Sometimes, time moves forward in a predictable line, from a to b to c. But every now and again, a little bit of it disappears into a b****y gap, never to be seen again.
Time and again, they knock her out cold. And when she wakes up, drugged and disoriented, some small piece of her is gone.
Sometimes, the pieces they take are nothing. How can she miss an ounce of blood? A few strands of hair plucked out by the roots? A tiny patch of skin carefully sliced from the inside of her cheek? But yes, there are gaps in her timeline – and most of these gaps can be tied to a hole in her.
Sometimes, when she opens her eyes, the changes they’ve made are obvious. But at other times, she doesn’t know what it is they’ve done.
Making a tent of her bedsheet, she looks over every inch of her body. She
