It was like the skin on the cuticles of her fingers. For years now, it had been her habit to nibble away at her skin while her mind was attacked by too many thoughts all at once. She knew that in due course her fingers would hurt and bleed --- that it would be a while before they healed, if at all. She knew her fingers would be an embarrassment when she placed her hands upon the table during meetings, when she typed away at public keyboards, when she paid the cashier across the counter at grocery stores. The consequences didn't matter --- it was like those cuticles had to be sacrificed when a pensive mood struck.

It was like chipped formica on the tables in an old restaurant or canteen. Her fingers ached to slowly break away more pieces of the formica from the table, and eventually expose the rough wood that lay beneath. It didn't matter that the table didn't belong to her, or that chipping away at the formica only made the table look uglier. It was a subconscious need to strip the table of a covering that had already begun to fall off.

It was like bubble-wrap, waiting to be popped.
It was like a balloon, waiting to be pricked.
It was like the scab on a wound, itching to be picked.

It was like them, but worse.

Unasked questions swamped her. The answers frightened her, but she knew they would be hers if she simply chose to ask. Pandora's box lay right in front of her --- none advised her to open it, none forbid it.

It was the desire to know the truth.