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She was sure, she was missing something. She was certain of it. Flickering lights betrayed her vision, her heart thundering. Her chest spasmed. Again. Again. And again.
Middle of the puberty, such a fragile timeline.
But her mind was already betraying her. She felt weak upon the twisted way the human brain worked. She cried, and cried, until there were no tears left. Dehydration and the constant spasms slowly drove her dizzy.
Something,
That night she was certain, she saw something, someone.
Despite her despair, her own mind turned against her concealing the valuable information. She was eleven when the fallen event occurred, and now at her fifteen years she was still trying. Trying to find the loosen thread at the tale of her mother's death.
When police had asked, she was too young, too naive to understand. Now, she knows the value of her memories. Even though her beloved's mother case was sitting in a dusted file in some police station, she knew that they were all missing something. The bigger picture.
That day, she didn't tell her therapist about her sudden need for recalling lost memories. She adjusted to a stoned smile, and small nodes as he wrote her prescription of the month.
Her pills had increased, great.
They numbed her, just enough for her to forget what she didn't want to remember but not enough to make the pain in her chest dull.
It was the first night Julie tried to numb the pain, in a new different way. She was sweating, curls sticking on her wet skin. She pushed and pushed until she couldn't. She had to remember. As a defence mechanism, her own self hid the truth that happened beyond her eyes, protecting her from whatever was under the shadows.
Her nails digging into her fragile skin made her feel something.
Like an explosion, she took all her anger out on her body. Traumatising its way upon it, long scratches accompanying trails of blood.
The next day, she emerged at her therapist's office. She knew the hours of his breaks. So, she rushed at his door begging for a medication to help her survive her thoughts.
He wrote down the name of a green pill.
The shade of poison.
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She only had to survive today, and then the day after that, and the day after. But one battle at a time. She wrote down notes about what the teacher was rumbling about for half an hour. Her head was in pain, loud lights and voices erupting inside.
She held the sobs, one by one pouring into her soul waiting to overflow. She lacked the luxury of inner peace, instead each time she blended into a crowd—it shallowed her.
