Excerpt.

So, um. I'm writing fiction again.

I never knew what to do with myself. Proof for this remains inscribed in several years’ collective utterings in a diary I kept secret between my bed mattress and the dusty wall. Among moments of shame captured in scribblings of barely-legible handwriting, it appeared obvious to any reader that I might have been completely insane at one point in my life. However, I stood to prove a point against such rumors.

It was not insanity that broke me in my sixteenth year of life, but instead it was a moment of realization—an epiphany—which I soon understood to be the true source of my downfall. A realization which any human being could hope to never encounter. What was this awakening? Simple.

I am nothing.

Those three words would soon spread like weeds to every vacated corner of my mind, and then, set ablaze one day, would grow to be the most incriminating evidence against my sanity.