It was a strange dream.
He was doing well, amphora in hand. His bloated face soaked with alcohol, his voice thick, missing teeth, he strolled along the village path with an air of familiarity as if it were natural.
"Is this how a dream goes?"
He never remembered dreams, except when he intensely asked before – surely to protect himself – each time he remembered, death lingered in his dreams.
He turned right and saw a pit filled with corpses.
Faces twisted in agony, fangs marking the passage of demonic creatures. Blood that had darkened since the night before stained their clothes.
He stumbled backward, falling on his backside. He remained frozen for a few moments before drinking from his amphora, letting the liquid flow into his mouth, drinking gulp after gulp. Red wine trickled from his mouth onto his greasy face, dirtying the brown clothes stained by the soft earth and the remains of past drinks.
When he got up, the corpses had disappeared. It was his little ritual to prevent his mind from playing tricks on him.
"Gramps! Sandwich!"
"No, go away."
He staggered to the fence, almost crashing into it before his hand caught his body. He was sweating, exhausted from his walk. He sat resting on it, looking at the beautiful cloudy blue sky. A flash of red occasionally painted the clouds.
"Oh, stop it," he grumbled his words, incomprehensible to the villagers repairing the damaged fence. Passing by with materials and reconstruction tools, they snorted heavily to clarify, once again, that he was not welcome. As they passed, the energy microbes disappeared from their bodies like dust. Seeing this, they grumbled even more about him.
But the village couldn't get rid of him – otherwise, who would be next?
Their logic wanted to see evil everywhere, daring to repaint reality, as it did with the red clouds. It criticized him, like the others mocked each other, whispering and laughing. He begged for wine, which earned him disdainful looks. But how could they be so stupid not to understand?
Everyone tried to change, even him, even in this village, who would always return to square one, no matter what a particular future demon said. He drank alcohol so that the king, whom they all admired, feeling the energy of each one, could be filled with happiness and pleasure and not commit suicide.
But whether it was the villagers or the demons, they couldn't bear their own mediocrity because of all the flaws he had; they had to. Otherwise, it wouldn't enrage them.
They didn't want to improve but preferred to believe that they were good enough compared to others. They lived outside of their own bodies, their own village, them and their oversized egos, moralizing.
They were jealous that he allowed himself everything, and unable to have it, they denigrated him.
"Granny, some wine!" he spittled wine as he drank.
The middle-aged woman turned and said sharply, "No! And you'd better find yourself a job!"
'Another agent of the prime minister, who invited himself to others' homes.' He thought. Like his logic, always barking: stop drinking!
That's why he cut off access to dreams. A poor human couldn't bear all his own evil, the evil that others reproached him for, not to mention the external evil they absolutely wanted to exist, to be able to manipulate him and the king.
They whispered to him at all times: be perfect! Be good! Be righteous! A man stands upright!
He laughed greasily at the thought of his biological grandfather. Now, he was dead.
They all thought they were special, all unique, all the chosen ones. They loved stories with mythical descendants and special powers.
But the king, the world, would never change for them, which is why they promised him everything to manipulate him.
He got up with difficulty and walked around the village, where energy appeared with the help of microbes that aided cultivation. The villagers stood, as usual, plundering all the crops, and they thought they were good!
He shook his head and, seeing another corpse reappear at his feet, took another sip, spilling it onto the ground, where the microbes, overwhelmed by their work, rushed to drink it all.
He smiled as he watched them. Without him, the village was doomed.
A stone hit his bald head, making him bleed.
"Disappear from the village, monster!" shouted a kid before running away.
The alcoholic's eyes flashed sadly as his smile returned to a mere dash of boredom, mechanically taking another sip. Two drops fell. He sighed and asked around. No one gave him any. Seeing the microbes looking at him with big eyes, he took his amphora, collected his blood, took a sip, and spilled his bottle to feed them.
They drank, then stopped abruptly, looking at him.
"It's still made wine," he defended himself from their looks, "but the taste is less good when there's too much."