Like a calm before the storm, life got a bit better. It was like getting a second chance and I was determined not to waste it. Not this time.

My mother pulled out some old boxes from my room and I spent a few days going through them. They were mostly textbooks. A few notebooks and pencil cases could be found if you searched hard enough. As I sat there for hours, I didn't find anything of value to me.

Until I reached the last box.

It was sealed with thick tape and someone had written "Don't Open. Jane's stuff"  in permanent marker on the top. It wasn't hard to guess who had done it.

I eagerly grabbed a pair of scissors and swiped across the tape, easily cutting through it. I opened the box and pulled it towards me to look inside.

There was a pile of books inside, only they weren't school books like all the others in the surrounding boxes. No, they were hardback copies of anthologies by some of the most famous poets. Some were modern, while others contained poems written over a century ago.

I had forgotten about my short-lived hobby. It was the only pastime I had, apart from studying and learning. Poetry was so simple to write, so simple to read and simple to understand. It could express emotions that couldn't be put into everyday words.

I took out the worn out hardbacks and started flicking through a few of them. I smiled as I was able to recite most of them from memory. I realise now that it was probably a sort of coping mechanism. A way to express my emotions.

At the very bottom of the box lay a tattered notebook with dog-eared pages that had started to fall out. I gently opened it and froze.

The first page read: A Poetry Anthology, by Jane McCormick.

I started flicking through the pages, my frown deepening with every scribbled poem inside. I didn't remember this. As much as I loved anthologies, I didn't remember ever writing my own poetry.

I flung the book back into the box and pushed it across the room. It wasn't mine. It couldn't be.

It was your handwriting.

I didn't write it. I had no knowledge of it, therefore it didn't happen, right? It didn't make sense otherwise.

Or so I thought.

***

I made a tough decision a few days later. I knew my mental health was still at its lowest, therefore I decided to contact a therapist, against all my natural instincts. That little voice at the back of my mind still screamed to not show weakness, to be strong and independent, but I was done with that. I was done being strong. It hadn't gotten me far anyway.

Despite my sudden determination, my knees still shook as I stood outside Dr Sarah Carter's home. It was a regular terrace house with two floors and brick walls; the kind you always find in the older parts of big cities, probably from the Victorian era. The noise of traffic roared behind me and my brown hair whipped wildly in the sudden wind as I faced the tall door.

Be brave. You can do this.

My heart rate slowed for a short second, which was enough time to raise my hand and knock firmly on the door. I could hear the sound echoing inside and shuffled footsteps followed.

The door was flung open with a flourish and a cheery voice greeted me. "Good afternoon, I hope th— Jane!"

In the doorway stood Sally. The same Sally who had been my only friend throughout high school and always had a moment for me. Now that I think about it, it's like she was my guardian angel: always protecting me.

"Dear God, I'm so dumb!" She laughed as she pulled me into a friendly hug. "When I saw the email signed 'J. McCormick' my brain didn't even register the fact that's your surname!"

"It wasn't on purpose." I beamed back at her. Her enthusiasm always filled everyone around her with energy. "I totally forgot your full name was Sarah."

"Yeah, I came to the conclusion that 'Doctor Sally' doesn't sound very professional." She grinned. "Well, come on in then!" She led me into the living room and shut the front door behind me.

The room had a high ceiling and tall windows with panes which looked like they hadn't been repainted since the house was built. There was an electric fireplace installed where the original used to be and two armchairs sat facing towards it at a slight angle.

"It's still summer," I said when I saw the fireplace was turned on. The lights danced against the glass creating the illusion of real flames.

"Oh, it's only the lights that are turned on." She picked up a plate of biscuits from the table and offered me some. I politely declined. "I just like to have it on when I have guests, you know? For aesthetic."

"I never thought of it that way." I frowned as I looked at the pointless fireplace. To me, if something wasn't functional, then it was useless. I wish I had learnt to appreciate the beauty of things at a much younger age than I did. Maybe then I wouldn't be where I was at that moment. I turned to Sally as she sat down in one of the armchairs. "I thought you wanted to be a surgeon?"

"For a while I did," she pulled out a notebook and started scribbling, "but it turned out I wasn't up for all the... blood." She made a face and looked up at me. "Have a seat! I can't wait to catch up with you! Tell me what you've been up to?"

I gingerly sat in the other armchair and started to vaguely describe my life story. I studied business, I got a job at Sanders and Co, I got a boyfriend who loved me as much as I loved him. Then I had to screw it up.

Sally listened intently, not interrupting at any moment. She just sat with a concerned expression on her face, barely moving. She didn't even move to push her blonde hair out of her face.

When I finally got to the end of my story, the room fell into silence. I didn't have anything else to say and Sally's gaze was trained on her writing. The bubbly Sally was gone; her mind had switched to work mode and she was now Doctor Sarah. Minutes ticked by and I got worried. I started to bite at my cheek until I tasted the blood. It was a habit I never got rid of.

"Looks like you've been through a lot." She smiled sympathetically as she looked at me. "Do you think there's a reason to your misfortunes?"

You know exactly.

"Maybe," I muttered as I fiddled with my fingers. I didn't elaborate, but Sally used that technique of keeping quiet until I had to speak. "I was obsessed with my job."

She furrowed her brows. "I don't think it's just your job, Jane. I remember in high school you always prioritised your studies. You had such a high standard, you would rather not hand in a paper at all than hand in one with a grade below eighty percent." She paused as I guiltily looked down. "Did someone pressure you?"

Why was she so accurate? Was it really that obvious?

I fiddled some more.

"You have to know," She carried on when I didn't speak. "that failing at something is not the end of the world. People learn from their mistakes all the time. As cliche as it sounds, nobody's perfect."

"My father had a different opinion." I'm not sure why I said it. I don't even know if I intended to. Sally leaned back in her chair and sighed. I could tell I had confirmed her suspicions.

Moments ticked by as I watched the clock hand move steadily round while Sally flicked through her notebook. After exactly three minutes and six seconds, she spoke again.

"Would you like to tell me about your father?" She asked, observing my face. I'm not sure what kind of reaction she was hoping for. I shrugged.

"He was... demanding," I stated what she probably already knew. "He didn't particularly... like me."

"Did he..." Sally's voice softened, "ever hurt you physically?"

Did he?

I didn't remember it.

But he did. Mother said so.

Maybe she was wrong.

Of course she wasn't.

"Jane?" Sally's words cut through my internal conversation. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

I shook my head sternly as I looked at her. "I... I don't know—I don't... remember."

"What do you not remember?"

"Getting hit. By my father." With those words, I began to spill what has been troubling me for the longest time. I told her what Mum had told me about my scar. I told her about the notebook I found and how I didn't even remember its existence. "Why don't I remember?" I began to wail. "Why can't I recall any of it? Not even a glimpse?!"

"Hey, hey. Calm down now." She reached forward and squeezed my hand. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. There's nothing to worry about. It'll all be fine, okay?"

I looked at her reassuring smile and nodded. I truly hoped it would be.

***

The following week I went back to Sally's house. Following her advice, I brought the old notebook with me. I didn't dare look inside again; I was too scared to see my own handwriting in there.

"Jane!" Sally opened the door and greeted me cheerfully. She pulled me into a hug again. That's just how she always greeted everyone. "I made carrot cake! Do you want some?" She said as she shut the door and led me into her living room.

"No, I'm okay. I just had lunch." I smiled and sat in the armchair. The fake flames danced inside the fireplace again and the plate of biscuits had been replaced with slices of carrot cake.

"Oh, come on!" She urged. "I'm sure you'll like it. Here, at least have a small piece." She used a cake fork to move a piece onto a small plate and handed it to me, despite my protests. In the end, I finally accepted the food and watched as she flicked through my notebook. Despite my slow eating, I finished the cake long before she finished examining the pages. Eventually, she closed the notebook and looked up at me.

"There are many reasons why a person may suppress memories. In your case, it is most likely a symptom of PTSD. Your brain simply tried to erase those memories to spare you the trauma. Now, this notebook," she picked it up, "ties into those events. I read a few of the poems and most of them relate to abuse and depression. That could be why the memory of the notebook was suppressed along with the others."

I already knew that trauma probably played a huge part in this. I wasn't stupid, I had done my fair share of research on mental health. However, something about the notebook still bugged me.

"Should I read through the poems?" I inquired, eyeing the tattered cover. "To try to regain some memories?"

Sally furrowed her brows. "Triggering these memories may not be pleasant, Jane. Remember that they were suppressed for a reason. Are you sure you want to recover those events?"

I paused for a second, wondering if this is what I wanted.

You shouldn't do this.

But I needed to know. I needed to know if Mother was telling the truth.

It won't help.

But I was willing to try, so I nodded and took the notebook out of Sally's hand. She leaned back with a worried expression, her gaze trained on me. I slowly opened the notebook and started to read the first poem, titled "Where Do I Go?".

As I started to read line by line, my confusion only grew. These words were alien to me. They spoke of being lost and confused, something I didn't remember experiencing when I was younger. I always had Mum for support. I always turned to her when I began to feel lonely.

The next poem was called "Responsibility" and it baffled me even more. The short verses carried sadness and talked about taking care of someone in need.

You didn't write this.

But it was my handwriting! The ideas and concepts were so foreign to me yet carried my signature, something which distressed me more than any trauma my brain may be hiding. This wasn't me!

The third poem took a change of tone. The handwriting got more scribbly but still resembled my own. The title read "That Winter Evening".

I looked at the first line but struggled to read it. I frowned as my vision got slightly blurry and my eyes wouldn't focus on the page. I rubbed them and blinked a few times. When I looked at the page again, the letters still wouldn't appear sharp. Instead, my vision swam and the armchair suddenly got uncomfortable. I rubbed my eyes again but when I opened them, all I saw was blackness.