Seasons change but ghosts remain (Part Two)

Sitting down on the floor and looking at the bottom of the reddish-brown door frame, I see faces begin to emerge. The sensation of seeing my own visage bleeding through the grain, coming out of the door one slow inch at a time until what’s standing before me is an inverse copy of my own self is a disconcerting, surreal experience. Reaching for the frame, I embark upon popping the pin from the hinges, laying the door over me like a stiff, splintery blanket, using it as a shield to protect my real self from the doppelganger, when the light snaps off leaving me in the cold darkness.

Cold! Where are my slippers? Upstairs. Taking my own hand, I lead the way back to the bedroom, carefully removing the pins from the hinges as quietly as possible before we enter to avoid waking bundle under the covers. The heat blasts like a furnace, and I am tripping over slippers and falling onto an unoccupied bed, hands are empty; I’m alone. Wrapping the covers over me like a shroud, sleep approaches rapidly, eyelids droop, fading to black; gently stroking the cat, rest arrives.

4:17 a.m.  “Would you like some coffee?” my wife peeks her head through the door, smiling. Nodding in agreement, brushing the cobwebs from my eyes, grasping the porcelain cup with both hands being careful not to spill a single drop.

“Care for a sip?” I offer to an abandoned doorway.

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Just a guy writing about how depression sucks.

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