“Yeah, I don’t know… just every once in a while, she got that thirst..”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“For violence.”

“Violence? Like, hurting people?”

“Not exactly, but sort of? She was sweet and happy most of the time, but eventually, she’d start to get restless. A little bored. Fidgety. You could always tell it was coming by how often she’d need reassurance that things were okay. And then, suddenly, she’d get this glint in her eyes and she’d get really excited.”

“What happened then?”

“She’d say that we had another scene to write.”

“For a book?”

“For anything. Book, television show, play, commercial… it was always something different, but always bloody. Like it would build up and just explode in a brilliant shower of gore on the page. We’d write it, produce it, get it made and it would work.”

“Horror was her thing, then?”

“No, not exactly… Well, sometimes. She could squeeze it into any genre. Twist it to be appropriate to whatever we were doing. She had an uncanny knack for it. Really, it was almost like…”

“Like what?”

“Almost like she spent all of that time trying to justify the urge, and only got to express it once she figured out the right excuse for it.”

“It paints a gruesome picture.”

“Isn’t that how all great artists are, though?”

“Touche."