That Invisible Screen
That Invisible Screen
Rating: G
Genre: GEN. Yes. I wrote gen.
Author's Notes: Life is a game.
You watch as your knee gets shot by what looks like an M4A1 carbine; not a graze, for you can see bits and pieces of flesh and blood fly out in all directions, painting the pixellated concrete of Azerbaijan. Something explodes, just to define the moment. You hear yourself yell in excruciating pain, clutching what is left of your right leg, and fall without grace. The floor looks cold and damp when your body sprawls into a pitiful heap, and the world becomes heavy. The Chief shouts through your headset, a recorded message repeated ten Game Overs before your death begins. Now is the right time to die; yet there is no pain, only the minute feel of your eyes twitching. Something roars overhead.
You switch the computer off.
*
Life is a game. Sometimes you take a walk, which turns into a run, because your neighbour is heading towards the same direction and you just don’t like the idea of him going first. Your friend shares her achievements, eyes shining, and you keep silent. Later, in your room of boxes and books and scraps of ripped paper, you’ll write down her triumph in a long list of other triumphs to be accomplished in due time. Sometimes you think that something is trailing you, so you have to be alert, mindful. You have dreams where you infiltrate a cargo ship delivering a dangerous nuclear weapon, with opponents in all corners, and the storm rages on, rocking the ship, rocking your head. Life is a deathmatch, a struggle to find clues to get out of the musty cavern and its winding exits, a desperate battle to rescue the princess.
But in this world, you lose. Everytime. You save and wait for the next opportunity, and you try over and over again but you lose, because everyone else is so into the game, so good at it, that they win without effort. Without them even noticing. You control yourself and nothing else.
You’re even beginning to doubt your own alleged self-control.
*
“What are your orders?” He asks, saluting firmly. Inside your stomach clenches, because they can only go too far.
*
“It is quite amazing. I mean, levels one to twenty you desperately fight to survive; you’ve dodged bullets and fought against a tank and you’ve engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a psychotic, yet deadly ninja, I mean, man, you even blew up the entire enemy base, barely escaping the facility yourself! The evil plans and bosses and weapons are buried beneath the rubble, you’re practically the hero of the world, and then the game ends, just like that! I mean, what the fuck, right?”
You rub your eyes tiredly. “Did I win?”
“It’s a roleplaying game. There are no tournaments.”
You wipe the remaining blood on your arm with your shirt, and then toss it away.
“There are no winners.”
Your mind is dark. You did not save enough.
“You’re just supposed to have fun.”
Rating: G
Genre: GEN. Yes. I wrote gen.
Author's Notes: Life is a game.
You watch as your knee gets shot by what looks like an M4A1 carbine; not a graze, for you can see bits and pieces of flesh and blood fly out in all directions, painting the pixellated concrete of Azerbaijan. Something explodes, just to define the moment. You hear yourself yell in excruciating pain, clutching what is left of your right leg, and fall without grace. The floor looks cold and damp when your body sprawls into a pitiful heap, and the world becomes heavy. The Chief shouts through your headset, a recorded message repeated ten Game Overs before your death begins. Now is the right time to die; yet there is no pain, only the minute feel of your eyes twitching. Something roars overhead.
You switch the computer off.
*
Life is a game. Sometimes you take a walk, which turns into a run, because your neighbour is heading towards the same direction and you just don’t like the idea of him going first. Your friend shares her achievements, eyes shining, and you keep silent. Later, in your room of boxes and books and scraps of ripped paper, you’ll write down her triumph in a long list of other triumphs to be accomplished in due time. Sometimes you think that something is trailing you, so you have to be alert, mindful. You have dreams where you infiltrate a cargo ship delivering a dangerous nuclear weapon, with opponents in all corners, and the storm rages on, rocking the ship, rocking your head. Life is a deathmatch, a struggle to find clues to get out of the musty cavern and its winding exits, a desperate battle to rescue the princess.
But in this world, you lose. Everytime. You save and wait for the next opportunity, and you try over and over again but you lose, because everyone else is so into the game, so good at it, that they win without effort. Without them even noticing. You control yourself and nothing else.
You’re even beginning to doubt your own alleged self-control.
*
“What are your orders?” He asks, saluting firmly. Inside your stomach clenches, because they can only go too far.
*
“It is quite amazing. I mean, levels one to twenty you desperately fight to survive; you’ve dodged bullets and fought against a tank and you’ve engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a psychotic, yet deadly ninja, I mean, man, you even blew up the entire enemy base, barely escaping the facility yourself! The evil plans and bosses and weapons are buried beneath the rubble, you’re practically the hero of the world, and then the game ends, just like that! I mean, what the fuck, right?”
You rub your eyes tiredly. “Did I win?”
“It’s a roleplaying game. There are no tournaments.”
You wipe the remaining blood on your arm with your shirt, and then toss it away.
“There are no winners.”
Your mind is dark. You did not save enough.
“You’re just supposed to have fun.”