Warning: Sophie’s story is a little darker than my other work. There is mention of past sexual assault, rape, and abuse. It is not graphically or explicitly written out, but it may be triggering to some readers.
**1. Prologue**
*Sophie*
I have a problem. Sometimes, I can’t talk.
It’s extremely inconvenient. It’s a form of dissociation; at least, that’s what my therapist says. She said it’s called “Disembodiment dissociation,” or something like that. I feel like my lips are just gone, like that scary episode of Doctor Who where the people’s faces disappeared and all that was there was skin? Yeah, it’s like that. I find myself reaching up and touching my lips to reassure myself that they’re there.
And I feel like my mouth is full of sand. And marshmallows. Marshmallow sand. It’s nasty. And I can’t talk with nasty sand in my mouth.
It’s like the words are right there but I can’t get them out. They get stuck.
So I write.
It became a coping mechanism a long time ago, and I’ve gotten better about it… way better! I’m super proud of myself. So is Mark. And I love it when Mark is proud of me.