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by Jane Washington (Author)
"The paint dripped off me like a liquid coat and I inhaled the toxic fumes, sucking the undiluted scent into my lungs. My pupils dilated as I sank into the vision of a pain so absolute, it went beyond pain. It should have rendered me unconscious, it should have affected my ability, it felt like it should have killed me. As it was, the pain distracted me so badly that I was unable to focus on any other details. I painted turquoise wounds that wept turquoise blood onto the paper floor, and when I was finished, I painted more. I painted the walls, the floor, the back of the door and the boarded-up windows. I covered the room in wounds and fumes, and then I curled up in the middle of the mess, weeping my heart into my paint-covered hands."
Jane is a quarter-century-old caffeine-addicted manic, stuffed into the body of a passably-functioning human being. She lives in Australia, with a few cacti and a miniature dachshund [see: dictator]. She writes borderline unconventional romance books ... and then tells everyone not to read them.
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