* * *
a laboured breathing from behind her. She stood up and spun around, the broken mirror temporarily forgotten, to see a man in painter’s overalls doubled over with obvious strain standing at the foot of her bed.
‘How did you get in here?’ she asked, fighting down a bubble of hysteria. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
It was clear the man was not listening, but he caught his breath and eventually straightened to face her. He looked at her with haunted eyes, and then held his paint-stained hands in front of him with an expression of disbelief. ‘Seven years...’ he told himself. Then, as if finally noticing her, he surveyed the room quickly and fixed his eyes on the ruined mirror at her feet. The look he gave her then was less haunted and more pitying, and he moved his head gently from side to side. ‘Bad luck.’
‘What are you–’
‘Just remember,’ he interrupted. ‘It will end... eventually.’
And with that the room became unfocused... she felt strangely heavy; soon she couldn’t distinguish anything in her bedroom and she began to sink through the hazy, white floor. She should have screamed or panicked or something, but she just felt numb and helpless as she sank lower and lower into a white nightmare.
