"Maybe you're a coward."

The words hit hard. A sledge hammer to the face. My mind winces, but I control my face. I'm exasperated, but I don't want to show it. I'd rather just shake it off indifferently. I only feel indifference. I've been living dead for longer than I can remember actually living.

I shrug. What use are words? I brace myself for my yelling. Loud. Strong voice of disapproval. I tell myself to find a happy place. Soon this and everything will be over. I have no reason to try to remember what happens next. It's just another memory I'm going to errand, and if I don't pay attention to it than I can't take the effort to forget it.

What's the fable about Rip van Winkle? Sleeping his life away? I keep hoping to wake up and have everything be okay again. Whatever okay might be I'm not sure...I belong in a fiction.