I sleep on the floor because every time I wake up on the floor, I'll be the only one who knows what really happened.

I had been in the hospital bed for three weeks before waking up.<br><br>The first time my husband had put on a smile and put on the mask of the husband he used to be. He told me everything that had happened. How he had woken up with a start one night. How he found me, cold, lying in a river of blood that flowed from my vagina. How he desperately called the paramedics to save me.<br><br>Of course, he didn't remember the demons, the giant hammer that shattered my bones. The darkness. The pain. But it was over. The doctors told him I was going to be fine. That, despite all the rage they saw in my eyes when I woke up that morning, I was going to be fine. Almost as if I was my own worst enemy.<br><br>Then there was the second time. It felt like a dream, but the pain was still etched into my skin. I was in the bed, and I was fine. The doctors told me I was going to be fine, the husband had a smile.<br><br>The third time was when the doctors told him I had brain damage, that my mind had gone. He wasn't so cheerful. The machines clicked, beeped and groaned in time with my broken, shattered heart.<br><br>The fourth time was the worst. I wasn't there. He was gone. The demons had taken my soul, left my body for him. No one could ever save me, they told him.<br><br>Then the fifth time was the worst. The husband's eyes were sunken, his face had aged. He still held out the mask of the husband he used to be, but he didn't remember me any more. He told me I was going to be fine, that he was happy to see me, but the tears in his eyes betrayed him.<br><br>The sixth time was when I woke up in my own bed, in a nonexistent hospital. A doctor came in, beaming with pride. "Oh, you're going to be fine," he said.<br><br>I knew I wasn't fine. I was going to be ripped apart, over and over, forever.