dream there’s a mirror without a reflection. I press my hand to the mirror. It’s cold, rigid. A small crack forms from the place my fingertip touches the glass. Gradually, the crack spreads across the surface as I watch in utter fascination, following the lines with my eyes as they form narrow veins. Those lines expand until the glass begins to shatter. I step away, finally pulled out of my trance, saving my hand from a multitude of cuts. I’m out of harm’s reach, but I experience pain anyway. It comes from my stomach and radiates out, crushing me from the inside. That’s when I realise I’m hollowed out. I’m broken up. I’m as shattered as the mirror with no reflection.
When the pain ends, the sensation that someone is watching me sweeps over my skin, as light and ticklish as the bristles of a paintbrush. I shudder from its touch, dragging my nails over my flesh.
There’s darkness behind me. I sense a presence, and that presence is familiar, but I don’t know why. I start to turn. Slowly. Gradually. I need to know who is behind me. The desire is instinctual. Primitive. It’s as vital as breathing. The need claws at my intestines, demanding to know this presence. But this is where the dream ends, with my body half-twisted, my chest rising and falling in anticipation, and the whisper of darkness reaching out to me but not quite finding me. This is where I wake.
I open my eyes. My skin is slicked with sweat. It’s slippery and cold when I rub the dreams from my eyes. The alarm blares and I lash out, tangling my hands in the bedsheets. It’s 6am and my day has begun.
I find my phone and switch off the alarm. Then I swing my legs out of the bed and heave my weight up. Despite eating less and less each day, I feel heavier. It’s not body fat that’s weighing me down, it’s stress. It’s the knowledge that I’ll spend another day worrying. The pressure of caring for my failing mother is dragging me down, and I can’t deny it any longer.
At least the soft cotton of my dressing gown is comforting. I walk across my room and open a window. There’s a bitter scent in the air. Perhaps it’s my body odour from the nightmare. Perhaps it’s the basket of laundry overflowing from neglect. The morning breeze is fresh and pleasant on my skin. I could linger here for another minute, maybe three or five, but I can’t. I need to get ready.
My feet drag across the carpet on my way out of the room. When did my steps slow to a crawl? I used to be swift. On school trips, my pupils complained that they couldn’t keep up, but I’d tell them not to dawdle because there was so much I wanted to show them. So much art, so much literature, so much technology.
The door shuts behind me with a firm clunk . The handle of Mum’s door is cold, and it triggers an image from my dream, of my fingertips pressing the glass of the mirror. I shake the image away and open the door.
The smell hits me first. It fills the room. Vomit. Then I hear her. I hear the strangled sound coming from her throat, like a growl bubbling through soup. Her skin is waxy and pale. There’s foam seeping between her lips and a spray of food on her pillow. My hand rises to my mouth as my stomach lurches. My mother is choking on her own vomit.
I stop breathing. I don’t move. The temperature in the room seems to plummet. I stand there in my dressing gown, listening to that strangled noise. Then her head tilts towards me and her bloodshot eyes open. I spring to action, turning my mother onto her side, opening her mouth and performing the disgusting task I would not wish on anyone—clearing her airway of the vile mixture clogging it.
“It’s all right,” I soothe. “Stay on your side now.”
I hurry back to my room, pick up my phone, and dial 999. Then I go back to Mum and watch her suck in air as though she is reborn.
There’s no denying it. I hesitated again. I almost let her die.
*
I sit next to her in the white room. The brightness is
When the pain ends, the sensation that someone is watching me sweeps over my skin, as light and ticklish as the bristles of a paintbrush. I shudder from its touch, dragging my nails over my flesh.
There’s darkness behind me. I sense a presence, and that presence is familiar, but I don’t know why. I start to turn. Slowly. Gradually. I need to know who is behind me. The desire is instinctual. Primitive. It’s as vital as breathing. The need claws at my intestines, demanding to know this presence. But this is where the dream ends, with my body half-twisted, my chest rising and falling in anticipation, and the whisper of darkness reaching out to me but not quite finding me. This is where I wake.
I open my eyes. My skin is slicked with sweat. It’s slippery and cold when I rub the dreams from my eyes. The alarm blares and I lash out, tangling my hands in the bedsheets. It’s 6am and my day has begun.
I find my phone and switch off the alarm. Then I swing my legs out of the bed and heave my weight up. Despite eating less and less each day, I feel heavier. It’s not body fat that’s weighing me down, it’s stress. It’s the knowledge that I’ll spend another day worrying. The pressure of caring for my failing mother is dragging me down, and I can’t deny it any longer.
At least the soft cotton of my dressing gown is comforting. I walk across my room and open a window. There’s a bitter scent in the air. Perhaps it’s my body odour from the nightmare. Perhaps it’s the basket of laundry overflowing from neglect. The morning breeze is fresh and pleasant on my skin. I could linger here for another minute, maybe three or five, but I can’t. I need to get ready.
My feet drag across the carpet on my way out of the room. When did my steps slow to a crawl? I used to be swift. On school trips, my pupils complained that they couldn’t keep up, but I’d tell them not to dawdle because there was so much I wanted to show them. So much art, so much literature, so much technology.
The door shuts behind me with a firm clunk . The handle of Mum’s door is cold, and it triggers an image from my dream, of my fingertips pressing the glass of the mirror. I shake the image away and open the door.
The smell hits me first. It fills the room. Vomit. Then I hear her. I hear the strangled sound coming from her throat, like a growl bubbling through soup. Her skin is waxy and pale. There’s foam seeping between her lips and a spray of food on her pillow. My hand rises to my mouth as my stomach lurches. My mother is choking on her own vomit.
I stop breathing. I don’t move. The temperature in the room seems to plummet. I stand there in my dressing gown, listening to that strangled noise. Then her head tilts towards me and her bloodshot eyes open. I spring to action, turning my mother onto her side, opening her mouth and performing the disgusting task I would not wish on anyone—clearing her airway of the vile mixture clogging it.
“It’s all right,” I soothe. “Stay on your side now.”
I hurry back to my room, pick up my phone, and dial 999. Then I go back to Mum and watch her suck in air as though she is reborn.
There’s no denying it. I hesitated again. I almost let her die.
*
I sit next to her in the white room. The brightness is
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