Blank

I open my eyes. Only aware of a throbbing headache and a dim, flickering light, I force the spectre of exhaustion from my mind. I twist and turn—sitting up—rubbing my eyes. I step out of my—I’m not sure exactly what it is I had been laying on. I tread the cold floors lightly, so as not to wake them. I observe the mirror on the door, and my reflection stares back. I sigh with relief and open the door. I step into the hallway—a poorly lit one, and with a few pools of liquid on the floor. I glance into a nearby mirror, and my reflection stares back. It falls to the ground, lifeless, limbs folded. Turning—sprinting, I scramble away, terrified. Noting the environment more carefully, I notice more windows, no, mirrors—god, the entire hallway is full of them! I look out the next window, and my reflection stares back. Its face contorts into an amalgamation of various parasites and it, too, falls with a shriek. I want to vomit. A sink is further down. My heavy footsteps boom in the abandoned, empty corridor. I peer into a nearby patient’s room, and see my own head turn and launch itself into the glass—immediately fracturing—leaving blood trickling down the panel. Backing up, I sprint the to the sink. I vomit. My throat is dry—in fact, parched—so I pour myself a cup of water. With heaving breath I turn off the sink while watching the surface settle. In the clearing reflection, I glimpse myself travel down yet another hallway and be smothered by a creature indescribable. With a gasp I drop the cup. It bounces, its contents trickling into the drain below.