Mmmhm. I mumbled into my pillow and flipped
around, trying to get comfortable. A chilly draught snaked its way into the
room. Great, the window must be open. For a few minutes, I burrowed deeper into
my blankets in a futile attempt to keep warm. Eventually, discomfort trumped my
lack of want for movement, and I rose. Stumbling in a half dazed condition, my
legs jerkily guided me to the window and my hand reached out to slide it shut. Fingers
connected with glass.
That was odd. What was the source of the wind?
Attributing it to my exhaustion, my body spun around, equipped to collapse back
into bed. But something caught my foot and my body soared forward, arms
stretched and legs flailing. Body connected with the marble floor with a loud
thud. The culprit, a paintbrush, lay innocently next to my foot. It should have
been in the bag with all the other painting materials. In no state to question
this strange situation, I reached for the paintbrush and stood up. My hand
extended to put the brush on the bookshelf. An eerie feeling washed over me.
Reaching behind, my hand fumbled for the light
switch. A click, and the room lit up. My gaze slowly circled the entire room.
Nothing was out of place. And that was when I realized nothing was in place
either. The room was empty.
Everything was wiped clean. The bookshelf,
usually overflowing with textbooks and storybooks and magazines, was bare. The
bedside table where my phone and glasses lay? Empty. Down to every stray pen
and eraser, all was stripped bare. The hollow spaces loomed dauntingly in front
of me. A low gasp escaped my mouth. Fists clenched; spine rigid; chest heaving,
I stood rooted to the spot. The icy draught blew again. The hairs on the back
of my neck prickled. A shiver ran down my spine. The feeling of not being
completely alone persisted. Slowly, I turned around. I faced a blank wall. I
was standing in an empty room, literally.
Tiptoeing, my legs cautiously carried me back to bed.
Flopping down onto my back, I shut my eyes. A moment later, my eyes flew open.
Staring back at me were hundreds of eyes.
The odd presence I had been feeling? It was
real. I wasn’t paranoid. I wasn’t crazy. Well, only if perfectly sane people
wake up one day to see everything they own alive and packed onto the ceiling.
Everything from my books to my paints to my
stationary and my cosmetics had sprouted arms and legs and were clinging onto
the ceiling. They had human features like eyes and noses and mouths and ears,
except for the fact that they weren’t human. They were, in fact, inanimate
objects. They should not be on my ceiling, and they should not have eyes and
noses and mouths and ears!
Like a puppet I bolted upright. My mouth opened
as if to scream, but the sound got stuck in my throat. The objects grinned
menacingly at me, as if to say that I could not call for help. My legs took
control as they scrambled feverishly to the door. As I reached for the handle,
objects flew straight at me. Paintbrushes poked my feet, making me jump a foot
in the air. Books whacked my hands away from the door. Paint tubes squirted red
and green and yellow pigments onto the doorknobs. My paints! The same paints I
used every day!
I couldn’t help it. A hysterical sound escaped
my lips. Pens and rulers and protractors nipped at my feet. Heavy books pushed
me backwards. Outstretched palms tried to push the books away but they would
not relent. The vigour they continuously advanced with had me backed up against
the wall. Like jelly, my knees slipped down, bringing me onto all fours. The
objects closed in on me. I let out a manic laugh while tears rolled down my
cheeks. What a way to go, attacked by the very things I used every day. Harry
Potter and the Deathly Hallows swam before my eyes and then everything turned
black.
When my senses returned I found my hands
hugging my knees to my chest on the cold, hard floor. I gingerly opened my eyes
and lifted my head. My schoolbag lay partially open on the mattress. Books
spilled out of the shelves. A canvas was propped neatly against the wall, and
my glasses and my phone were on my bedside table, exactly where they should be.
I blinked a couple of times. Feeling truly at ease now, I walked to the door,
prepared to tell the family about the crazy dream. The hand I extended to the
doorknob, however, slipped right off. I looked at my palm. It was covered with
red paint.
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