Sometimes you just want to forget. I know the feeling well, having experienced it countless times in my lifetime. Not that sixteen years is an impressive amount of years to live, but it's still a lifetime to me.

Forgetting is a blessing. I don't know if I made that up or I found it on some cheap television show at noon on Saturday. But I do know that it's true.

Ever had one of those days when you just can't get out of bed, just lying there, procrastinating about making your breakfast or having a shower? That's what I feel like now, staring up at my blue flower-patterned ceiling. The flowers are pretty to look at, but that's not the point. I know that if I look away, that if I break concentration, I'll remember what I've tried so hard to forget.

I stop focusing just long enough to roll over onto my other side and give my numb arm a rest. But in that one instant I can remember everything.

It's a living nightmare; Lights flashing, sirens wailing and peoples screaming. I can see the burly police officer sauntering up with his tiny notebook like he's giving a measly parking fine. It makes me want to tear it in half and stuff it down his throat. At least that would get rid of his smug smile.

But I don't. I can only stand there numb as white robed ambulance attendants speed past with their stretchers. I have to look away. The noise, the smell of burning, the sounds of people who are happy. It assaults my senses and overloads them. I can feel myself being dragged under.

But then I wake up again, and my eyes find the picture frame overturned on my bedside table, collecting dust, hiding away from my vision. I could just touch it if I stretched out my arm. But I don't, because I can't. My arm is frozen against my side; nothing to do with the numbness, and the photo stays face down on the polished wood.