Was it the impression that my hand had left? No, impressions fade. They don’t melt like three dimensional objects! The hand melted into the water and disappeared. My forehead was full of sweat. My heart beat fast and my legs felt like jelly.
WHAT. THE. HELL. WAS. THIS?
The knocking at the door resumed. With wobbly and shaky legs, I went towards the door. This time, I saw a man through the peephole. The man was tall, he wore black and white clothes and had a pale bony face, with eyes that sunk into the sockets. The features were set evenly on the face and his brown hair was stuck to his head, revealing a broad forehead. There was something strikingly familiar about him. I couldn’t place it yet. But there was something, undoubtedly, which reminded me of someone I knew. He was drenched and soaked till the bone, silently waiting to be called inside.
Involuntarily, my trembling hands gravitated towards the door. For a few seconds I remained jammed there. Then, as if by sheer pressure on my hands and brain, I was compelled to open the door.
I stood looking at a man who could have been me, except that this man was much thinner and paler. We had the same sharp, grey eyes, the same height, and even the same face. I looked at him and blinked, stunned into silence. The brown hair, the broad forehead, the thick eyebrows, the sallow complexion, the dull skin tone, the lanky arms, the thing fingers.
It was me.
A wet version of me.
A thinner and paler version of me.