Routine.

The window is open, moonlight enters the room without any filter. He sleeps, he forgot to close it. Everything’s resting inside the house, raindrops keep knocking on the roof. He dreams of something, he moves and talks in a weird kind of language, but he’s not awake.

Science people say all the faces or people we see in dreams are faces we have actually seen in real life. Somehow people stay on our minds uselessly. Maybe he was dreaming of the same guy he’s been dreaming of lately. Maybe tonight he’s kissing him again or killing him.

He knows that guy very well, but he’s never met him. His tricky memory doesn’t give him any clue of his appearance in reality, so he thinks that guy is just a character, made up by his consciousness to express his own desires and fears buried deep.

He wakes up on the floor, just beside the bed. Raindrops hits his eyes, his clothes are totally wed. He gets up and takes all the clothes off. Now he’s naked closing the window and cleaning the mess. As soon as the window is closed, the rain stops. He sleeps, no more movement during the night, and then morning comes.

Alarm number one, number two, number three; he doesn’t wake up. It’s nine in the morning, one hour later, and he’s just getting up. The milk was outside, he remembers himself putting it inside the fridge. It’s strange, he thinks, maybe a problem of memory or some ghost making fun of him.

Anyway, he’s not losing time on that, so he follows his routine. He gets home at night and prepares his usual cup of coffee; no, tonight he’s drinking tea, he’s exhausted. Then clothes off, alarms set, eyes closed, deep breaths. Suddenly, he sleeps.

* * *

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 a window 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, anyway, 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 steps 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.

Anyway, 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 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 himself screaming.

Anyway, right at the moment he needs to hurry, so he follows his routine. The day goes on and he gets home at night, he lights a cigarette before 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; his father moaning at his ears, perhaps. Science can’t take those dreams away from his pillow.

A noise interrupts the endless silence of nocturne hours, his father is there and stays some minutes right beside his bed, looking right at him. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, eats a slide of peach pie. He washes his hands on the sink and goes back to hide under the bed sheets. Products of the twisted imagination of his stained memory keep flying into his mind until he’s asleep.

Alarm number one, number two, number three; he’s awake, it’s eight in the morning, just in time. Remains of pie on the kitchen counter, he doesn’t remember that. It’s strange, he thinks, maybe a problem of memory or some ghost making fun of him.

Anyway, he’s not losing time on that, so he follows his routine. He gets home at night and prepares his usual cup of coffee. Then clothes off, alarms set, eyes closed, deep breaths. Suddenly, he sleeps.

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