“ SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH YOUR SON . ” baby’s lying in the cradle , flowers in the window , flowers at the side of his bed . all the doctors stand gathered ‘round the child like mourners . there are no answers they can give, except these : SOMETHING IS SO WRONG .
you are a child . your eyes are shut by god . your mother runs her hands through your hair , over your cheek . she’s crying . “ … please … please … ” PLEASE WAKE UP . air comes in through the open window , cools your dollish skin . and soon the darkness with follow it , blanket her sleeping child in a faux comfort . she’s corpse’s mother , her baby has been born dead , a tiny body left in the bed as a bitter reminder of what could have been . but this cruelty can , in fact , be crueler still . the doctors can only tell her that the child merely sleeps , as if there is anything “ merely ” about it . they don’t know what’s wrong , but then they tell her her son will never wake .
you are damned to remain trapped alone inside your body , floating in a murky dark . only a sleeping child without the strength to fight the sleep off of you , and so the only reprieve in this endless death sentence is the sound of her voice , her touch . – your father could not bear the sight of you .
the longer it goes on , the darkness gives way to visions . maybe you were always predestined for this cruelty .
they take their son to the institution because there was nothing they could do to save him . they leave his body there for the same reason : you have failed them in your refusal to come back to their world . there’s a man there , a doctor , who says he can bring the boy back to life , but not to WAKING . he stays by the bedside of the sleeping child for hours , he brings books to read to him , speaks to him . he whispers ; rise cesare , rise cesare . –- but that's not the name your mother gave you .
you are a lost child , and for the first time , you open your glassy eyes .
the boy is condemned to sleep , everyone in the endless halls and wards of the asylum knows it . but there are days they are made open - mouthed witnesses as the strange child wanders from out his little death . he appears like specter in dark doorways with empty stare , pulls the clacking bodies of puppets over the tiles of the hall by their strings . he earns another new name : SOMNAMBULIST . the silence of the sleeping child is broken only to recount visions from the dream , he runs his little fingers over tarot cards with a fixed stare into the dark . but the doctor keeps him close by his side , keeps him in a dim room for days , staring at the flashing lights .
he says : cesare , they are only afraid . you are special . and you will learn to do as you are told .
