It sits in your chair beside the window, where you always sit. Its arms are folded on the table, staring forward at your laptop, waiting for something to change. Your speaker crackles your favorite classical music on the windowsill. It runs its fingers on the latest painting you hung on the wall.
It sits there, at your desk, as if it always has. It has your skin, your face, your hair, your hands, and your clothes. You look at every visible inch: identical. An itching starts in the back of your mind. A nervous, uncomfortable, never ending itch.
When you look at its face, it's you. But it isn't like looking in a mirror. There's something off, but invisible. Something slightly wrong, slightly different, slightly uncanny, slightly terrifying. A shudder racks you from your scalp to your toes. You feel sick, so sick, and you turn away to calm yourself.
You can't.
You feel eyeballs boring into the back of your skull, and it makes your skin crawl. You're being watched. When you turn back, it hasn't moved at all. Your eyes burn; as does your nose. Your doors have vanished, replaced by simply more wall. The view outside your window is now a pure white that neither gives nor takes light.
It doesn't move.
But you do.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
