Scream,
I can still hear your scream in my mind, because in this moment, you had lost it—utterly, and completely this was your rock bottom, one whose depths I may never understand.

Screams,
I still hear her screams every so often, echoing like war cries through our sunny suburban life. They are the battle scars she carries from protecting me from you, and you from yourself—they call it “posttraumatic stress,” but I call being a mother.

Silence,
I don’t scream because I can’t scream. I still can’t seem to figure out what exactly happened there. I was a little girl living half in a mystical, magical, make-believe world, where dreams and reality intermingle into a confusion of memories, or lack thereof.