Ducts

The window is open, moonlight enters the room without any filter, he forgot to close it. Everything’s resting inside the house, while he dreams of something, maybe the same guy who inhabits his mind uselessly. Science knows hardly anything about dreams.

Four in the morning and something breaks the silence of night. Something’s knocking on the window, he wakes up; just the typical branch, he gets up. He’s closing the window and curtains, but then stops. A shadow is standing in the corner, looking right at him. He’s scared, picks up the phone, waiting for an answer, and now the man in black has gone.

He sits down on the bed, police is asking for him, he just hangs up. He’s still scared, but maybe it was a strange random moment, probably nothing important, an old man lost on the street, just looking at the only window illuminated on the block. Surely nothing to worry about, he sleeps again.

Alarm number one, number two, the sound makes it through his eardrums, he wakes up with a certain feeling between surprise and horror. His slippers are not in the place they should be, no reason for them to be in the kitchen that morning. It’s strange, he thinks, maybe a problem of memory or some ghost making fun of him. Now he’s freaking out, but just a little bit.

He’s not losing time on that, so he follows his routine. He gets home at night and drinks some coffee, he’s feeling like not sleeping tonight, but at some point he dies.

The window is open, moonlight enters the room without any filter, he forgot to close it. Everything’s resting inside the house, while he dreams of something, maybe the same guy looking from the corner. Science might be right about dreamt faces.

It’s three in the morning and he wakes up as fear is taking over. The same man is there, but not on the corner, this time he’s right in the window looking at him, no expression. The man runs away as soon as he’s discovered. He stays on the bed, in the middle of terror and uncertainty. He just doesn’t know exactly how to react.

No sleep for the rest of the night. A cup of tea, a cigarette, some pages of the book he can’t finish yet. Nerves are melting down into an awkward taste of manufactured peace.

Alarm one. He’s feeling weak, he needs to sleep but there’s no time for that anymore. Steps are slow, automatic, some of them and another strange morning, one of the burners of the stove is on. He couldn’t have been the one to blame, he’s always very careful with it. He turns it off and thinks, facts make him doubt about himself.

He’s not losing time on that, so he follows his routine. He gets home at night, but tonight he’s drinking nothing. He lights a cigarette and a camera comes to mind. He’s proving his own mental state by recording a video of the kitchen, all night long while he’s asleep. He prepares a cup of tea in order to relax, and from one moment to another he’s sleeping.

The window is open, moonlight enters the room without any filter, he forgot to close it. Everything’s resting inside the house, while he dreams of something, maybe the same guy looking through the window. Science might be underestimating the meaning of dreams.

He wakes up screaming the name of his father, in the middle of a nightmare he doesn’t remember well. He starts crying and now he’s eight years old, in the same place, with the same guy, his father. His father’s hands and moans, his tears and shouts, the blood drops and the six years of pain.

He’s trapped between sorrow and anger, fear takes over again, and another vision appears: his father is back on the window. He takes some pills to sleep and cries to dryness.

He wakes up minutes before alarms, the rest was good and necessary, he feels a little better now. He goes to the kitchen and an egg is on the floor, he cleans. Suddenly he remembers the camera. He’s watching the video later at night, right at the moment he needs to hurry.

He’s not losing time on that, so he follows his routine. He gets home at night and takes the camera to bed. He lights a cigarette, and the tape is running.