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Deep inside my lake of buried memories, where the boxes are dropped with their stones and their locks, inside the cavernous emptiness of my mind's recesses, there is a memory that struggles to surface. It bubbles up to the top, and the box, thick with dirt and grime, sludge from the bottom of the lake where it has lain for so long -- somehow the air trapped inside it still yet clung to life -- and I paddle out to collect it, and examine its contents.
Here is what lies inside.
I am in a bed, and I wake, and there are arms around me, they are trying to soothe me, and yet, I shake. Like a pig running from imminent slaughter, I am terrified.