If our chains defined our freedom then we would have nothing left to give.
She had many chains. Many scars, that painted her past and haunted her present. "Demons", she called them. Demons that were born from her own flaws, from the voices, consuming her mind.
It's hard to know the start. It's hard to see the first chain that truly confined her, that gave life to the shadows in her mind.
Like many stories, there is no beginning, nor an end. The beginning does not exist, and the end is yet to come - in death. But there is a "now", and a past, that lead to this present. A sky that wasn't so blue - and the clouds that covered even the days of sun.
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