Jessica's memories of before and after mingle.

Her therapist, her family, her friends, they all say that it's normal; they all say that it's to be expected. With the trauma she had suffered, it was only natural that her mental health fractured.

The memories happen intermittently and often come unannounced, intruding on the few moments of calm her brain allows her. Her memories of before are so mundane, so painfully normal.

Lying in bed at night counting ceiling tiles, trying to fall asleep (don't black out again, can't black out again, stay awake, stay alive).

Expertly applying the latest trendy nail polish to her nails (blood and dirt and grime and skin trapped under manicured nails).

Completing her daily run through the park and stopping to check her pulse (racing pulse, can't breathe, oh my God, can't breathe, can't stop, keep going, gotta find help).

Being tangled up with Mike on the couch or on the bed, his hands slowly roaming her body ("You can't ruin our good time because Michael and I are gonna fuck!" Shattered glass, screaming, pulling, grasping)

Walking to and from class, pulling her jacket tighter around her as the wind picks up and snow swirls around her (cold, so cold, numb, so much snow, stupid cabin in the middle of stupid nowhere).

Sneaking around in the dark hallway, trying to evade her parents after breaking curfew (dark, dizzy, screeching, echoing, scratching sounds, dark, what's happening?)

Even the memories of before can't keep the darkness of her mind at bay.

Jessica tries; she tries so hard to be the person she was before, the person people expect of her. She struggles with it. She sees that struggle in the others: in the world weary sighs Mike doesn't think she hears; in the furrow of Sam's brow when asked a particularly dumb question by the press; in the broken, bitter way Chris's laughs sound; in the faraway look in Ashley's eyes; in the way Matt shifts from foot to foot like he's always getting ready to run; in Emily's ramrod posture. Do they see it in her?

So she does her best to get by. She smiles for her parents, she laughs for her friends, she tells her therapist what he wants to hear. She takes her medication, she exercises daily, she pretends to be interested in her classes.

The pain, the fear, the anxiety, the depression, always simmers just below the surface, keeping her aware, making her know she's still alive.

Jessica has memories of before; she has memories of after. She wishes she had neither.