"Fucking girl. Fucking pain in my neck, is what she is. Why'd I get stuck with her to look after? What'd I do to deserve that, eh?"

Cassidy, storming away from the wardrobe, was furious. He was shaking with an anger that vibrated his heart almost to bursting point.

Fucking bitch. Stepdaughters. Fucking stepdaughters. Insolent, spiteful, ungrateful stepdaughters.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He stomped into the bathroom and threw up the toilet seat, making it bang and bounce against the cistern. He ignored both. He had a bladder to empty.

He imagined he was urinating on the girl's head. Might teach her some manners. Show her who's boss. Might make her actually appreciate him for a change. Respect him for everything he did for her since her stupid mother died.

Cass flushed the toilet and left the room, hands unwashed. Fuck it. He went down the stairs, noticing the ninth and seventh steps were loose. Fucking missus. She couldn't even fall downstairs properly without damaging them!

No wonder her daughter was so useless.

In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator. It contained a minimal amount of food, with only some still in date, and a copious amount of alcohol. He grabbed a can of lager and, while he popped the top open, kicked the fridge closed.

He needed a drink. More than one. More than that. maybe!

Every hangover started with the first guzzle, he thought, while doing exactly that.

He slumped onto the sofa, adjusting his position until he was comfortable. It took longer than it should have, and he knew why. Her upstairs. Been sneaking down and sitting in his place.

No fucking way!

He'd have to teach her a lesson.

Later, though. He had some beers in need of drinking. He had a reality to drown out.

Before he switched the television on, he took notice of his reflection on the screen. Looking good, man. He rubbed his protruding stomach and belched loudly.

Good beer, that.

Cassidy's eyes opened, and he stared at the ceiling gripping the quilt tightly. After a moment spent swimming back to reality, he looked around his bedroom, making sure he was in his own room.

Thank fuck!

He was. The wallpaper and quilt cover had reverted back to his. The sideboard was gone. The mirror was back on the outside of the wardrobe and, he thought, listening intently, the wardrobe was empty apart from his clothes. He relaxed his hands.

What the hell was that?

Bobby lay still next to him. He was growling in his sleep.

"Bobby," Cass said, stroking the dog. "Wake up, mate. You're dreaming."

Bobby woke abruptly and twisted his head back, snapping at and biting Cassidy's hand. Instantly, as Cass swore and yanked his hand back, the dog realised his mistake and jumped up to lick the wound he'd just caused.

"Don't worry, boy," Cass said softly. "You were dreaming. I'm fine."

He wasn't, though. Not entirely. It hadn't only been his puppy who'd had a dream. He had too, and he could remember every detail.

Pushing the quilt back slowly, Cassidy stood and walked towards the mirror. Bobby stayed where he was, with his head down on his paws. His ears were back and his teeth were slightly bared. He was watching the wardrobe.

The mirror was clean. No messages or smudges. Cass felt his stomach slump in disappointment, but the feeling was quickly replaced by trepidation. He was going to open the door. He had to. He needed to see if there were only clothes inside.

His hand was on the handle. He was... not opening it.

Come on, man. Do it. She's not there. It was just a dream and dreams aren't real.

Just like ghosts.

He pulled the door open, prepared for whatever might welcome him inside. There was only a bar with hangers hooked over it, each with an item of clothing hanging from it. There was no crying girl curled up on the floor. He sighed with relief and closed the door.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the smear across the top of the mirror. A thick statement. He now knew what it was. Sweat. Tears. A face being against into the glass.

Amy.

Suddenly, fatigue sucked the energy from him, and he swayed. He leaned on the wardrobe for support, deliberately keeping his hands away from the mirror. It would have been like pressing against her face.

Coffee. He needed coffee. Intravenously, if possible.

Still unsteady, he made his way to the stairs and slowly walked down them. His foot hovered over seven. For a moment, he contemplated putting his weight on the step. Let it twist his ankle and throw him down. The dream had left him tainted. Coated in a slick layer of self-disgust. It was, of course, just a dream. It didn't mean a thing. Even so, he didn't want to have that person within him. It still felt too tangible.

A fall down the stairs and a broken neck or back would be cleansing.

Had Amy been mistreated so badly in real life, or was the dream his frustration with her? Did he, subconsciously, want to rid himself of Amy? Was he resentful of her presence?

No. Not at all.

The dream didn't reflect any part of him or his feelings towards the mirror girl. He felt sorry for her, not angry. Even if he was, he wouldn't ever resort to such lengths. It wasn't in him.

Was it?

No! In the dream, Cassidy had both enjoyed and been dismayed at the abuse he was dishing out. The pleasure hadn't been his own, however. It belonged to the man in his reflection. Cass had been exposed to its overflow. He'd been aware of it. He wasn't the source.

Coffee steadied his hand, if not his heart. The beverage and the following shower did nothing to wash away the sensations filling him. He'd never had a dream so vivid. None had stayed with him so clearly for such an extended period. If he hadn't awoken in his bed, he could easily have believed it was real.

With the water cascading over him, he thought he might vomit. He had his hands against the tiled wall and the water as hot as he could tolerate. Burn the revulsion from him! He could see his skin reddening, and welcomed the change. If only it would move internally. If only it would scald him from the inside out.

The taste of alcohol was still in his throat. The stench of an unwashed body, albeit one in the shower, filled his nostrils. He looked at his hands and, randomly, thought that his nails needed cutting. He'd do that when he got out. They were rougher than usual. Uneven, as if bitten. He'd really neglected their care! When did that happen?

And... what was that? Caught in the nail of the left middle finger?

Hair?

Blood?

https://youtu.be/5Dfw0PdL4P0