H I L L
In the crevices of the brain, now lay dead the remnants of life. The morning brought no joy, no peace, no comfort. The night brought no sense of accomplishment. Each day was exactly like the yesterday and the tomorrow. Matter not what time it was outside; matter only the ringing and the ticking the clocks in the dome.
Prospero may be only the figment, the last figment, of imagination of a desperate soul; a broken soul that wishes only for a taste of freedom, of true peace and quiet. But the soul was not its own master. And yet, the soul administered hope in itself; hope for change. Would the tired soul be bestowed upon with happiness? Never, if it stayed in MK-2. The quantum of solace would destroy it.
Early morning stirred a tired scrawny body. The demons and servants would commemorate him by Hill, till they could remember no more. The body lay on a dirty white bunk bed covered with a torn white pillow. The pillow was merely for name, a piece of cloth stitched with rocks inside. His body ached, a sign that this wasn't how it was supposed to be, but his mind shooed away the thought, fearing deadly repercussions.
"Wake up," a voice box screamed. The half-broken piece of iron screamed again. With all his soulless might he slammed his palms against the top of the voice-box; silence and pain the rewards of the action.
His body moved in the motions he had learned oh! so many half eaten memories ago. Somewhere in his mind a jingle began, one that his mother said. Kee' you' 'ight leg dow', kee' you' left leg dow', now stan' up and wa'k arou'. He still followed what his mother had asserted each fine morning, till she was gone. Just, gone.
He kept one leg down on the squeaky clean grey floor, winced as the cold sensation shot through his leg, put his other leg down, winced again and stood up. For a moment, all the blood gushed out of his brain, rushing through his veins to his legs; he felt nauseated but his weak heart beat on. Blood come back to the brain like a forgotten lover and his mind was at relative peace again.
Even with his bated breath, he managed to command his hand to remove yesterday's, and tomorrow's, clothes. He slipped into his second pair of hand-me-downs not like a man in the woman he loved, but a truck through a shop window. The shadow of perfection had left him years ago, when the requiem for the better sperms was held in his mother's womb.
He had dreamed of a stormy night. His dream had always been vivid; a caricature of desires, a painting of his hopes. But this one had been different. "My son," a low voice spoke. Hill was standing at the edge of the cliff as the rain battered against him and thunderstorms provided light. Not one of the raindrops, he felt. He had never felt raindrops consciously so how could this dream know what to project, what lies to spin?
Hill turned to the voice, and saw no soul. He was all alone. Yet, the low voice continued, "My son, be free..." Hill's body shook... It was Prospero---
RING!RING! The doorbell chimed. RING!RING! it chimed again. Hill had fallen asleep again. He was taking support of the side of the bed as he slept. Quickly, his muscle contracted and relaxed, and he was at the door. A throaty voice accompanied the creaking of the door, "Let's go." He followed the man quietly. There was work to do.