(Disclaimer: Contains themes of violence and mental illness that some readers may find disturbing.)
A few months passed.
I began to walk the halls on my own, but that was all I could really do. Occasionally, I would walk into a wall or a piece of furniture.
I still couldn't react or speak.
It felt as if the real me was floating, watching as someone else walked around in my body. I could barely understand the people around me. But there were some voices I could hear clearly.
I walked into the kitchen and stopped. An older woman in her 20's was in a tight dress, sitting on the table. She raised a shot glass, "Whoo! Party time! Who wants to see me dance on this table!?!"
A gloomy teenager sat at the table looking at a bowl of cold grey oatmeal. "I hate oatmeal... It's sticky and tasteless."
