He stumbles out of the mass of tangled sheets and lingering paranoia, the constant burning around the edges of his eyelids flaring up again. He can feel the lack of sleep, now; before, it was just the crescent-shaped shadows swimming across his bagged, red-rimmed lids, but now there is a constant throbbing in his skull. A stake being driven into his head with a steady rhythm of pound, pound, pound.

He trips over his own feet and smacks his head against the mirror, gasping and grappling for a handhold before he upends himself. He manages to clasp the towel rack before he falls onto the cold hardwood floor, perspiration beading his forehead and crawling across his hateful skin. The mirror reveals a complete stranger; no one he recognizes. Disheveled blonde hair lies limp and mussed, drenched with the horror of the night with no rest. He reaches out to touch the reflection; tracing the cold edge of the stranger’s tormented mako eyes and the pale, throbbing flesh that encompasses him. He longs to reach through the glass, splinter the façade and dig deep for the truth buried in the back of the man’s mind. Why these twisted demons to haunt him in the one place he thought was safe, his own mind? But even that was not his own anymore. Nowadays, nothing seemed his own. Not his thoughts, not his feelings, not his…memories.

And now here she comes. On the edges of his peripheral vision, he sees her wide-eyed look and fragile worry, and wishes she wouldn’t come to check anymore. It’s always the same answer.

“…Are you alright?”

He barely hears her question over the din in his head; the waters are rising again, the sloshing drowns out anything other than the reminder that it’s time to go back to sleep, sleep and recuperate, dear, and answer me this: are you so weak that your ghosts reach you even in the place between reality and fiction?

“It’s pathetic, I know,” he mutters inexplicably to the waters. And now I’m talking to them, too. I believe I’ve gone mad, he wonders, and snickers at the thought.

And he remembers that she’s still there, waiting for an answer.

“Fine, fine, I’m just fine. Go to bed, just go – and don’t worry. I’m fine, fine.”

What’s another lie to you? And as he stares her down from the mirror, can’t bring himself to turn and face her, she looks as if she’ll say something, but decides against it. Nothing you say will help anyway. Her retreating form fades into the dark, and he hopes that the two little ones aren’t aware of the night visions anymore. Their faces, full of pity, were worse than any she could make.

And a starburst of green light flashes in his mind, and the dam breaks open, and the flood comes. He’s on the floor, hunched into a ball, and this time, he didn’t even make it to the bed.

The forest always disturbed him; with its frosty trees glowing blue and white. He catches a twirl of pink amidst the eerie calm, and there her back is; hands clasped tightly behind it. She’s swaying peacefully with nothing; and her long braid swings to and fro in a gentle arc. He hates it. Hates her. Loves her. And through the roar in the whirlpool of his mind, he hears her echoing voice break in with a clear, crystal resonance.

I’ll come back when it’s all over.

He stands frozen. His mind doesn’t let him run up and stop her; his mind lets her turn slowly to face him with her lips pulled up in a marionette’s smile. And he isn’t allowed the pleasure of seeing her face; just her lips pulled tight in that taunting expression that never ends its haunt.

And then, like a sprite, she’s off running through the forest, resonating laughter bouncing through every tree and filling the air with one horrendous, repeating cadence that scares the hell out of him. Now he can run; and he follows her, but she’s always one step ahead, a wisp of a hem all he can see.

And then he’s there.

Everything seems so peaceful; a gentle, calming green throb blends with the rushed and whispered words of a prayer. But he knows better. He’s here every night, with the faint scent of winters past.

And he sees it again. This time, it’s a macabre imitation of that smile; frozen in place for time and all eternity. His vision zooms out, and he sees her fully; and it’s such a grotesque image; her dainty face devoid of life and laughter, while crimson regret spreads across her rosy dress. A wind picks up; howling and raging, tearing the ribbons and the tears and shreds of hope to pieces. The corpse reanimates before the entire scene blasts through his body and whistles past his ears: a contorted grimace planted on her face as dull, dead, sharp eyes pierce him with a thousand swords.

You see? Everything’s…Alright.

Alright.

Alright.

His eyelids crack open as he pulls himself out of the dark abyss, uncurling from his fetal position. He finds his hand is bleeding, and his forehead creases in confusion. Shards of glass dot the countertop near the empty upturned bottles of sleeping pills, and litter the floor where he lay.

Then he sees it. The mirror, shattered, from where his flailing fist made contact. Splintered entirely from the top to the bottom. He groans and smiles, hoarsely whispering, seven years of bad luck. Good.

At least he knows he’ll have to live for seven more years before his body gives out from lack of sleep.

Shakily, he pulls himself up. He stumbles back to the bed, and wonders if he’ll ever find peace. Fixing the covers as best he can, he tumbles back into the springy mattress.

Back to the never-ending nightmare…

He never noticed the open window, nor the dying roses lying on the sill. The note left for him by a dream months ago, tucked into his desk drawer. And he never felt the raindrops that gently spattered on his eyelids.

All he knew, when he woke up, was that he wasn’t tired.

And with this simple knowledge, he wept for joy.