I met Jenny when I was working in the long-term psych ward, one of the many jobs I tried and then left. She was a small woman, 30 years old, with matted hair and a vacant expression. Of course, this was made even more vacant by her lack of eyes, and the puckered holes where they used to reside. Even without eyes she seemed to constantly be searching for something.
It was just a flower. A familiar flower with an outdated name. But as I stared at it, my skin grew clammy and I felt my chest restricting. My breath coming in and out in wheezing gasps. I ran.
When I was 7, my parents were killed on a camping trip. I was with them, and I survived. I was missing for two days until I was found, wandering, beaten and bloody and mute. I was clutching a small bouquet of wilted wildflowers. I had no memory of that time. Until now.
