The Melting Mind of One Fictum Ernest

Cycle 3: Stiff Breeze

I feel again and brush a layer of snow from my face (C'MON! ERNEST! ANYBODY!)

"I'm up, I'm up!" my response lets snow flood my mouth and I sputter to spit it out alongside my tired remark. (oh- well I'm sure the ground is comfy mate but we should get a move on) "a move where exactly" (preferably away from the van with flashing lights) I push up and lean on my elbows, looking to my right to see by Jove he's right, an ambulance blinds me with seizure inducing flashes (oh tricky, I'd say Mercedes-Benz Sprinter) ah Herod, my favourite liar (feeling bitter Fictum?) yes. While I push further off of the floor A blonde guy wearing to much hi-vis and bright orange for my weary eyes stops unloading a stretcher to sprint over.

"you need to stay still, you've been in an accident" I wave a dismissive gesture while crawling up the wall to position my feet beneath myself, all the while creaking like a rusty automaton.

"ow, listen mate I'm ripe as rain, don't worry about it" (it's "right as rain", ignoramus) well I'm that too. The paramedic looked at me like I said I was Charles de Gaule and I need him to join my indie band so I could defeat a reincarnated Mussolini trying to take over Paris through the power of evil rock'n'roll (are you sure you're, okay?)

"hey! Your leg is broken you shouldn't be moving around, you can get help at the hospital, alright?" oh, that's right my leg. I look down and see my leg caked in dry and coagulating blood with my pant leg bearing a tattered appearance at least more tattered than normal. My leg is perfectly intact otherwise, what? (isn't this a good thing?) well yeah objectively but it feels weird. The paramedic gawks at my leg reasonably more confused than me, they speak in a sympathetic tone.

"what's your name?" I can't be bothered to lie right now.

"it Fictum, have you not heard of me and my grand adventure?" my comment adds more concern than it does levity as I am met with scepticism.

"Fictum? Okay, do you know where you are?" (why do you dally we gain nothing here) the options stretch out from me like winding path of possibility, I could answer his inane questions until I am cleared of all accusations of "being dead", or I could orchestrate a masterclass in social engineering to send this fellow off while I return to my investigation, feeling devilish are we Fictum? I ready my conman smile.

"AHHH! GOD" I remark casually as the paramedic points a flashlight at my eyes with the power of a dwarf star, instantly incinerating my eyeballs (boohoo) (you could just run y'know) I scram, posthaste to the clear dismay of the Paramedic.

"Hey! Wait!" I do not do as I'm asked (is this your solution to everything?) well it works. Unlike my previous escape the paramedic does not give chase, at least not well enough to keep pace after two turns. Given my newfound privacy I collapse onto a park bench, the rust scratching my leg through the rips in my pant leg, a bronze plaque dug into my back and at some point, I must assume this bench hates me. The plaque read "Quinn Dermott; til' death do we start" the font was bland and pointy against my spine (the font is Garamond, its remarkable how ignorant of general knowledge people can be. The poet here is also of note, all their work was published post-mortem) Roman starts talking about poetry and I zone out. Slowly over the course of a minute reality becomes apparent, then it further clarifies itself until whatever adrenaline addled calm I was under fully snapped under the weight of a simple realisation.

I panic, not the loud kick, scream fear melting rationality to a puddle of instinct and primal violence, instead I sink to the floor, my bedrock crumbles as what is becomes as illusory as it was when I was first born and left in the aether of unreality before plunging into a big scary, world of things that hurt, I don't wish to plunge again into a bigger world this one was far too big already. I stammer nonsense into my hands as though I expect the to catch the words (you alright Fictum?)