The Lamp

Mike lay still in the hospital bed, his body numb, the weight of the sheets pressing down on him like a shroud. The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor felt like a mockery. Time stretched out before him, endless and empty, each second a reminder of how far he was from the life he thought he knew.

Emily. The children. The laughter.

All gone.

He had relived every moment over and over in his mind. Emily's smile, the way his kids ran to him after work, the warmth of their home—it was so real. He had felt it all, lived it all. But now, as he stared blankly at the ceiling, his vision blurred by the tears he refused to let fall, the truth was inescapable.

It was all a lie.

The doctor had been patient, explaining the coma, the way his brain had crafted an elaborate reality to shield him from the trauma. Mike had built a perfect life within that dream—an escape from the horrors of the accident that left him in this cold, sterile room. His mind had created Emily, the children, the house.

All of it... fiction.

Now, alone in the harsh fluorescent glow of the hospital room, Mike felt an emptiness that no words could fill. But underneath the grief, something else simmered, something dark and unsettling. He had accepted the doctor's explanation—tried to, at least—but there was something that didn't sit right. Something gnawing at him, making his skin crawl with unease.

The lamp. It was still there.

Even now, days after waking, the blurry lamp hovered at the edge of his vision. No matter where he turned his head, no matter how hard he tried to shake it, the lamp remained. It was faint, a shimmering figure just out of reach, but it was undeniably there.

The doctor's words echoed in his mind: It's just the lamp above your bed. Your mind fixated on it during the coma.

But it wasn't just the hospital lamp. It couldn't be. This lamp—that lamp—had been everywhere in his dream. Lurking, watching, guiding him in ways that felt too deliberate to ignore. And now, even though he was awake, it hadn't disappeared. If anything, it felt more present. More insistent.

Mike shifted, wincing at the dull ache in his body. His muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself to sit up, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on the lamp above him. It flickered slightly, its harsh light casting jagged shadows across the room, but something about it seemed... wrong.

The edges blurred, its form flickering in and out like a mirage. It seemed to pulse, its light dimming and brightening in a steady rhythm. Mike rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly, but the lamp only distorted further. He looked away, trying to break free from its hold, but the feeling of it—its presence—stayed with him, like a weight on his chest.

What if none of this is real?

The thought slammed into him, stealing his breath. His grip tightened on the sheets as panic spread through his veins. The lamp, Emily, the kids—it had all felt so real, so vivid. But it was a lie, a construct his mind had created. So what if this... this hospital room, this recovery... was just another layer of the same deception?

What if he hadn't woken up at all?

His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse deafening in his ears. Mike's breath came in short, ragged bursts as his eyes darted around the room. The walls, the machines, the bed—it all felt solid. But so had the house. So had Emily's touch.

He looked at the lamp again, now pulsating like the steady beat of a heart, almost as if it were alive, as if it were... waiting.

Wake up.

The words whispered in his mind, faint but familiar. The man in the car. The man who had told him to wake up, just before everything had faded to black.

Had he really woken up? Or was this just another dream, another trick his brain was playing to protect him from something worse?

Mike's fingers shook as they hovered over the call button, his thoughts spiraling out of control. He needed answers. He needed someone to tell him what was real. But even as he pressed the button, his eyes remained locked on the lamp, its light growing more erratic, its form bending and warping in ways that made his stomach twist.

A nurse entered the room, her face soft and kind, but something about her felt off. Distant. Too rehearsed.

"Mr. Harper," she said in that professional, soothing tone, "how are you feeling?"

Mike stared at her, his throat dry. "Is this... real?" His voice trembled. "Am I really awake?"

The nurse's smile didn't falter, but there was a brief flicker of something—hesitation?—in her eyes. "Of course you're awake. You've been through a traumatic experience, but you're safe now. Everything is fine."

Her words felt hollow, practiced. Mike's chest tightened, and he shook his head, refusing to look away from her. "No. No, you don't understand. The lamp. It's still there. It's been there this whole time."

The nurse's eyes followed his gaze to the ceiling, to the lamp hanging innocently above them. She smiled again, this time more softly. "It's just the lamp above your bed, Mr. Harper. Nothing more."

But Mike couldn't believe her. The way it flickered, the way it watched him, the way it pulsated with every beat of his heart. It wasn't just a lamp. It had never been just a lamp.

Wake up.

The words came again, louder this time, more urgent. His hands trembled, his body vibrating with fear and adrenaline. "I don't think this is real," he whispered, his voice cracking. "None of this feels real."

The nurse's expression shifted, her pity deepening. "You're just disoriented. It's common after a coma. But I assure you, Mr. Harper, this is real. You're safe now."

But the words sounded wrong, like a script. Like a lie.

The lamp flickered once more, its light dimming and brightening, pulling at Mike's mind, pulling him back. He felt his pulse race, felt his reality start to unravel at the edges.

"Rest now," the nurse said, her voice fading into a low hum. "Just rest."

But Mike couldn't rest. He couldn't let go of the lamp's pull. The harder he fought it, the stronger its grip became. His breath quickened, his body trembling as he lay back in the bed. The lamp above him grew brighter, its light searing into his vision until it was all he could see.

Wake up.

The words echoed through his mind, louder and louder, until they were deafening.

"Wake up!"

Mike's eyes shot open, his vision consumed by the lamp's blinding glow. The room, the nurse, the hospital—everything dissolved around him, leaving only the light.

Was this real? Was any of it real?

Mike's mind spiraled, lost in the endless maze of his thoughts, unsure of what was dream and what was reality.

And as the light pulsed brighter and brighter, Mike lay still, staring up into the endless void, unsure if he would ever wake up again.