A Thousand Rooms of Dream and Fear

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“Father?”

“Fuck your father!”

Have I got my eyes shut or is it dark? I can’t tell. Maybe it’s night and I’m dreaming. But then why would I be thinking like this?

No, I am awake, but my eyes are closed. I’m sure I’ve been asleep. I remember having a dream where a child cried out, “Father.”

What child? I’ve got no idea. I didn’t recognize his voice. Maybe it was me when I was a child, looking for my father.

“Father!”

The same voice! So it wasn’t a dream. The voice seems to be coming from somewhere above my head. I must open my eyes.

“Who are you?”

Trying to speak is absolute agony. A violent pain shoots right through my temples. Darkness descends. Then total silence.

What has happened to that child? His voice is shaking with fear, and his breath is foul. It’s as though he’s calling to me from a cesspit or from the bottom of a dried-up well.

“Father!”

It sounds like he’s fallen down a well and he’s trying to get his father to save him … But what well? Aren’t I at home? I must be at home. I’m home in bed, asleep. I’m asleep and I’m thirsty, so I’ve had this dream about a dried-up well.

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