The sun was unusually strong as it streamed across Michael's face, waking him gently. There was a surreal stillness filling the room as Michael lay still, trying to work out which day it was. It felt as if he had only just lain down, but the room was hot and stuffy1 with the bright warmth of the sun. It was quiet and the mirror opposite him was reflecting the light into his eyes. He squinted2, looking at the image of the door behind him. Something was moving, but he couldn't see what. He sat up, his stomach strangely tight, and his breathing cautious. Michael felt the warmth leave his back. Shadows crept into the room as the sun hid behind the clouds that now filled the sky. Michael turned back to the mirror, and saw the blurred3 outline of his mother in the doorway4. Smiling with relief, he turned around - and stared.
Empty sockets5 stared back, devoid6 of anything but filmy membranes7 across distant juicing flesh. Long, skeletal bones reached out, the remains8 of muscles clinging to the forearm. Skin covered her shoulders and legs, peeling off in random9 layers around her joints10, and veins11 stretched over the mottled, translucent12 skin of her face as the bloody13 stump14 of her mouth spread into a smile. "Hello, darling."
Michael watched, frozen in horror. A bony white hand reached out, the nails ripped off revealing the tattered15 tissue beneath. The fingers stroked down his cheek, leaving a stripe of bloody mucus. He looked up, his eyes connecting with the empty pits of what was his mother's gaze. His stomach lurched; he fell out of bed, scrambling16 madly across the room. He did not try to understand, or to make it right. This was not his mother. This was not his
