Memories of Valentine

"That's the Vincent I know!"
He woke up in a cold sweat, his face covered in a cold slick film. He looked around the room and saw nothing but the unforgiving darkness. The darkness had crept around him while he slept, turning daylight into dusk and dusk into dawn. Vincent sat up, tossing the pillow to the floor, the meager blanket already kicked into a small pile at the foot of the bed. He rubs his eyes, a familiar tightening feeling beginning to consume his abdomen, the same as every day before. His stomach growls and flips in his chest attempting to empty it and escape through his mouth. He leaps forward, his foot landing on the pillow causing him to roll his ankle but he continues his thieves dash. He races towards the small bathroom directly across from the bed, his left hand stretched out to slam the door out, his right covering his mouth. As the door flies open, his feet skid on the tile, making a hollow screeching noise, his left hand wanders the dark wall and flips the switch, illuminating the dark enclosure. The rancid smell of week old piss greets him, further encouraging him to empty his guts out on the floor. It takes the single uncovered bulb to fire up, faulty wiring that Vincent would never get around to fixing. The feeble white light rains down on him, reducing his skin tone to something like pale vomit, like milk gone bad. He begins to dry retch into the sink, but as every day before, nothing comes but air. He stands over the cracked porcelain, his eyes drifting up to the cloudy mirror hung above. His feet grow numb from the cold tile as her goes over the dream he just had. The Dream was something he had been experiencing for the last two weeks, ever since waking up on the cold lake shore in northern Maine. He had woken up, weeds in his short brown hair and cuts all over his hands. A gun is tucked into his waistband, his shoes are missing or stolen, but the most important thing is the knapsack that was slowly being carried away into the lake. When he had gotten enough sense into himself, he opened the knapsack. Inside were two more guns and around twenty grand in cash. That was two weeks ago. He looks into the mirror, and he sees who he once was, or at least who he thinks he once was, according to The Dream. His scalp begins to tingle, and a fresh wave of nausea and fear spread over him. He clenched his eyes and gripped the sink, waiting for The Dreams partner, The Voice, to make it's appearance like a mad hatter. When it hits, he was ready.
"Ha ha ha ! Hurt me more!"
He stands in silence, waiting for more, but the tingling sensation in his head slowly fades away. However, the feeling of being watched is still persistent, that sinister feeling of darkness just out of sight. He looks back into the mirror, and the man from the dream, the one that is he perfect enemy stares right back, that tear drop grin on his face, and those eyes like a tragedy beguiling him to slit his wrists and end the madness.
"What's your rush now? Everyone has their day to die." The Perfect Enemy recites, as Shakespearean as can be. He grins, his pitted skin catches the light, the bags under his eyes enveloping all.
"Your not real, your not real, your just a figment of my-" Vincent began to mumble, his hands abandon their haven on the sink and instead start clenching his head, his fingers white from pressure, the throbbing in his temples reaching critical mass.
"I am a not a figment. I will never be just a memory. Remember that..." He replied, turning away and fading into Alice's Wonderland.
"Fuck this...I can't do this anymore. I'm done." Vincent told himself as he spat into the sink- bloody - and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was a mess, and he was only getting worse, so what harm could a bullet do, except for ending The Voice and The Dream?