Nighttime is a chamber of reflection—a fact that I no longer take comfort in. I am always too afraid to sleep; even when I do, I wake up every few hours, jolted by my own mind. The wind shrieks outside of the window of my new room every night, and closing my eyes with the lights off wracks my body with anxiety: I constantly think that I heard something, or saw something in the corner. I get four hours of sleep at most. I am a shell of a shell of my former self. ♦