Face Down

I jolt awake to the sharp feeling of a clothes hanger digging into my back. I’m in the closet. I open the door just a crack, enough to see my bed across the room, and to see myself sleeping in it. It is a strange sight, to see yourself there when you are clearly right here. I look down at my hands. They are not mine. These hands are pale like snow and smooth where they should be calloused. These fingers are bare where there should be bandages and rings. I’ve had millions of dreams before, but I can always tell that they’re not real. There’s always just a little something off in dreams, maybe it’s the layout of furniture in the room, the sensation of my feet on the carpet, the weird echoing in someone’s voice. But this time, everything is perfect.