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either. I felt…nothing. I took a breath. My eyes bulged. I could feel again! My heart was beating, my pajama pants were soaked with dew, my head hurt from rolling on the ground, and my stomach—I madly felt underneath my shirt—wasn’t sliced open.
    It was another hallucination. I pushed myself to my feet and grabbed the dagger. Trying to shrug off the horrible feeling of having just died, I set my face and walked to the house, refusing to let whatever was messing with me see my fear.
    Once I was safe inside the house, I allowed myself a few hyperventilating breaths. None if it was real, I reminded myself. Still, I just felt so weak. I held a trembling hand up so I could find my way to a light switch in the dark kitchen. The overhead lights gave me an instant headache. Squinting, I set the dagger on the counter and nearly screamed.
    It was covered in blood.
    “Ohmigod,” I dumbly stammered. “Ohmigod!” My shirt was soaked in blood. Fresh, wet, warm blood. My blood. Screaming in frustration and fear, I panicked and yanked my shirt over my head. “No!” I yelled. I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t a ghost. I looked down at my skin and whimpered.
    I shook my head. “What is happening?” I whispered. My stomach was as smooth as ever, with no stab marks, scratches, bumps, or bruises. I threw the bloody shirt on the floor, glaring at it as if it might come alive at any second.
    I didn’t know how long I stood in the kitchen, just staring in a stupefied state of confused fear. When my feet began to hurt, I shook myself back into reality.   Tentatively, I took a step forward and picked up the shirt, holding it between two fingers. I tossed it on the counter and, with trembling hands, spread it out.
    Blood covered the front.
    “What the…?” I whispered. “No.” I backed away, shaking my head. I cupped my face in my hands only to realize that they were covered in blood. With a small shriek of disgust, I raced to the sink and started scrubbing my hands.
    Once the water ran clear, I stopped the drain and threw the bloody shirt in. I squeezed half the bottle of dish soap into the quickly filling water and tried my hardest not to hyperventilate. Without thinking of what I was doing, I turned the water off, picked up the bloody dagger and went upstairs.
    I stripped out of the rest of my clothes—which were also covered in blood; no one warns you just how messy getting stabbed in the stomach is—and got into the shower. Warm water rushed over me, soothing my nerves and washing away the memory of my almost accidental suicide.
    The Burning Man wasn’t real. He hasn’t been real—ever. The hoof beats, someone calling my name…none of it was real, was it?
    “I’m going crazy,” I muttered, on the verge of tears. “And stabbing myself?” I questioned and held up the dagger. Droplets of water ran down the smooth blade. “It was real, I know it. My clothes prove it.”
    An unwelcomed foreign thought entered my mind with such force it made me gasp. Unsure why I should object, I held up the dagger. Carefully, I pressed my index finger to the tip of the blade. It didn’t take much pressure to puncture my skin. Water mixed with the blood, sending a whirl of light pink down the drain.
    “Holy shit!” I swore when I saw the little slice on my finger close up. I set the dagger down and inspected my finger. “It’s fine,” I stammered. “Ohmigod.”
      And if once wasn’t enough, I sliced open another finger. The same thing happened. Healing got sped up times a million; blood seeped out of the wound, abruptly stopped and my skin fused together, not even leaving a scar. I pressed my finger on the blade again, mesmerized by the fast healing. I felt a little sick to be cutting myself, and after five times of slicing the skin on my index finger open, I stopped.
    Without drying off, I got out of the shower and went into my closet. I retrieved a small knife, held it up, and brought my finger down on it. It took a few seconds