1st dream [hell is a mediocre place]
It's a small house, a shack that's little more than a box in the woods at the edge of town. Most kindly, it could be called a utilitarian home. The paint on the walls is fading, cracked in places, and it goes without saying that it's rather cramped. Still, as the sun sinks behind the trees and the sounds of night bugs fill the air, it feels too large and too empty.
Hakkai is sitting at the table, eating dinner. The meal on the table is neatly presented: meatballs over green vegetables, stir-fried river fish, steamed buns and a cucumber salad. He is eating one of the meatballs over his rice slowly and methodically, watching the meal grow cold. It smells and tastes wonderful, and he's moderately pleased with himself for having prepared it so well. There's even fresh fruit from the market for dessert, cut and glistening and brightly colored.
The bowl of rice across the table is untouched. The tick of the clock that hangs on the wall to his left is loud and intrusive. He can hear the hum of electricity in the lights. It is a refreshingly cool evening, and he has the windows open, but there is something unmistakably stifling about tonight. A moth beats its wings against the window screen, frantic and hopeless.
Out in the yard, he hears the careless and familiar laugh of a man. His thoughts are filled with blood-colored hair and eyes, and he can smell the cigarette smoke drifting in through the window. Hakkai stands and takes one, two, three, four steps toward the door. Doesn't want to wait for him to come in, suddenly, because the gentle wind that carries the scent of his nicotine addiction might also carry him away.
He opens the door and starts to step outside.
[And the physical act of moving his foot jerks him awake. Hakkai awakens all at once, his messy brown hair falling over his right eye. He sits up slowly, stretching his arms and then stifling a yawn.]
Hakkai is sitting at the table, eating dinner. The meal on the table is neatly presented: meatballs over green vegetables, stir-fried river fish, steamed buns and a cucumber salad. He is eating one of the meatballs over his rice slowly and methodically, watching the meal grow cold. It smells and tastes wonderful, and he's moderately pleased with himself for having prepared it so well. There's even fresh fruit from the market for dessert, cut and glistening and brightly colored.
The bowl of rice across the table is untouched. The tick of the clock that hangs on the wall to his left is loud and intrusive. He can hear the hum of electricity in the lights. It is a refreshingly cool evening, and he has the windows open, but there is something unmistakably stifling about tonight. A moth beats its wings against the window screen, frantic and hopeless.
Out in the yard, he hears the careless and familiar laugh of a man. His thoughts are filled with blood-colored hair and eyes, and he can smell the cigarette smoke drifting in through the window. Hakkai stands and takes one, two, three, four steps toward the door. Doesn't want to wait for him to come in, suddenly, because the gentle wind that carries the scent of his nicotine addiction might also carry him away.
He opens the door and starts to step outside.
[And the physical act of moving his foot jerks him awake. Hakkai awakens all at once, his messy brown hair falling over his right eye. He sits up slowly, stretching his arms and then stifling a yawn.]