People keep talking at me, talking, talking, talking

One of Coin's men lays a hand on my arm. Its not an aggressive move, really, but after the arena's I react defensively to any unfamiliar touch. I jerk my arm free and take off running down the halls. My mind does a quick inventory of my odd little hiding places and i wind up in the supply closet, curled up against a crate of chalk.

Have I gone mad like Anne and no one has the heart to tell me? I wish someone would tell me, I feel crazy enough though.

I’m not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt … and I could shatter into strange, razor-sharp shards.

Understanding trauma and that we each respond to it differently will help us be supportive and nonjudgmental toward each other.

I find that I cannot be in the here and now.