I, I, d-d-don’t know if I can wear these,” I replied in a voice barely above a whisper.“You can wear them,” he replied nonchalantly, “and yo... will.”He reached into the center of the dresses hanging on the rack and seemed to pick one at random and handed it to me.“This one is my favorite, and you’ll wear it tonight,” he said matter-of-factly, looking into my eyes.It wasn’t a threatening or even a cold stare that he gave me, but, it was the end of the discussion.He smiled at me again and then. The doctors called it post traumatic stress syndrome. They are not holding out hope of a recovery, nor a coherent explanation of what happened, anytime soon. And Remy. Remy’s body was discovered in the basement. He had been shackled to an ancient rack, his body had been cruelly torn in half, signs of torture all over his now pale body. I collapsed when I saw him. The doctors called it a mental breakdown. I spent three months in the mental ward of the hospital. But I’m better now. They released. More

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