I’m not sure, if this is a dream or reality, not anymore, but either way, whatever the case turns out to be, I need to share this, I need to write, no, not need, compelled, willed to, like, if I don’t write these words, then, there will be nothing, I, will be nothing.
Maybe I am.
I slept again, this time for longer than 5 minutes, maybe longer, maybe an hour or more, I’m not sure, my sight isn’t the best, I’ve gone back to wearing glasses, something I haven’t needed to do, for, well, years.
I was in the white room again, the place with all the corridors, he was there, smiling, he said my name several times, calmly, leaning back on his seat.
My mouth was dry, I realized, as I went to cup my face, that my hands were bound to the chair, I looked up at him, rage seething through me, I asked him why, no, I demanded to know why. He told me to be calm, it was just a precaution, he said we didn’t need another episode like yesterday. What episode? What was this man on about, why was I here, what did he want of me.
He told me we’d had this conversation so many times over the last 8 years, but, this was the first time we’d had it more than once, in a day.
He told me 8 years ago I was tried and convicted on 15 separate counts of murder, including that of my wife and two daughters, he placed his hand on a folder, and asked if I wanted to look at the photos. I said no, he shrugged his shoulders and said if I change my mind, he has them ready.
I asked him if he could remove the bonds around my wrist, I promised I would not do anything volatile, he leaded across the table and smiled, then said no, he’d fallen for that once, he showed me a large scar that ran down the side of his face, that’s when I saw him, in the mirror, my shadow friend, he smiled, and told me I need to wake up.
He saw me looking at my reflection, and asked who was talking to me, I told him, he called it by a name, Roundhead, I shook my head, that was his name for it, the imposters, it had another name, it’s true name, he smiled and leaned back, scribbling something on a note board.
Then he said something strange, and these are his words as best I can remember them, he said ‘so do you think Matthew can come out and play?’ as soon as he asked that question, everything erupted into insanity. The room ripped apart and my shadow self, torn through the mirror, growing rapidly in size, tearing through my flesh, until it filled up half of the room. Towering over him, it let out a low deep growl and said it was the only one who would be playing, for today, the end comes for him, and then it struck him with it’s gigantic, clawed hand, his blood sprayed outward, some landing across my face.
That’s when I woke up, on the floor of the lounge room, my clothes were soaked, and I had wet myself at some stage of the night. I dragged myself into a cold shower, smoked my arse off, and then sat down to write this, so I guess, if anyone reads this, it means that it was another fucked up dream, and if no one does, well, fuck, I’m shit outta luck, right?