The night before the procedure was a long, hollow echo. I sat on the edge of my cot, staring at the white cinderblock walls until the lack of color began to vibrate. The "clarity" I had was a cruel joke—a side effect of the evening sedative wearing thin, leaving me just enough awareness to count the hours until they reached into my skull and began to prune my thoughts.
I knew I was losing the war. The drugs had already made my memories feel like old, water-damaged photographs, but I had one last line of defense.
"My name is Sarah Vanderbilt and my husband is abusive and a liar," I whispered into the sterile dark.
I said it again, faster. Then again, rhythmic and low, like a prayer or a curse.
"My name is Sarah Vanderbilt and my husband is abusive and a liar."
I needed the words to be
