I don't remember much about that night. They say that's normal. They say that it could come back to me. No one knows how it happens and no one knows preciesly how to make the forgotten hours - days, weeks? - reappear to my consciousness. The only thing they seem to agree on is the fact that it's still there, lurking just under the surface.
They say I could be staring at something so dismally ordinary - a packet of tea or a piece of chalk - and it could all come rushing back.
So far, it hasn't. Only in dreams. And I always wake up drenched and shivering, with the ghost of a scream on my lips and the sensation that everything is a lie.
No, I don't remember much about that night.
The first thing that I am conscious of is walking out of the woods, cold, still in my black and white polka-dotted party dress. It's a cold night, so cold, and the moon casts a dull metallic glow over the skeletons of the bare winter trees.
I remember you calling my name. At first, I didn't know it was my name, it was just a sound, a string of tones that, for some nagging reason, sounding achingly familiar. Your voice was the first thing I recognized.
"I'm here!" I'd called, or I'd tried to call, except the sounds didn't form correctly in my mouth, and it had rushed out in a garbled mass of syllables.
I remember being afraid.
It is not until I see you running toward me that I remember who I am and who you are. It seems to be happening in slow motion, the strange light from the moon turning everything into a surreal echo of reality. When you get close enough I see that you've been crying, moonlight bouncing off of two wet tracks down your freckled cheeks.
I wan't to run to you, but I can't.
When you reach me, you stare at me like I'm an apparition. And when you wrap your arms around me, I break down.