A word is spoken as if fired from a gun.

Time slows down, and my life flashes before my eyes. Well, parts of my life.

Memories, sensations, emotions.

I can't breathe and there is pain, not sharp, but a deep ache, almost like an itch, only I can't move to scratch it.

I can't speak, the bullet has dried up my throat and sucked the air out of my lungs.

I can't see, the images conjured up are a veil across my eyes, blinding me to reality, binding me to the past.

I can't hear a thing over the screaming in my head. The word, the gunshot, has simultaneously deafened me and made me acutely aware of all the things I don't want to hear.

Despite all of this I am told that I'm okay.

I'm wounded and my insides are pouring out of me and I'm doing everything I can to hold myself together but I can't do it alone and I just want to let go.

I'm okay, they say.

But I'm not.

I'm triggered.