Sunday 28 December 2014

A Midnight Surprise

        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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