In the dark night he's suddenly standing there again. At the foot of my bed. The terror paralyses me. It's like a wave of sheer fright that sweeps me away, and it doesn't matter what I try to cling onto to stay on the beach, it all collapses and I'm dragged out to sea. He looks so alive. Healthy. Even in the darkness of my bedroom I can see his olive skin glow, vibrant and beautiful.

I try to speak to him, but I can't. I open my mouth, but I'm incapable of forming words. He becomes the first to speak.

"Thomas. Get up."

I don't move. I'm frozen.

"I said get up!"

His voice is like a gong, vibrating through the cold air, I can almost physically feel it as the wall of sound hits my body.

I get up from my bed, throwing the bedding aside, and naked as the day I was born I stand in front of him. The moonlight finds its way through my bedroom window, falling on my body and making me look pale and dead.

He takes a step closer to me and reaches out to touch my face. I shiver under his hand.

"Be calm, Thomas," he whispers.

I close my eyes at his voice. Everything is cold, apart from the tears falling down my cheeks. They're warm and alive.

"I don't believe you," I whisper; "I don't believe in you. You're not here."

His hand is resting against my cheek, his thumb drawing circles near my mouth. Comforting, soft, suddenly warm.

"Open your eyes, Thomas, and look at me."

I do as he tells me. His eyes are brown and alive, they're definitely alive. I put my hand on his shoulder, and it feels just like it used to.

"I don't believe this," I whisper, tears still falling from my eyes.

"What don't you believe, Thomas? That I'm here? Or don't you believe what happened to me?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think they would lie to you?"

"No..."

I'm crying now. Sobbing. I look down, but I keep my hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth from his body through the white shirt he's wearing.

"So it's that I'm here you can't believe," he asks, putting a finger under my chin to lift my head towards him, forcing me to meet his eyes.

"I don't know..."

With my other hand I grab his wrist softly, the one keeping my head up.

"I'm here, Thomas, as alive as you are. Breathing, living, loving. What would convince you?"

"Show me your wound."

He lets go of me, I let go of him, and he starts to slowly unbutton his shirt. Grabbing it by the collar, he lets it fall off his shoulders, letting it hang from the crook his arm makes as it bends by the elbow.

And there it is. The wound from the gun shot, straight through his heart. It's still bloody. I lean forward, reaching up with my right hand.

"Touch it, if it will make you believe me," he whispers, his breath brushing against the top of my head.

I put my finger to the wound. It's soft and warm, almost burning.

"Does it hurt," I ask, worried. I don't want to hurt him.

"No."

I push my finger into his body, as far as it will go. I can feel his heart beat around it. It's definitely a wound, but he's definitely alive. Still I've got doubts.

"It's not possible," I say and wipe the blood from his body on my stomach, making an obscure dark pattern across my otherwise pale skin.

"Why won't you believe?"

"I'm sorry. I can't," I whisper and look down on my feet.

When I look up a moment later, he's gone. I look around the room, even opening the door, and looking out into the empty hallway. He's nowhere to be seen.

I look at my stomach. His blood is still there.