Faces, voices…absence and time makes even the most salient of memories seem inaccurate. I’ve started to wonder if some of what I remember is even true. Maybe none of my past is real. Did any of that life before this hell really exist? Because it all seems so foreign now, and the daydreams and reality are all muddled like a water color painting left to dry out in the rain—all the colors have bled together until I can no longer make out the once perfect lines. I can barely hear a soft rumble of thunder, and I find myself wishing I could watch it storm. Little things like watching the rain—those are things you never think you’ll miss; things you never learn to appreciate. Maybe I should be grateful that this entire ordeal has taught me to take nothing for granted. It’s shown me just how much to life there is to love and appreciate and soak up. The latch clicks, the hinges creaking as Max opens the door. He steps inside, locks the door, and stands at the foot of my bed.
