But whenever anyone starts talking about some dream they had, you switch off.
So I don’t tell you about last night when I fall asleep next to my laptop, my phone in my hand, the television on in the background, showing some grainy documentary about a fascist dictator.
You wouldn’t want to know. Whenever people start talking about fascist dictators, you try to change the subject.
So I don’t describe how he crawls out the television screen. Picks up a scalpel. Sends me into a trance with his eyes.
If I told you he slits my torso right down the middle, you wouldn’t ask what he does next.
You wouldn’t listen if I told you he unplugs the television. Drops it inside my stomach. Connects my intestines to the sockets at the back.
Your eyes would be glazed over by the bit where he shoehorns my laptop into my ribcage. Syncs it to my arteries. Starts uploading updates to my heart.
You wouldn’t care what he does with the phone and the hacksaw and my head.
So we’ll just sit here in silence while you stare at your screen and scroll skull scroll away.
We’ll just ignore the never-ending pinging of my phone; the fact that the noises are coming from the deepest depths of my skull.
Neil Clark dreams up tiny fiction from his tiny abode in Edinburgh, Scotland. You can find his work in places such as The Molotov Cocktail, X-R-A-Y and Cheap Pop. He also posts regular micro-fiction from his Twitter account @NeilRClark. Visit neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com for a full list of publications.