“Count back from ten, slowly.” My therapist tells me as I lie on the hard sofa.

Ten.

I see a lake.

Nine.

I’m standing at the edge of the dock.

Eight.

I’m falling forward.

Seven.

I dive into the black water.

Six.

I can’t breathe.

Five.

The memories begin.

Four.

I remember your face.

Three.

I can smell your home.

Two.

I remember it now.

One.

What you did to me.