Christy looked at the paper cup containing his medication. It sat in the same place on the breakfast tray every morning. He hated that he had to take medication and, as much as he valued food, he lost his appetite every time he saw the pills. They reminded him of before, of what they did to him. He hated them with the white-hot fury of a thousand suns. He hated the pills even more for reminding him of them. He spent every moment of his pathetic existence fighting not to think about them, not to remember them, not to let them assault his mind as they’d assaulted him—fighting the fear. The fear that one day at least one of them would come for him. To take him back. Back to... before. He struck out sending the tray crashing to the polished tongue-and-groove floor, the food landing with a soft splat. He squeezed his eyes closed, pressed the heels of his hands to his lids, and concentrated. Go away. Leave me alone, he silently begged his vivid memories.
When the memories slowly faded,... continue reading here.
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