After she had met me, her ledger dripped with red. Then again, it had been dripping before we'd met- that's what I had noticed about her first.

There was no metaphorical journal that held the contents of her past crimes. Naturally there are records of her, as there are of most everyone. She did not carry these records with her, only a ledger.

What she actually clutched was, in fact, a book. The purpose of the hardback she carried, I learned, was to serve as a storage of personal thoughts.

Blood gushed from the pages when I pried the book from her hands.
There was no life in her veins to fight this action, so I began to read.

I felt a voice launch from the hardback as I absorbed the words, just as the pages had absorbed her blood. The sound of her voice was gentle, lost, and full of wonder.

I was bothered by the cold. She was not.

Finishing her journal, I felt whole, if only for a moment. Her words of hope filled me with warmth, and I was tempted to close my eyes and not think past the moment.

But I knew that the feeling wouldn't last, so I continued on.

I placed her ledger back into her hands, feeling she should be left with her thoughts, and words of happiness running down the page, smeared by all that red.