500 words.

On a dark street, inside a dark house there is a man sitting at his desk, a car goes past on the road outside, the light outside startles the man, he looks around and up to his wall, he is a man of meagre proportions, dressed in black he is trying to camouflage himself into the night, the very thought of others outside makes him shudder. He studies the paintings on his wall, he is a delusional man, he looks hard into the frame and when he see's a man and a woman looking back at him, he thinks to himself that they have never seemed so lifelike, he could almost see them moving with gentle inhalation. Which explains his lack of surprise when they begin to survey the room, he wonders what they are looking for and he gets up to search. The lights flicker an burn like as if by candlelight, but the only light is from the warm glow of the street lamp outside, The ornaments on the shelf glisten golden, artifacts from what seems like lifetimes ago, gathering dust that has become heavy and dark, the clocks are stopped, and have been for several hours, He goes to the wall, the walls are damp, but he has never noticed the stains upon them due to his penchant for the darkness, the walls have grown dark with mold.  He starts to listen to it feeling it with his worn and unkempt hands, He listens again and stands back, observes the wall and looks around to check nobody is watching him. He starts to peel the wallpaper from the wall, slowly at first but then he becomes erratic tearing at the wallpaper with fervor. He begins to pull pages from within the walls throwing them to the ground not stopping for a second to question, is he asleep? has he finally lost his mind like he has so often thought to himself on nights such as these? He breaks through the wall, he stoops his whole body to glimpse what is on the other side. He see's himself looking through the hole, gazing into his own eyes he seems to be untouched, transfixed by the image of himself, he stays quiet and still.