Victoria held a porcelain tea cup in her hand, halfway to her lips. As the bridge of the melody hit a high note, her hand stopped.
A sharp pain spiked behind her eyes. It wasn’t a headache; it was a fracture.
*Crack.*
The tea cup slipped from her fingers. It hit the patio stones, shattering into a dozen pieces. The sound of the breaking china merged with the hum in her ears, and suddenly, the “mental wall” didn’t just crack–it exploded.
The floodwaters rushed in.
She saw the rain lashing against a truck windshield. She felt the contraction of childbirth. She saw the blinding white of the Swiss Alps. She felt the ground shake beneath her skis. She saw a man in a tuxedo punching a photographer. She saw the same man holding her hand in the dark during a power outage.
She gasped, clutching her head, her body rocking back and forth as five years of repressed life collided with the fragile identity of “Elena.”