she retold the story. coldly, without expression. a story that maybe they hadn’t heard before, despite all the different stories she told. But, an important story. one of the most traumatic stories she knows about those days. and as she told it, she couldn’t believe how detached she was. usually the mere mention of that day brings a shiver down her spine and tears to her eyes. today, though, she must have needed the four years between her and that moment. today, if she could have told the story in third person, as if it hadn’t happened to her at all, she might have felt more emotion. instead, she sat with her back to a wall, knees pulled into her chest, staring into the empty space, and she spoke words. words, that’s all they were. separate, meaningless words, that as far as she could tell, didn’t even fit together well enough to tell the story of that day. when she was done, when there were no words left in the story, she felt like she hadn’t done the experience justice. the girl in the story felt cheated. like she had been part of some news report that contained only facts and no substance. and she wanted it to have more meaning than just that.
