I know you’re speaking to me, but I can’t hear you. I know the flames are searing my skin, the lightening bolt is twisting my sinews, but you carry on talking as if everything is normal as a knife penetrates to my hip. “How do you look so well?” she asks me, when you’re [supposed] to be in so much pain. “A good sense of humour and factor 50 sunblock”, I facetiously reply.
The Truth. Because I’ve learnt to be a great actress. There should be a chronic pain Oscar for the best fake look of serenity, the most convincing insincere look of interest and most misleadingly deceptive smile. Acting this much is exhausting. I’m so tired.
Why? Because if you know the truth, I’ll have to observe your expression of embarrased horror. Because I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable and avoid me. Because you can’t handle the truth of my suffering. Becaue you’re afraid of what you can’t understand. But most of all, because I don’t want your pity.