(This did not happen. Well, not like this.)
I was seven then. He came in through my window.
“Who are you?” I asked, but even before I finished talking I already knew the answer.
“Listen to me,” he said, his hands resting on my shoulders. “I know you want to be me. I know you want to get out of this place, and show them that they made a mistake, that they should have listened to you.” He stared at me. “Am I right?”
“Yeah,” I said, rather weakly.
He ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry. They love you.”
Then he disappeared right in front of my eyes.