It's always going to be That Day. There's no other way to describe it. I'm never going to remember what I said, or what I ate for breakfast, or what I did. I will just remember how it felt on my skin, what I heard, and what I saw. There are no words to describe what happened.
I still think about That Day, sometimes. Less often than I used to. It's like when you talk to people about September 11. They always remember the day when they didn't remember what happened for a whole day. Not that they didn't remember, but that they didn't think about it.
I don't remember when I stopped thinking about it. It has defined my very existance. It has made me become what I am.
I remember the screaming. The god-awful, ear-piercing, blood-curdling scream. I remember seeing her, curled up on the floor, unable to recognise me, unable to hear my voice.
As much as I try, I can't block out the next bit. I don't know if I really want to forget, or if I just want to ignore it for a little while. It doesn't really matter, because I never forget. And I shouldn't; it reminds me of what they have done, and of what I had to give up to be here.
She went limp, in my arms. I thought she had died. I thought that was the end. But then, the red was on my dress, it was splattered across my face. I could see everyone else watching the multi-coloured rain float down around them.
They kept dancing, but I, I was going to be carrying Isabelle for a long time.
(Part of the Shattered universe.)
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