[ WP ] Your main character is so traumatized that they can not make it one paragraph without a flashback .

The girl was a runt, if you could say nothing else about her. Pale blonde hair, pale blue eyes and even paler skin to match, she was a small, ghostly thing, and stood shy of five feet tall, and well under a hundred pounds. It was n't that she did n't like eating, she had told the doctors, it was that she forgot. It came to the point where she had to be reminded. A few bites, then a gesture to the plate, then a few more. Even then, she rarely finished, and the trays were brought away. 
 
 She woke up at 0600. 
 
 She showered at 0630. 
 
 She `` ate'' breakfast in the cafeteria at 0800. 
 
 Free time at 0900. 
 
 Counseling, 1100. 
 
 Lunch, 1300. She rarely ate. 
 
 Free time, 1400. 
 
 Counseling, 1600. 
 
 Free time, 1800. 
 
 Dinner, 1900. 
 
 Activities, 2000. 
 
 Check up, 2100. 
 
 Lights out, 2200. 
 
 This was her routine. It had been for years now. Her progress was minimal, but present. She slept on her bed peacefully now; the doctors need n't tie her down to keep her from the floor. She spoke now, however quietly and seldom. She still had times where she lapsed into catatonia, but those days were thankfully uncommon. She spent her free time on her bed, cross-legged, eyes staring out a window at some distant point nobody but her could fixate on. The doctors had thought she was looking at the mountains at first, but when she was transferred to the room overlooking the sea, she was just as content. 
 
 By now, they had a small binder of subjects to avoid, each one filled with the little snippets of information that they had managed to coax out. 
 
 Family. 
 
 Her scars. 
 
 Fire. 
 
 Sex. 
 
 Firearms. 
 
 California. 
 
 Colorado. 
 
 Europe. 
 
 Asia. 
 
 Women. 
 
 Her name. 
 
 Bindings. 
 
 Boats. 
 
 Trains. 
 
 The words she'd cut into herself. 
 
 The list went on. Each one a small case file, used by the psychiatrists on staff to keep track of her. They still knew nothing about her. She had been found in Paris, but her accent was distinctly American. She matched no missing persons' report on record. She matched no DNA profile. She was as alone now as she had been in Georges-Pompidou. Nobody came to visit her except the staff. She was too afraid of making friends to carry on a conversation. The only time she had ever approached someone was when a small boy, a visitor, had begun crying, and even then, facility protocol had made the staff lead her away. She did n't talk much after that. Not for a few months, anyway. 
 
 Conversations tended to be on sided. The psychiatrists began with a simple,'How are you today?' Her response was almost invariably silence. On good days, the same days where she drew in her numerous sketchpads with remarkable talent, she might say,'Alive'. And on rare days, she might reply,'Good.' It never meant she was feeling better, though. It simply meant she was human, and her isolation had taken its toll, and she desperately wanted someone to talk to. The next day, she would draw back into silence. 
 
 The staff was urged to not pry into any of the subjects in her binder - no mention of, inquiry about, nothing. Those were reserved for special monthly sessions. Everyday, they seemed to find some word that triggered a panic attack. Even simple names would be enough to have her curl into a ball for the remainder of the day. Even simple words, like'ball', might see her sob one day, and respond with casual indifference the next. 
 
 Post-traumatic stress disorder. Survivor guilt. Two of the many psychological profiles they had fit her into. They still had no idea why, though the symptoms seemed to fit. 
 
 She was getting better. Slowly. One exhausting conversation at a time.
