"Wake up," a voice whispers through the darkness, and he opens his eyes. There's nothing to see, there never is, but he can feel the bed dip behind him as if a body is shifting around. "You're not real," he says to the darkness that seems to push down on him, crushing him like a heavy blanket. "I'm as real as you need me to be," it says, and he shivers, curling up tighter into a ball.
"Then leave me alone, please. I don't need you."
"Doesn't seem like it," it says, and he can hear footsteps moving around the room, "It seems like you need me more than you'll admit to yourself. After all, aren't I still haunting you?"
"Why can't you just go back to where you came from?" He closes his eyes, determined to pretend that nothing is happening, but opens them almost immediately. The second he closes his eyes, he's back on his bike, terror and panic rising in his chest as he follows the red and blue flashing lights. "Where did you come from?"
The room is silent for so long that he starts to drift off to sleep, sure that whatever it was is gone, but then the bed shifts again and he tenses when a weight settles against his back. "In here," it says, and a finger taps him on the side of the head, softly, "I'm not real. You just won't let go."
"I don't think I can."
Invisible fingers wrap around his arm in a grip that's so tight it's almost bruising, familiar, and he doesn't move as the body behind him curls into him, keeping him between it and the wall. "Then don't. What's the problem?"
"It's not right. It's not normal."
"Newsflash, Tiggy," the voice says, laughing in his ear, "You were never normal."