Anonymous

It sounds laughable, but that night I woke up being somebody else. It happened just like that, when I opened my eyes and discovered that my body wasn't my body. Stay calm, I told myself, this will be over soon. But I sat up in bed and didn't recognize the window, which had no curtain. It was open, and beyond it was a clear and silent night. I turned quickly and found at my side the face of a woman who wasn't my wife. I nearly screamed, but fought off the urge, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. I leaned against the pillow and took a deep breath. I took a watch (which wasn't my watch) from a nightstand (which wasn't my nightstand) and looked at the time: 12:01. I looked around the bedroom. Despite the fact that I could see the shadows of the furniture, I didn't recognize anything: not the dressing table, not the dresser, not the religious images hanging on the walls, and not the white shirt hanging on the back of a chair. That shirt reminded me of an upside-down ghost, which somehow reminded me of me. Just one familiar shadow would have rescued me, but there was none. I rubbed my eyes. Surely this was just a bad dream. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to keep from thinking. No such luck: I couldn't fall asleep, and as time went on I felt more and more awake. It was like a fire was burning in my awareness. I remembered what had happened to a friend of mine: one night he was alone in his car, and when he looked in the rear-view mirror he discovered an unfamiliar face, pale and ultra-serious, in the back seat. He didn't dare turn around because he was afraid he would confirm its presence. He simply kept driving with his eyes riveted on the car in front of him, sweating ice but keeping his composure. He made it home and nothing more came of it. The next day his life went on as usual; he drove back and forth to work and never saw anyone in the back seat. Why couldn't the same thing be happening to me? Perhaps I would wake up in the morning and find the things I had been used to finding every morning for years--the same furniture, my wife's face, the window overlooking our yard. But I felt that for it to happen, I would need to sleep until sunrise. Light. Yes, sunlight. Daytime would resolve everything. Several hours later, or maybe it was just minutes later, I was still awake. Having the covers over my head, combined with a growing sense of anguish, was clearly having a negative effect on my heart. When I could no longer stand it I threw off the covers, but it was like emerging from underwater, yet I was still gasping for air. I got up and went to the window. I could finally breathe. The smell of plants entered from the yard. I leaned out to look: it was a small yard, with large flower planters, a cobblestone path, and plants covering a wall which marked the end of the property. What was I doing there?