borrowedwords

God, or Something Like it My name is Victor Camilleri, and if you’re reading this, then I don’t exist. If you know that right now I’m sitting in a government prison camp somewhere in Southern Africa, then I’m just a fictional character and none of this is real. But the whole concept of reality is a bit subjective. This seems real to me. The pain of the bruises from yesterday’s beating don’t feel fictional. I think this is the warm salty taste of blood in my mouth where two of my teeth used to be. The searing burning sensation of the cut on my right cheek doesn’t feel like a literary device. But if you do