You stand next to me. I don’t look up. My eyes do not exist in the same plane of reality. You are blind to the thing I see. If I explained it to you, or tried, you would ask if I was talking to ghosts. This is not a ghost, but it does haunt me. It stares at me until I cannot swallow my own saliva. My jaw has locked up like the gatekeeper dropped the bolt into place to barricade the door.
I can hear you breathing. I’m not sure whether I’m still breathing. I have detached from my autonomic system. I do not fit within my skin.
Is it my hand out in front of me? Am I watching myself in action, as if I am a dream phenomenon, standing behind myself as events unfold? A spectator watching the athlete dive for the ball?
Except this is not a ballgame. This is a blood sport.