When she told them what had happened, she could sense their doubt, but even repeatedly telling them only caused them to try to distract her by changing the subject.
Her vocabulary, once on the tip of her tongue, now was often captured, like a victim held bound tightly to her tongue.
People no longer had names that she could remember, although some faces still looked familiar, but the setting was all mixed up.
She had so many things she wanted to say, but her words and recollections combined in a jumbled up fashion when she occasionally was able to utter something, and those not used to communicating with her sometimes just raised their eyebrows or shrugged their shoulders not knowing how to respond.
The questions she had fluttered like butterflies in and out of her mind, never there for long, and not allowing her to give them a voice.
She could only hope that someone, anyone, would somehow instinctively know what she needed and when because her entire life was becoming a fleeting memory.