Each and every word that came out of her mouth felt like a foreign language. Each sentence held a hint of truth, but it was nearly too well hidden to find any of it. Everything seemed to be peculiar; from the tips of her manicured hair, to the bottom of her perfectly formed feet. Yet she could feel that she was truly a mess. A love child most likely, with LSD running through her veins from birth. Not once could she focus on a single thought; for each one came with a whirlwind of others trailing behind it.

Looking in the mirror only made things worse. It was not so easy to see someone looking back at you that you did not recognize, but it was far less easy admit it to those who supposedly “loved” you. Why was this so hard now? Photographs prior to the accident displayed an entirely different person; not one rang a bell, triggered a misplaced memory, pulled out a clandestine thought or feeling; not a single one.