When Michael returned home from work, he dropped his pack on the floor and quickly removed his shirt exposing the scars and marks his back.
He snaps open the door of the refrigerator, and notices that there are only two beers left.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
On his flip-phone, says “Its’ Me, Mom.”
“Here we go again…” Michael let the phone go to voicemail as he always did with his mother. He allowed her to the liberty to explain herself via the voicemail because it had a two minute limit. That way, Michael wouldn’t have to deal with the same bullshit story of why his mother need money.
“Hola mijo, como estas? Estoy horando para ti. Estoy horando que Dios te ayuda bascar tu novia. Bueno, Si, necesit tu ayuda mijo. Es que mi cuenta en Chase no tiene dinero y te pido que me ayudas y después te regreso en efectivo. Bueno, pasame una llamada cuando tienes mas tiempo. Te Amo. Ciao!”
Lucilla would always end her calls with the expression “Ciao!” because she believed it made her more Italian.
When the cellphone vibrated indicating that there was indeed a message left from Lucilla, Michael looks down at it but then resumes to turn off his phone.
“Phew, finally…All to myself.”
A deep sleep takes over him, and he passes out on his couch failing to once-again make it to his bed.
“Finally! The dreaded thing has taken slumber,” said Phareeon.
“Are you sure about this? Do you recall the last time we thought he fell into a dream he woke up rather tempered and started praying,” Rafa replied.
“Yes, yes, come. Come. Take a look.”
Phareeon pulls back the eyelids of Michael revealing he is indeed gone asleep in a deep state.
“Very well. What shall we conjure up tonight?”
“Oh that is a good question Rafa. When was the last time he dreamt about the girl?”
Rafa looks around and sniffs the house, and removes his cloak. His skin is glittery, but as it is exposed it simmers down and becomes light green with brown mix.