Not long after I’d regressed, I often couldn’t sleep.

Some nights, I stayed awake until dawn, and others, I pushed myself to the brink of collapse, forcing myself to faint just to get any rest. It was impossible otherwise—every time I closed my eyes, the memories from before my regression haunted me, turning my nights into endless nightmares.

The faces of those I’d killed.

Those I couldn’t save.

Those who’d died for me.

They all returned in my dreams, over and over, until I woke, drenched in cold sweat, unable to catch my breath.

And when I finally could breathe …