I haven’t yet told Mum of the news, but I head down the hallway of my parents’ house to my bedroom, and when I enter I see that I’m at my desk in my office at work. On my desk is a card, made from office paper with a crayon drawing on the cover. I open the card to find a message, and I know it’s been left here by the Man. It reads:

Drastic measures needed to be undertaken
For such a bold move
But to your benefit it was done

Please let your brother, the Artist, know of what has transpired tonight

The Woman is standing next to me, and the Man is behind her, spinning gleefully in circles in his miniature wheelchair. The Woman smiles, places a hand on my shoulder, and the pain dissipates. As they disappear I wonder who my brother, the Artist, is meant to be. I think that I need to draw the events on a canvas, and then I say to myself, “I’m a better writer than a painter.”

And that’s when I find myself in a pitch-black room, raised from my pillow, panting and thinking, “That was a dream?” I jump out of bed and race to the light switch, and the turn on the lights in the corridor, kitchen, study and both out the front and back of the house, calling out to find out if I’m really alone in the house. I enter my study, open my wallet to see if my credit card is still there. It is. I see the clock and notice it’s two in the morning. I’m reminded that to day is payday and that I have payments deducted from my bank account today. I think about how much money I have to spend this week and the next, and wonder whether I should call Mum, and what a really stupid mess that would make for everyone. So I open my computer and begin writing.