I went outside and found snow on the ground.
I went to a club and a guy offered me $5 to dance with him. Rude. I slapped him in the face.
I went to the bathroom and cut my hair, only to wake up and find that the haircut was still there, which was nightmare enough: I had cut my bangs down to an inch, so they stuck out from my forehead at a 90-degree angle. But this was only the first sign that dreams were bleeding into reality. Soon I was seeing terrifying faces in every mirror – faces that included my own, warped and disfigured like poison candle wax. And the house was full of mirrors; I couldn’t get away from them. Floor-to-ceiling, French door-style mirrors, bathroom vanity mirrors, decorative gold-leaf framed mirrors hanging in the hall. They were there to make the house bright, airy, spacious, but I felt claustrophobic. Trapped. Stalked. Worst of all, when I tried to tell my mother, she just kept putting on makeup and waved me away outside because “there aren’t any mirrors out there.” My sister thought I was crazy.
I went into a haunted house. The kid whose idea it was called me back as I began to climb the staircase. But now I was seeing him through a window, or perhaps yet another mirror, and it showed his true colors. He had lured me there, promising safety, but he was a demon in disguise.