A hopeless life

Part four

I wake up, not remembering where I am for a moment.

Then it all comes back. These last few experiences, incredibly real but too dreamlike to be real, and I realize: This isn't a dream.

I just slept, and dreamed. It was muddled, unclear, and completely random.

I can't remember the details, and when I put together what I can remember, it was mere seconds long.

This isn't a dream, so what is it?

Either it's some after death phenomenon, or a simulated reality.

I'm betting on the second.

So does this mean that there's someone watching me right now, or recording my actions?

"I know this is a simulated reality now. Can-" Can I leave?

I decide not to ask that, though. There's really nothing out there that's better that what's here.

I don't expect any answer, which is good because when I expect something it seems to happen, so if a real person responds, I won't expect it.

I suppose putting me here with me unknowing would make for an interesting experiment, but using nonconsenting people for this kind of thing is illegal, not to mention immoral.

And my stomach clenches when I think of who must have done this.

Even though I know now what was real and what wasn't, the memories of Dad coming and of waking up in my childhood feel the same.

I feel, though, like I've forgotten some of the subtler sensations of real life.

And I'm at Dads mercy. If he decides to turn off whatever's keeping fed, I'll die. And he might also leave me here forever, just to see what I do, or just to prevent me from reporting him to the police.

"You used to be... never mind, I know I've changed too, but you at least could have stuck around for me. I think it would have been a lot easier if you had."

The silence stretches on, and I move on to thinking about what to do.

What if I were in a beautiful icy landscape? I fly around, imagining scenery to look at, but I'm not too creative with this stuff and after a while I feel like doing something more down to earth.

I imagine myself paper and a pen and try drawing, but everything comes out exactly like I expect it to.

I remember the surprise of finding out what each of my drawings looked like after just moving my hand around in an approximation of what I was drawing.

The small joy of seeing the endless ways it could turn out, the feeling of being unable to fully control my hand or being unable to figure out what was wrong with my picture until someone told me. Those didn't exactly seem like good feelings at the time, but I can't put my finger on what made this enjoyable, so I can't imagine it and recreate it now.

I haven't tried to draw much since moving out, but I know that if I get out of here I'll do it again.

I took piano lessons for a few months when I was little. Maybe that will work better.

But it doesn't. I don't remember where each note is, so the melody comes out like I expect it to even though I'm not pressing the right notes.

I try reciting a poem I memorized for school, but I can't really remember the finer points of how it feels to recite poetry, and I've forgotten most of the poem anyway.

I try imagining a person to talk to, but knowing that they aren't real takes the fun out of it.

I float over my approximation of the city I live in, defeated.

I just want to talk to a real person, to feel all the feelings that are slipping away from me, to be surprised.

"Let me out. Please, let me out of here."

I pause, hoping for something to happen but restraining my expectations when I saw the grayness around me start to form into my imagined scenario.

"If you let me out I won't tell anyone you put me here."

The grayness swirls around me as I wonder if there's any way to die in this imagined world.

I can't think of anything. I wish I'd been paying more attention to the things in my life so that I'd have more experiences to recreate.

Suddenly everything goes black. I'm aware of a pressure that wasn't there before, and I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat.

It takes me a moment to figure out that my eyes are closed, and a while longer to figure out how to open them.

I'm lying down, and Dad's face looms above me.

I try to get up, but find that there's something holding my wrists and ankles.

"Did you mean it about not telling anyone?" he asks.

"Yeah."

I have no trouble speaking, but the sensation of my voice buzzing in throat is surprising.

"That's great! Your coworkers have been wondering where you are."

He begins undoing whatever's holding me down.

Does he honestly expect me to keep my word?

I get up. After doing a few stretches to remember how to use my body in the real world, I turn towards Dad.

I could be wrong, but he doesn't seem to have anything protecting him.

This is the guy who abandoned me when I most needed him, and when he finally appears again he traps me in that awful simulated reality.

I feel that pain turn into anger as I watch him look at something on a computer, totally ignoring me.

"What happens if I knock you out and turn you in to the police?"

He casually pulls out a gun with the hand not on the mouse. I can still do it, but I'll need to be careful.

I can at least gain that little bit of satisfaction for myself in this pointless life.

I inch closer to him in the hopes of grabbing the gun, but he shoots me instinctively.

"Oh, oops. I'd better get out of the area before anyone finds out I killed you."

He gives me an oddly hopeless smile.

"This was a fun experiment, thank you for cooperating."

My vision blurs and I lose my balance.

The last thing that I see is a bird looking at me through the window.

It's a dove, my symbol of hope.

I'm glad I get to die now, and I'm glad Dove isn't alive to see what her husband has become.

I swear I'll try harder to enjoy life if I'm reborn.