'I GET these visions; they resemble the feeling of déjà vus, but I have never experienced them. They appear throughout the day: when I close my eyes for one millisecond, when I bike, or even when I eat my lunch at 1 'o'clock in the canteen at school, surrounded by laughing and screaming carefree people.

It doesn't matter how noisy, how busy, or how colourful my surroundings are, I still get dragged into this dark phantom place in which I can feel my soul deteriorating and nothing else. And afterwards my fingertips always feel cold, frozen even, and my skin... it's as if there's a violent, empty ocean trapped beneath a thick layer of ice. One of these traumatising figments has forced itself into my view for the past month everywhere I go, I can't stop it.

Every time it comes I hear screams and the sound of a low, distorted bass. When I open my eyes again or when an external factor shakes me out of the vision the sound and image vanish, but the memory will be imprinted into my brain like a brand of hot iron on a horse's skin or the battle scars of a warrior.

The déjà vu is an image of a man with a crew cut in a three-fourth rearview angle from behind. His head is tilted upwards to somewhere only he can see. His hair is the same colour as mine, a blonde that wished to be brown but was only just too light to be qualified for it. You can barely observe his face. All that is visible, is the man's bone structure, his sunken cheeks, a small ear with a black hoop earring pierced into the lobe and the tip of a sharp nose. His mouth is slightly opened and his chiselled jaw sharply contrasts the shadows under his chin. His skin is as if the layer under it was made of mercury; it's light grey, a colour that reminds me of ash.

The most gruesome part of this delirium is not that you can't see his face, no, it's what's been done to it. The man's got a long dagger wedged into his forehead. His skull was effortlessly penetrated by the Damascus blade; it went through his brain, his muscles, his blood, and flesh. The dagger's steel quillon prevented the tang from piercing his head, otherwise, only the pommel would stick out.

The tip of the blade stormed through him and let itself out on the back of his head, between his skull and neck vertebrae, where the white bone could not protect his head from outside attacks; let alone ones from within. A dark drop of blood trickles down his neck and one crimson bead doesn't dare to fall from the tip of the double-edged, dark dagger; it's the last tear that will escape this man's corpse. This weapon's infiltration was nauseatingly successful, I suppose internal assaults are more effective than external either way.

I call the man and therefore also the vision: "Soldier Boy". A figment of my imagination so clear that he's real. A concoction, a fabrication of the brain with only one purpose: haunting and taunting me and the reality of the world.

My vision will always be blurred by its shadow, the person who I was before will never be after I've seen it and still I yearn for something I don't want to know: his face. I crave for his story and I am certain I'll find it in his expression, in his eyes. My nights are sleepless and seeing his face won't change that, in the most unfavourable situation it'll only worsen my health. Curiosity might be the death of me and I find peace with that prospect, for I will have found the answer to my question, the missing piece in my puzzle.'

'Have you thought about the other pieces? The reason for his death for instance, or why he shows up in our mind?'

'That's a good question. No, I haven't. Once you take over our body again, you can figure that out.'

I raise my shoulders and laugh. If I were free from this white coat I'm wearing, I would make the vision he was talking about reality. For now, I'm trapped in this white room, this white jacket with him as the prisoner of our body.