I blinked my eyes several times as I awoke but it didn’t make any difference; they still felt gritty and sore, like dry sand-paper. I reached out for the glass of water I customarily kept by the side of the bed and groaned as my body protested its movement. It was strange but I hadn’t felt this sore in years. The glass was empty, which was also odd, as I normally filled it the night before.

I lay back in the bed and tried to recall the previous evening.

It was a total blank.

I felt a sense of panic rising in me. I hadn’t felt anything like this since my father had gone, years earlier and was struggling to keep control of myself.

I began to feel nauseous.

I dragged myself out of bed and lurched out of the room, across the hall and into the bathroom where I collapsed to my knees in front of the toilet, raised the lid and forced myself to take several deep, calming breaths. I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t vomit, remembering old lessons on self-reinforcement and positive belief.

It didn’t work, unfortunately.

After I had finished, I rose shakily to my feet, crossed to the sink and splashed cold water on my face until it was numb. I then drank greedily from the tap until I could feel the chill water sloshing around in my stomach.

I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the mirror above the sink, savouring the cold sensation on my brow. After a moment or two, I opened my eyes and looked at my reflection.

I looked a little pale and had bruised hollows under my eyes but apart from that, I appeared to be fine. I took the brush from the holder and began to sweep it through my hair, long strokes designed to get the knots out and make it sleek. I noticed some bruising on my hands, which was unusual as I normally didn’t bruise anymore. Whatever had happened yesterday, I must have hit something with a lot of force. I tried to summon up some concern over my lack of memory and couldn’t find enough energy to bother.

I finished combing my hair, brushed my teeth and attended to my toilet needs before slowly making my way back to the still-warm and oh-so comfortable bed. I got in and wrapped the duvet tightly around me, cocooning myself in its soft embrace.

I closed my eyes and drifted off back to sleep. I dreamed of a man with a tight, swollen face, silently begging me to stop. I couldn’t understand what he was asking me to do; stop what? A tidal wave of anxiety forced me back into wakefulness where I had to jump out of the bed and run into the bathroom where I vomited again several times.

I rested my head upon the cool porcelain of the toilet lid, fortunately clean, and tried to think why I was suddenly so ill. What the hell had happened yesterday? I was at home; how did I get here? Why did I feel suddenly so…different? What was going on?

I knew that I couldn’t stay lying in bed all day; I had to go downstairs and get something to eat but I felt a strange reluctance to leave the safety of the upper floor of the house. I forced myself up away from the toilet, made my way back to the bedroom and, casting a longing glance towards the bed, turned towards my closet. I chose a pair of denim jeans and a red blouse that I knew flattered my figure. Selecting a comfortable pair of trainers to complete the ensemble, I set about getting myself dressed before going down the stairs.

I headed straight for the kitchen where I poured myself a coffee and made a bowl of cereal; after all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Especially when you’ve just vomited up what appeared to be the last several meals.

I ate slowly, not really tasting the food and drank the coffee mechanically, still in a kind of fugue state. I rinsed the cup and washed out the bowl and spoon after I finished, before placing them on the draining rack to dry and made my way into the living room.

I sat on the large, comfortable chair in front of the television that dominated the far wall and picked up the remote control. I switched it on to the local news channel to see if anything interesting required my aid that I could be bothered to consider.

The lead story was the apparent death of Professor Supervillain. It seemed he had been in a battle with some hero or other and had somehow managed to kill himself, the fool. I felt a sharp stab in my head as I watched the story, so painful it caused me to involuntarily cry out. What the hell was going on with me? I was meant to be more or less invulnerable, I wasn’t supposed to feel pain or be sick.

I resolved to make an appointment with The Nurse, the superhero medic who looked after the medical requirements of the various superheroes and ensured that they were taken care off on the rare occasions something managed to harm them.

The ‘phone suddenly rang, startling me with its strident ring. I sighed. There was only one person with that ringtone. I thumbed the screen and put it on loudspeaker.

“Hey, Tony.”

“Sam! How’re you doing babes? If you’re free, I’d love to see ya”

“Look, I’m not really feeling that great, to be honest, can you call me back tomorrow or something?”

“Ah, c’mon babe, I just want to see you for a while.”

“I can’t, sorry.”

His tone turned wheedling. “Sam, I know we haven’t been seeing each other for long, but c’mon, you know that I don’t often get free time away from Her and we have to make the most of it, don’t we?”

“Tony … I …”

“Sam … I’ve been pretty patient, haven’t I? I’ve not pressured you into anything, although god knows I’ve wanted to and you know it … all I wanna do is spend some time with my girl.”

I suddenly saw red at this chump trying to smarm his way into my knickers again.

“Then spend it with your wife, asshole!”

I hung up and began to pant as the sudden, unexpected rage tore through me, blowing away the fugue state I had been in and allowing me access to the memories I had repressed from the previous day, seeing it as though it was someone else performing those despicable acts.

She saw his face again as she felt the ghostly impressions of his neck squeezing beneath her hands, his eyes turning red as the capillaries exploded under the immense pressure being exerted before bulging out gruesomely. His face swelling, tongue extending, fat and swollen as he surrendered to the inevitable.

I screamed aloud as I realised the full import of what had happened.

I had murdered my brother.

No, that couldn’t have been what happened. It was some kind of trick. I … I just couldn’t have.

I slumped down lower in the chair, tears pouring from my eyes in a scalding flood. I reached up to my long, lustrous hair and began to pull at it, attempting to tear it out in clumps, trying to feel physical pain, trying to mask my emotional and spiritual desolation.

It didn’t work.

It couldn’t.

My mind swirled with images of me killing my brother. I couldn’t stop replaying the moment he finally died. What had I done? Why had I done that?

I felt the nausea sweep through me again. I got up and swiftly ran upstairs to the bathroom, where I threw up the breakfast I had just eaten, swallowing back the bile that was all that left in a futile attempt to quell the urge to vomit.

Finally, the urge began to subside as I quietened my mind and thought only of dark, soothing blackness. I couldn’t think of what I had done. I wouldn’t. It was too … evil … too much!

I flushed the evidence of my guilt away and leaned forward, keeping my eyes firmly closed.

“Hey, sis.”

No. I must be going mad; I was hearing things now. I’d heard that guilt made you see or hear strange things. I didn’t really expect to hear Prof … my brothers voice in my bathroom after I murdered him though.

“It’s OK. Don’t beat yourself up, it was my fault for not warning you about the potential dangers of the link.”

“Go away. You’re not real.” My voice came out trembling, a pale shadow of its former strength.

“If you say so.” His voice sounded as if he was smiling. “Why don’t you lift up your head and take a look?”

I closed my eyes tightly. There was nothing on this planet that could induce me to raise my head and see either a manifestation of my guilt or, even worse, my murdered brothers ghost watching me being sick.

I felt a gentle touch on the back of my head as if someone had lightly drawn their hand down my hair in a soothing gesture.

“Argh!” I shot up, suddenly terrified that he really was there. I turned to the door to run to the bedroom only to find it blocked by a seemingly solid figure.

My eyes widened and I fell back, banging my legs into the toilet, instantly shattering it into porcelain shards, causing water to promptly begin flowing onto the floor. Good job I had flushed. Sometimes being super-strong was a bitch.

My mind was frozen in a silent scream of denial and fear at the sight of my deceased brother standing in front of me, a slight smile hovering on his lips.

“What? What are you? Are you a, a ghost or something? Have you come to take your vengeance? It’s yours if you want it. I can’t live what I’ve done.” My voice cracked in pain. “Please. Take your revenge for your murder.” I began crying, great wracking sobs that tore through me.

“Oh, get over yourself. Good grief, talk about a pity party! Anyone would think you’d killed me or something.” The shade (was that he was?) seemed to be laughing at me.

I couldn’t understand how he was being so blasé about the fact that I had killed him with my bare hands. My head was spinning in confusion, fear and remorse. Nothing was making sense.

“OK sis, I can see you’re a bit upset. Frankly, if it eases your conscience, you should be. It’s not every day that I get killed you know. In fact, it’s normally hard to do or I would have been gone a long time ago. It’s simple really, just as you were having fun playing ‘tension toy’ with my neck, I managed to activate a couple of my defences. I’m not alive, but then, neither am I completely dead. Does it help to know that you didn’t murder your brother?”

Whether this was a peculiar manifestation of my guilt or if he really was here, that did help in a strange way. I took a deep breath.

“What the hell happened to me? I don’t kill people!”

“Ah, well, yes. That was entirely my fault; I didn’t consider that you may never have cast that particular spell before. The thing is, if you are unprepared, it can have a powerful effect on the psyche. Basically, my nature drove you temporarily insane as it was so alien to who you are.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing, “Erm. Sorry about that.”

“I went insane?”

“A little bit. It was only temporary until your natural psychic field reasserted itself and your mind snapped back to normal. There may be some other small side effects that may be permanent.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Like what?”

“You may find that you have a few personality changes … it may only be something like an increased tendency towards sarcasm, perhaps. A slightly more flexible morality. A desire to steal things. Maybe hurt people who cross you. Trivial things like that.”

“Little things like theft or hurting people? Oh, is that all?”

“See, there’s the sarcasm coming out already, sis. I think it’s safe to say that you probably won’t go around killing people all the time judging by your reaction to my death though, so yeah, there’s an upside for you.”

I stared blankly at the water pooling on the floor as I struggled to take it all in. I was taking all this a little more calmly than I expected to under the circumstances. My murdered-by-me supervillain brother’s kind-of-maybe ghost was explaining how I was no longer the same person I was before yesterday. I was starving after forcibly evacuating my stomach contents several times over and all I kept thinking while staring at the pool on the floor was: where’s the mop?