The Bug

She turned on her laptop computer, pulled up a Word document, and started typing. She didn’t even know what exactly she was going to type, but she had the Bug and this time it told her to write.
She got the Bug, as she called it, every once and a while. It was not just an urge, but a strong compulsion that she had difficulty fighting and would sometimes last for days or weeks. Sometimes it would tell her to write, sometimes to read, sometimes to perform difficult math calculations. Once in a while it told her to call someone or go somewhere. Whatever it told her to do though, she almost always did it, even if part of her didn’t really want to. It was just easier sometimes to give in than to fight it.
At least this time it was telling her to do something constructive. Writing was better than what it was telling her to do earlier that night, and she had gotten so tired of pushing that command away. Writing was something she could do and not regret.
So she wrote. She wrote about her day, work, people, and anything and everything that came to her mind. Even nonsense flowed out of her fingertips as she tried to satisfy that compulsion eating at her brain.
Finally, the nagging subsided and waves of tiredness began to flow over her. She saved and closed the document, shut down the computer, and walked slowly to the other end of the room. As she reached out to turn off the light, she wondered if she was going crazy. She looked around the empty den once more before flicking off the light switch and going into her room.
As she lay on her bedtrying to fall asleep, she thought of something.
“There’s a fine line between love and hate, but an even finer one between reality and insanity,” she announced to no one in particular. “And I suppose I’m standing right on that line.”
Sleep eventually washed over her and dreams filled her night with memories. She woke up the next morning uneasy, her heart full of sadness.