Cracked

Preface

I have fallen so many times since the accident that standing upright almost seems unnatural.

Dr. Moreau said it was normal, that the nightmares were only a natural part of the recuperation process of falling from a sixth story window. She always brushed it off when she talked about what happened, like she was used to having patients that fell from tall buildings. Casual, her tone said, no big deal, it happens all the time.

You brain and body were bruised and beaten, she would say with a motherly smile. They put up a good fight, but now they're tired. The nightmares should only last for a few weeks, a couple months maybe. Her thin, brown brows drew together in concern, lips pursed, head tilted. Dr. Moreau always made this face before asking about the accident, as if she didn't want to push too far. As if I was on the same ledge as before, and it would only take a small nudge to fall over again. As if I didn't ask myself the same questions every day.

Why the hell did you jump out of a window, Anya?

I don't remember.

Was it for the thrill?

I don't remember.

Were you suicidal?

I don't remember.

God, were you always this useless?

I don't remember.

"Oh, Anastasia, dear. Don't you worry. The nightmares will be gone and soon this will all be a distant memory."

That was eleven months ago.

After a while, she stopped asking answerless questions. Then I stopped asking myself questions. We both learned to be content in our discontent.

I still dream of falling.