[ It's been a decade. Time in Hell hurries, where Earth drags behind, he has thought about his mother continuously since his arrival. How she and Miranda will be preparing for his father's funeral now, alone. With his disappearance on top of everything. It's not truly a sense of guilt as much as it's a sense of mourning, like Elio buries his father a little every time he returns to his hell loop and his mother won't ever know.
I've recited the Kaddish for him, Mama. How many times more do I have to say it for him to find peace?
Other than that, existence here has fallen into a kind of routine. Lucifer carries out his duties and Elio attempts to make sense of his own. So far, only his father's hell loop has beckoned for him, so that's where he goes, dependably every day. Fixes his father's books, reads to him, because it's still all the contact they can manage. Elio reading, his father commenting, but never as a dialogue. Solo. They're two soloists playing over each other, still.
It'll get better, he knows. Hopes. He went there this morning, read Heraclitus before adding a few titles to his father's growing book collection and then, Elio returned to his palace.
Where he is now. The kitchen as it manifests is a big country kitchen, open fireplace, a view of sunflower and lavender fields. Elio's baking pancakes, because his father asked about his mother today, expecting no answer, and he's found the food he makes actually tastes like, well, food. He's newly showered, dressed in a red shirt and a pair of black jeans, more comfortable than most clothes on Earth.
Hell cares for him, he's discovered. That's the blessing. ]
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I've recited the Kaddish for him, Mama. How many times more do I have to say it for him to find peace?
Other than that, existence here has fallen into a kind of routine. Lucifer carries out his duties and Elio attempts to make sense of his own. So far, only his father's hell loop has beckoned for him, so that's where he goes, dependably every day. Fixes his father's books, reads to him, because it's still all the contact they can manage. Elio reading, his father commenting, but never as a dialogue. Solo. They're two soloists playing over each other, still.
It'll get better, he knows. Hopes. He went there this morning, read Heraclitus before adding a few titles to his father's growing book collection and then, Elio returned to his palace.
Where he is now. The kitchen as it manifests is a big country kitchen, open fireplace, a view of sunflower and lavender fields. Elio's baking pancakes, because his father asked about his mother today, expecting no answer, and he's found the food he makes actually tastes like, well, food. He's newly showered, dressed in a red shirt and a pair of black jeans, more comfortable than most clothes on Earth.
Hell cares for him, he's discovered. That's the blessing. ]