text: Grayness. My entire vision is immersed in a pulsing gray vortex. A thunderous cacophony resounds in my head as I flail around. Gradually my sight focuses, and a landscape sprawls out around me. First comes an evening sky, enshrouded by a ponderous layer of clouds. Snow is falling onto the ground, disgorged by the sky as bloated projectiles that splatter over everything in the vicinity. I hold out my hand and catch a few, but I feel no chill despite the brumal winds and vision obscuring snowfall. Looking at my hand, I notice that the snow is passing through it. My chest moves, but there are no vapor clouds around my head. The snow cakes onto the branches of the nearby trees so thickly that I wait for the precipitous white heaps to plunge to the ground, but they never do. Coniferous trees converge on a hillside. I try moving forward, brushing against the nearest tree with a soft thud. “How are you feeling?” A disembodied voice says. I try to respond, but nothing intelligible comes out. “Did you just day something? That is unexpected. Well, whenever you’re ready, go to the other side of the hill. I looked at the apex of the hill, but I turn away and wander in the opposite direction until I happen upon a secluded woodland cabin. Christmas lights blink in a repeating series along the rooftop. A trail of smoke emanates from a stone chimney. Above the garage, a motion activated floodlight maintains a nocturnal vigil over the property. I approach the tall, frosted door, but the sensor does not activate. Behind the cottage, a bare expanse of snow extends for about twenty feet, concealing a birdbath and currently barren garden. The back door was wide open, so I passed into the house. Soft, warm lighting illuminates the interior. Blocky furniture and shelves are arranged throughout the rooms of the house. In the living room, a television beside a Christmas tree depicts the descent of a geodesic sphere in New York. A woman sits on a crude couch, eyes fixed on the ceremony. Her face bears no expression, and she does not blink, even as I interpose myself between her and the television. I leave via the front door. I have dallied enough. I take a moment to stabilize my emotions and retrace my steps to the forested hill. This time I ascend the rise. As I progress, a wall of oily smoke becomes visible, but I smell nothing. The trees are thicker here, prohibiting vision, but I know what awaits on the bottom. “Yes, you’re almost there,” the voice says. I make my way down the slope, weaving in between the trunks until I reach the base of the incline. An ice laden highway wraps around the base of the hill. On the far side of the street is a sheer cliff that is easily over a hundred feet high. The crushed remains of a truck and a sedan block the entire street. Both vehicles are on fire. The truck has torn the safety railing aside, and the back of the trailer wavers on the edge. Behind the windshield of the smoke filled cab, the unknown driver’s head is buried in an airbag. Whether he is alive or dead cannot be ascertained. The truck tips back, plummeting into the darkness. I wince at the sound of the resulting explosion. I slowly look at the remaining vehicle. This sedan is the second vehicle I’ve ever owned, purchased at a used car dealership after two hours of deliberation. I remember the reason why I would be on the road tonight, a promise made to my girlfriend to spend the new year together. I brace myself and countenance the driver. I barely recognize my own visage. My face has been damaged extensively, eyes swollen shut, blood trickling from the left side of the mouth. The voice speaks again. “Now, don’t look away.” This edict proves difficult to follow as a nauseous chill washes over me. The tension in my chest increases as the flames lap closer to my vulnerable form. Someone is behind me. It is the woman from the cottage. She quivers in her robe as she holds a cell phone. She dials 911 and supplies the details of the situation. A few minutes pass. My skin is beginning to burn. A fire truck and ambulance pull up. The fire fighters extinguish the flames and extract my body with hydraulic tools. The paramedics take it into an ambulance and fasten it to a mattress with secured wheels. I follow them inside. The door closes and the siren wails as the ambulance takes off. The EMTs scramble to sustain waning vital signs. My head begins to pulse. Suddenly the monitor emits a high frequency tone. The numbers to the side of the screen plummet, and the wavering lines straighten. The ambulance driver disables the siren, and one of the men in blue uniforms grabs a set of defibrillators. As shocks are administered, I see the gray haze return and coalesce. As the final jolt goes through my body, the vitals begin to stabilize. The gray vortex engulfs me again and I hear another disembodied voice. This time it is feminine and metallic. “Simulation complete. Logging out.” Everything goes black. The visor surrounding my head pops open. I’m back in my hospital bed. Beside me, a man removes a headpiece similar to my own and takes off my helmet and gloves. “So, what do you think?” His speech is much clearer without the electronic feedback in the background. I take a ragged, painful breath. “Doctor, how is this supposed to help me?” “I concede that this desensitization therapy is unorthodox, but you commented in one of our earlier sessions that your flashbacks always elapse at the moment of impact with the truck. This therapeutic simulacrum is designed to let you see the see the entirety of the incident, culminating in your successful resuscitation. Our hypothesis is that allowing patients to see reconstructions of their traumatic events in a safe environment will give them psychological distance from the traumatic event.” “Why did you recreate the old lady’s house?” “Our company believes in maximum verisimilitude, or at least the highest degree attainable without crural inputs,” He glances at my legs, which are suspended in traction. “This is the end of today’s session, but I think you have a visitor.” As the psychologist departs, my girlfriend enters. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” She says. I had forgotten entirely. I smile with what my intact facial muscles. I’m in intermittent pain, my legs won’t be usable for a long time, and I’ll never be the same, but I’m alive.