MANNEQUIN

You can see it a mile off. When someone with PTSD disassociates. It’s impossible not to recognise. Never is it more apparent that the body is just a shell that houses the soul. They suddenly become vacant. They’re not there. They have literally left their body. Their body is empty. They are wherever they’re thinking of. It’s like they’re possessed. Their face is vampire owned. They’re being controlled by something that feeds off them whenever it wants. As the mind parasite burrows into their brain the muscles of their face relax into a loose, lobotomised stare. Their eyes flop open and empty. They are a dope. A meat mannequin. I was mid conversation with them when I realised I was talking to myself and they were staring miles away. I gently coaxed them out. “Hey. I know that look. Where are you? What are you seeing?” They came to. The vampire departed. They apologised. I asked what they were seeing. They asked whether I was sure I wanted to hear. The ritual of not wanting to infect a listener with the images that came now and then to kidnap their mind. “It’s fine” I said. “Nothing you tell me is a problem.” They told me about cats eating the eyes of dead bodies that were laid in the street and about someone whose torso had been blown into two pieces, their innards mingled in the dirt and their legs about twenty metres away - and then an additional detail of some eggs they’d had with them that were smashed around them on the floor. “Fucking hell” I said. “The dude can’t catch a break.” She laughed and said that’s the thought she always has. It’s the banal detail that always sticks with them and troubles them. We carried on drinking coffee and then saw someone walk past with a great ass. Our eyes suddenly went into a trance and we were both somewhere far away.