Rosemary felt the ache of the fragmentation inside her. She couldn’t remember where it started, but she knew it intuitively. There were two disconnected parts of Rosemary Thorn. This, at least, was how she explained to herself the wide berth between her actions and her inner world. Things could make sense inside her mind, but as soon as she tried to enact them or speak them, they’d scramble and warp and scatter into erratic nonsense. It wasn’t easy to hold down a solid job or parent a teenager under such conditions. It was hard enough just to look after herself.
