Sometimes, I cannot distinguish between the past and the present

Author's Note: You're probably upset by now that I keep making new stories and never updating my old ones. I deserve a flame for that. I've been having trouble with everything.

On a more serious note, this story does, in fact cover the topic of serious brain damage. As I will say again, I am in no way, shape, or form, a doctor. If you have more knowledge of the medical field than I do, feel free to contact me and tell me what exactly I'm misinterpreting. As with most situations, I did my best to research traumatic brain injuries in-depth, but some lapses in factual information may be present.

All disclaimers apply. The characters are not my property and I, in no way, claim them as m own. A special thanks goes out to the members of Dudly-sama's forum, PoT stands for Pointless but Original Talking, as well. I originally proposed some of my concerns in this forum and everyone there was very helpful in giving advice. Thank you so much!

Dissonance

"We must make the best of those ills which cannot be avoided." – Alexander Hamilton

Sometimes, I cannot distinguish between the past and the present.

My thoughts falter—they falter only slightly, really, but they still do. It simply becomes too hazy.

Score a year, and I still feel the same. Not even a year of therapy was able to restore the memories, or stop the lapses in other memories. Nothing slowed it as it consumed every emotion, as my mind detected the presence of a memory, but I couldn't perceive it. Sometimes I can't even remember the therapy that tried to help me regain my old life. I can't. I want to. I can't.

"Go back," a voice calls. "Go back." It repeats. Then, I am lost in a sea of emotion, too caught up within the past to even remember everything I had tediously learned. "It's all falling apart," the voice tells me. When I try and protest, the words can't form. No matter how much I try and wrap my fingers around the words, it slips, and I forget. I hesitate, try again, and still fail.

My memories are hazy, and I try and search for something, but I can't remember anything, only pain; thick, resounding pain that makes my head ache. I can remember the screams. I can remember being so weak that I could barely raise my hand, much less sit up.

I can't do it anymore.

I can't do it.

Why me?

I want to know. Was it fate? Was it destiny? Was it that I was supposed to die, and only by some unfortunate method manage to survive? I'm sometimes told that it was predestined. I wasn't supposed to die; it wasn't my time. Then, sometimes I'm praised. I fought hard for my life, harder than most people would fight for it, and I emerged victorious. I don't think so. Sometimes, I want to think that the battle scars far outweigh the benefits of remaining alive. There wasn't anything I felt as if I had left to see.

My vision is dark. My hands tremble. My voice shakes. My emotions tremble.

Out of it all, they expect me to take a deep breath and learn. They believe I can overlook whenever I drop a plate or glass and it shatters at my feet. They want to overlook whenever my balance becomes so worn that I come crashing to the ground. The care less that I can barely express myself with my trembling voice, and no matter how hard I try and adapt, I can't. I can only live in the past.

With each shattered plate, and with each stammered word, I'm lose a small part of myself. I can't live like this anymore.

The nightmare hasn't subsided yet; it never subsides. No matter how much I plead with the gods, it will never end. It isn't fair. Why me? I can't do this anymore. I can't deal with it. Why am I alive? Why haven't I recovered? Why does it hurt so much?

I can only try.

Sometimes, though, I don't feel like trying is enough.

As everything falls into darkness, I only have a few more questions.

Atobe, will you be there?

Will you be my voice?