A memory hits me like a punch to the gut: pain, screaming, blood coursing down my bare thighs. Crawling over the office floor and sobbing, trying desperately to get to the telephone on the wall. It’s a jumble of impressions that come all at once, like a clip from a movie played too fast with the sound turned all the way up.
But whose voice is that? The screaming doesn’t sound like mine. It’s a stranger’s voice, full of rage, bearing down on me like a hurricane.
The memory disappears as quickly as it came, cut off as if a plug was pulled on a projector.
It leaves behind the distinct and chilling impression that big chunks are missing. That something important has been left out.
Or erased altogether.
I search for anything more, but nothing comes. I’ve hit a brick wall.
“You’re shaking,
