Chains.

There was a story inside of her. She felt it, rising from the soles of her feet and giving her chills as it climbed up her only-slightly-stubbly calves, knees, thighs, until it settled in the depths of her rib cage. She knocked on the spot where she thought it was hiding. She heard an echo and then, a high-pitched tinny noise. She knew it. It was there. It was inside of everyone. The whole world was standing in line, at traffic lights, in clothing stores, in cubicles across the globe. Everyone was standing in line, and she was getting close to the front, perched at the top of her mountain, looking through slated blinds at the dark valley below. And when it came, she would write. Write and write and write until the story became pages and pages of words that could swallow her whole. But they wouldn't. And no one would doubt her anymore.