The image is blurry, as if seen through a film of smoke. Fading memories – realities slipping through my fingers.
One of them said it never happened. One of them whispered that it did. One of them laughed at my perplexity. One of them shrieked the sordid details in my ear.
Hours pass each day as I think and think it all through. Real or not real, who will ever know?
And how does it matter – my truth or their truth? The universe is all relative and history is written by winners anyway.
Real or not real – they have fucked up my brain. The damage is done now and I’ll never be the same ever again.
Image credits: agnes-cecile on deviantart.com
A Writer's Cauldron 