[Reaction.]
With every memory, the world loses more reality. They're all clustering now, the memories. They swirl around each other and dance in loquacious circles. She's stationary, but not in her head. In her head, she rides this ride, dances this dance, and there's pain and sadness and something like a void in the middle of her soul. She knows the void. She has that same hole growing inside her, and it's familiar. But she's not in a hospital, or a rehab, or anything like this place in this memory. She's up, up, up, and she's in a loft, and the bed is warm, and the moonlight still streams through the window.
The memory is cold.
It's cold in the way of hopeless mornings. Days when she'd roll out of bed, sit on the edge, and wonder how she was going to make it through another 24 hours. Feet swinging, silence and quiet and the water running in another room. She needed to get up, to move, to rise, and the sensation is overwhelming, and she doesn't want to blow out the candle on the bad cupcake.
She knows the feeling of no one coming, no one seeing, no one noticing. She knows the feeling of numbers dwindling, dwindling. She knows alone, and she doesn't want to blow out the candle. And so she moves. She climbs down from the loft, and she stands in the middle of the trailer. Her toes curl. She wishes life worked in reverse, or that things could be redone. She wishes she believed in reincarnation, in coming back, in doing it again, but she doesn't. This is it. This is all there is, and it's just one shot, and she wishes she could make people see.
The moonlight streams through the trailer window. She breathes.