Photo shoot

This morning I awoke to someone I didn’t recognize standing over my bed, pointing at me and screaming. His mouth moved, but I could hear nothing, and like Dr. Alfieri and the others, I could see right through him. Another wraith of a man ran into the room and  immediately started taking pictures. I laid there, horrified, gripping my blanket, my throat so constricted that I could hardly breathe. The flash bulb popped over and over, eerily, like slow puffs of smoke, as the cameraman bobbed and weaved around my bed, taking shots from different angles. I wanted to scream, but my throat protested. I don’t know how long they were there—forever it seemed—but eventually they got harder and harder to see until there was nothing. Once I relaxed enough to move, I leaned over the side of my bed and threw up on the floor.