Trapped in the Sims (complete)

Part 21

Neither Kyle or Matty are anywhere to be seen when I regain my sight. Blinking, I realise that I'm back downstairs in the hall, for some unknown reason. I can't hear sobbing any more from Melissa's room, and I can only hope beyond hope that Hannah hadn't got any more plans beyond what Mel has already been put through. I can't see the plumbob, anyway. I'm not sure that's a good or bad thing.

It takes a moment of bewilderment before I hear movement besides my heavy breathing in the icy house, and I turn my head, trying to source it.

As if on cue, the kitchen door swings slowly open and I find the plumbob's next victim - Mel's dad.

He's next to the fridge, lips locked with a young, pretty woman that definitely isn't the friendly Lucy. His eyes are closed and his face is blank, like the rest of them, but I can only imagine the desperation he'll be feeling, deep down inside his shred of a consciousness. This isn't him. This family doesn't deserve to be torn apart like this, even though I am perfectly, horribly aware it's exactly what Hannah and I had planned to do.

I can't watch this. Swiftly I move back into the hallway, dropping my head back against the wall, feeling a cold, hard dread. How can I stop all this alone?

After a moment of hyperventilating, the front door slams and I jump. However it's just Matty, coming home from school. Imperceptibly, I position myself in front of the entrance of the kitchen, so that Matty can't accidentally go in and see that. It would break him.

"Hey, Matty," I offer, trying to keep my steadily increasing panic under wraps. I don't want to worry him.

Matty stares at me blankly, that chilling controlled look deadening even his smiling features. To my surprise, he looks like he's been crying.

"Are you alright?" I inquire, worried. What has Hannah done this time? "Is Sunny okay?"

"Imaginary friends are for little kids!" he yells, and races upstairs, still sobbing furiously.

The bullying. Of course. Matty did mention it to me before, about kids at school thinking he was babyish for having an imaginary friend, but Hannah must have escalated it somehow.

I have to do this. If not for my own sake, at least for these Sims. I owe them at least that.

I find the easel set up in the living room, a small, half-finished painting already adorning it. Guiltily, I'm forced to scrap it. My need is more important right now, and I'm sure Matty will thank me later.

Though hopefully there won't be a later in this place.

I've never painted in the Sims before, and I try to visualise what I want my image to look like, since all the paintings that the Sims create are pre-programmed. Once I'm sure that I can mentalise my message perfectly, I begin to paint.

It's disorientating, writing the words but not seeing a single coloured paintstroke blemish the creamy canvas. I keep throwing the paintbrush at the canvas nevertheless, refusing to be disheartened.

Then, finally, after my action is nearly halfway completed, an image appears on the paper.

But it's not what I had been trying to paint. A pink stick figure stands stock-still in the centre; what looks like a tree and a dilapidated house begin to decorate the horizon. I recognise it immediately as an image that Sims tend to paint at Painting Level 1 - it basically looks like a child had drawn it.

I huff in frustration, quickly moving back and scrapping that painting. Fear and an increasing sense of panic grows persistently in my mind that this won't work - of course it won't, it's stupid - and I try to swallow my qualms down. This is my last hope. I'm nearly 100% Sim.

Right, Rachel. Stop thinking about that. Try again. I force myself to make the brush strokes that I want to make, making my hand form the letters instead of the programmed pictures, writing my vital message. Still my arm moves methodically up and down the canvas with no apparent result, but I can tell this time I'm getting somewhere with what I want to put. My arm feels leaden and lethargic; fighting the programmed painting is obviously not what the game designers had intended for their creations to do.

And then I know that suddenly, the plumbob is hovering above my head.

I can feel the now-familiar sensation of Hannah cancelling my action, the game programming ordering me to stop, to drop my arm, to succumb to the full control that the player has over us. But stopping means giving up. Stopping means becoming trapped in the Sims - forever.

So I keep painting.

Even as everything seems to grind to a halt around me - doubtless Hannah putting the game on pause - inexplicably I find myself still able to move, and I make use of this time by trying to force my arm to move faster through the mental mud that I seem to be trapped in. I almost smile as I imagine Hannah's confusion: seeing a Sim that's not controlled. It might help her believe that I am not a normal Sim.

As I continue to scrawl over the white paper, I force myself not to think about being in the Sims, not being controlled, thinking about everything that makes me so different from these people. My best friend, Hannah, and the fun we always have together. My school, boring and difficult though it may be. My family, not perfect but mine nonetheless.

I am human. I am human. IamhumanIamhumanIAMHUMAN!

Then, everything stops.

My action is complete.

I allow my aching hand to drop to my side, my head pounding with the effort of fighting the game's system, my vision swimming as I struggle to read my scrawled words on the canvas, hoping beyond hope that it's enough.

                                                                            * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Outside the game, Hannah can only stare in disbelief as the sim finishes painting the final word, written in bright orange letters that she's sure will remain imprinted on her mind forever more.

It can't be true.

It can't be.

But how can there be any other explanation for this?

'HANNAH
IT'S ME RACHEL! 
HELP
I'M TRAPPED IN THE SIMS!'

And suddenly, Hannah remembers everything.