Chapter Text
A show divided into acts, the Hermit in California.
A liminal space, there are no exact records of the beginning, two, three, or ten years. There's a vague idea that could be defined as the middle, but it's not substantial. We started with a progression without linear temporal logic.
Act (--) The boy with the blade stuck between the C5 and C6 vertebrae, a metaphorical study.
Scene 1
Enter CONRAD FISHER. Medical student.
Deep circles under his eyes, unshaven, trembling hands buried in his pockets, he's a coward.
His eyes remain hidden from the audience.
Setting 1 - A living room, white walls, a brown sofa, uncomfortable colorful pillows, a coffee table cluttered with reports, studies, books, a newspaper, unfinished crossword puzzles, a framed painting by a loved one, blue curtains, a guitar, and a non-working LED clock below the television.
It’s okay, he's wearing a wristwatch.
The room is plunged into darkness, the only light source the dim yellow glow of a lamp on the counter, the clock reads 4:55 AM, it's wednesday.
He's soaking wet, the sound of rain can be heard outside, and the shivering shouldn't be associated with the cold. The audience should know that Conrad, desperate to relieve anxiety and stress and finally sleep, went for a run.
It was too much.
Still in the dark, shoes, socks, and coat are removed, and the audience is silently introduced to Setting 2, divided by an empty polished wooden counter, the kitchen, the refrigerator, the gas stove, and three chairs. Conrad can be seen lighting the stove with a match, filling the kettle with water, and setting it to boil.
A tin can appears, pulled from the bottom of one of the cupboard compartments, almost hidden behind the half-empty dishes. Dried valerian roots, a gift from the elderly neighbor who lived alone in the apartment next door, appear on a rare cloudy day. The elderly woman, whose name will not be revealed to the public, grabbed Conrad's face with her wrinkled, bony hands and declared, in a serious, distant voice, that he had necessarily fallen asleep, not disappeared.
No named elderly woman.
(Without hesitation, eyes very close, voice of experience)
This sickens the mind and then the heart.
Conrad
(Polite, hesitant smile, face in the hands of a stranger, attempted joke)
Medical students have a complex relationship with sleep.
She didn't laugh.
Conrad, who in a past life didn't mind being touched, molded himself to a cutting distance; The list of people allowed to touch without express permission is restricted to two units.
He began avoiding the neighbor; the rest of the audience, who insist on watching this depressing spectacle, should be informed that she passed away last month, alone on a park bench, with yellow flowers in her lap, dying in her sleep.
Conrad felt sick.
Kettle, boiling water, steam hitting his face, the heat hurting his skin, then the roots, without sugar, even with the smell and taste he already knows are deplorable.
The audience has no right to judge him; it's the least painful form of torture he's chosen.
He doesn't have the privilege of giving up, falling to the ground, and choosing to forget.
He tried.
Ceramic mug, bitter tea, the clock strikes five past five in the morning, the sound of rain grows louder, more satisfying, filling the scene, the boy's hands in the dim light of the kitchen never stop trembling.
His eyes never appear on scene.
Exeunt omnes.