Fiction

I laugh at the jokes, wondering if I'd cry if I didn't. Time is marked by wounds on my skin and in my mind; patched up with spare bandages from an old army kit, a relic of a forgotten war. The scene around me continues, plays before my eyes; it's like watching TV really, only here the fourth wall doesn't exist, the shouts hurt, I can taste the tears and touch other's faces - surreal, so much so that it can only be true. Hiding and escaping, retreating further away, trying to shield myself from reality intruding into my fiction (or is it the other way around?)