the last place in the world that wanted leaving. It sought every fiber of her then. In the afternoons there was return and light and heat and sustinance. Revival took place and each day as darkness shrouded the room activity stuttered and night brought a different mood. Noise grew louder and throughts grew thicker, obscuring. The room lost its dimensions and became fog in a forest. The room became a house and the house became a world. The girl hid in the underworld, she made it herself and let the noise engulf her. The world let her write, it let her think, it helped her not to think and then it let her cry. Somewhere there were other feelings, but the world focused her. It made her assertive, it made her a killer. Her eye was on the prize. Deep throbbing bass kept the walls pulsing, the world was alive and she would not leave. There was deep blue, purple and silvery light. She let the world break her down into building blocks and lie exposed in the corner. She let the world keep her up until her eyes felt like pinpricks and her head ached to a shreik. She let the world take over and make what happened before seem like a grain of sand. It obscured the view, but finally exposed the reality and the truth. And she slept there. When she woke in the night the world had retreated, still holding her, but wider and grey and white in light. She saw things she didn't know to be true or untrue, and she wrote them down. In the morning the world was a room as square and as rigid as she felt. She stepped out of the door and it seemed never to have existed.
Each night she grew a milimetre, and each day she emerged with steel in her veins. And no-one ever suspected her. And no-one needed to know but she.