ANONYMOUS
SUNNYVALE, CA
JANUARY 1983
A slow sigh escapes from my lips.
I have a headache.
My apartment is small, but it seems to shrink with every passing moment. The walls of my tiny bedroom are closing in on me. The pillow has directly fused against the back of my head, just as the sheets have melted with the layer of perspiration of my naked body. I don’t know where my clothes are. I don’t even know how I’ve gotten up here, or where I am supposed to be. I do not know what I am.
But I am here.
My mouth is dry—my tongue is glued directly to the roof of my mouth. And then I see the crowded pill bottles on my nightstand, the wadded dollar bills and metal spoons. I still feel the fine white powder encrusted around my nostrils. I spy a dark brown stain on my ceiling. I stretch my arm. Can I float up and touch it? I want to try and touch it.
My notebooks are lost in my sheets. I can feel the metal rings poking into the moist flesh. They are hidden, my sketches, my drawings. I try to feel for them with my hands, but they are only pulled further into the tunnel of sheets.
I softly moan, shifting my bare legs. My dirty, tangled hair hangs over my face. The television is faintly on in the background—something about a cereal ad is on. This sensation is so sweet. I am not on a bed. I am floating on a cloud that will never descend below. I slip a pill just above my tongue. Once it dissolves, I slowly lean my head back and faintly smile, letting it sink in. I am sinking far below my sheets, mattress, the dirty floor.
Yes, yes, yes.
I am sinking.
My vision is blurry for a moment. There are colors. So many colors. Colors that I’ve absolutely never seen before.
The world is so beautiful, Mama. Can’t you see it? If you had lived a little longer, you and I would have both been able to explore it. You are with me, even now. And I’ve never slept so well in my life. There are many good things in the world, Mama. Good things. Makes me normal, like you, Mama.
* * * * * * * *
As I slowly sit up in bed, an ache settles across my spine. Beads of sweat dripped down my face. This was only supposed to be quick trip, that is all. Trash litters my apartment floor. I do not know remember how it has gotten this way. I need to clean up. There are fresh red marks on my arms. I reach for my cigarette in the stained ashtray, take a long, deep puff. I lean my head sideways against the peeling wallpaper and close my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to stop. Outside, I can still see that it night.
How it nighttime?
The phone begins to ring, and I struggle to climb out of my bed. I stumble naked in the dark, tripping on shoes and other random items, before my hands finally make contact with the receivers. My fingers wrap around the cradle, and the cord dangles against my waist, the thick hair hanging on my shoulders. I lean sideways against the table and raise it to my left ear. It’s rather hard to breathe.
”Hey.” My voice is slurred.
”Finally!” It’s my boss, D.H Hamilton. He’s an older guy, but much more bulky and grumpier than Nolan. I don’t mind his gruff tone. “Good gracious. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling for the past week non stop. No one has been able to reach you. Human Resources told me that you were on sick leave, but you should’ve been back at least on Wednesday.”
”Oh,” I softly say, lightly playing with the cord in my hands. “I’m…I’m sorry. I just woke up.”
”What the hell? You’ve been asleep for two days.”
I glance at the calendar hanging on my wall, before running my hands through my matted hair. “I…I took a pill. Just one. It must’ve knocked me out.” I close my eyes for a moment. How was I still exhausted? “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“This isn’t like you.”
”I’ve been under the weather lately.” Slowly, I sit on the dirty carpet, balancing the receiver on my bare knees. “Dealing with a bad cold. Had a fever. The doctor wants me to stay home for a little while, so nobody don’t catch nothin’ from me.” I faintly smile. “I feel better though. Much better. Don’t worry.”
”Well, next time, can you please let us know?” There’s a shuffling of papers in the background. “And can you come in tomorrow? We need you to be in by six am sharp. ASAP.”
”Yeah. Of course.” I whisper. I play with a large piece of lint on the carpet near my knobby toes. “Is anything wrong?”
D.H loudly snorted. “The entire place has been nothing but chaos. You know the movie that came out last year? The ones that the critics won’t stop raving about, apparently?”
I carefully shift the cradle in my right ear, hugging my knees. My fingers rest on the receiver—the only light that is coming in is from the glowing television set. The A-Team theme song is playing in the background, and I can see Mr. T’s face on the screen as he calls his opponent a sucker, before flinging them across the room.
”What movie?”
”You clearly have been living under a rock. E.T? The Extraterrestrial? The Stephen Spielberg sci-fi flick? Came out last summer. It’s some movie about an alien. I haven’t seen it. Anyway, that’s not the point. ATARI made a puzzle game based on that film. Released it around the holidays, right before Christmas.” He sighs. “The developer only had five weeks to do it. Now it’s…..it’s doing terrible. Sales are plummeting; stores are returning it, and a bunch of copies are sitting in our warehouse, collecting dust. We are gonna have to file for bankruptcy if the CEO doesn’t do something quick.”
“Can’t we re-release the game?” I ask.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
”This is the same issue that we had with Pac-Man. People are fed up with the quality. They don’t make them as they used to.” D.H scoffs. “And with you slipping in and out of the state, you know, it’s hard to find skilled programmers. I know you’ve been having issues with your health, and especially after how Nolan passed away, everyone’s been all paranoid. I’d want to get out of dodge too.”
My eyes glaze over, but I don’t say anything.
”You remember Nolan, right? The guy who had this job before me? Man, I would hate to piss anyone off in this position. Everyone is quitting, anyways. Third-party developers are becoming a thing. They’re going on a pay strike.”
My fingers tighten around the handset.
”You know they never found his rental car either, right? His body was stuffed in a garbage bag and tossed in the Joaquin River. The case has been sitting cold for years. His family is in shambles; they keep trying to ask the police to reopen the investigation.” D. H releases a wet cough. “It’s insane. The guy was chopped up in a million pieces. Hacked. I heard that the first responders had to receive therapy when recovering his remains from the water. The police believes it’s someone he must’ve known personally. I hope the person who did this to him rots in hell, y’know? I hope they never see the light of day again.”
I bury my face deep in my lap.
“Hello?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, clearing the dense strands of hair from my face. My face is flushed, and my stomach suddenly hurts. “Yeah, I’m here.” As I look around the room, the walls have indeed moved closer. “I’m sorry for not calling in earlier. I’ll….I’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning. We can organize a meeting with the CEO. We can try to design a new game. I have some ideas I would love to show him.”
”Wonderful,” D.H replies. “I’ll see you then.”
As he hangs up, my stomach lurches. I manage to grab the nearby trash can just in time, before everything comes up. I don’t recall even eating anything, but my chest heaves and falls. Lines of saliva drip from my mouth, but I can’t stop upheaving. My throat burns, and when it is finally over, I lie on the carpet, too exhausted to make it to my bed.
I focus my gaze on a pair of polished shoes.
Shoes that don’t belong to me. Khaki pants. A neat, polished uniform. There is someone sitting on a nearby chair in the shadows. When I see my father’s face, I remain still. A bead of saliva trails down the corner of my mouth, before leaving a stain on the carpet.
He remains seated, watching me. He’s still dressed in his fifties’ style plumbing uniform; his jet hair parted to the side, face neatly shaved. His wedding ring is placed on his index finger, and he leans forward in his seat, resting his arms on his lap. His eyes meet mine, but I don’t look at his face. I won’t.
Not yet.
There is a commercial break coming on TV. I wait for a few moments, but he is here. Watching me. It is so dark, so cold in here. And then I can see that he is laughing at me.
He is laughing at me.
I rise to my feet and break off the metal antenna from my television set. Sparks fly out. The screen quickly goes static. My father has suddenly grown taller. Very tall, around eight feet tall. His eyes are as wide as saucers, pitch black. It takes me a moment to realize that I am clenching my teeth until they hurt. My hands are tight around the antenna rod.
He smiles at me.
It comes out of me in a scream. I raise the metal antenna, bring it down square into his head. He crumples and folds over, but raise my arms and start striking the wall. I am snarling, chunks of plaster flying in my face. There is a giant hole in the wall, but my eyes are bulging. Once the antenna snaps, I use my bare hands.
* * * * * * *
It is two-thirty in the morning. The numbers are blurry against my clock.
I am slumped against the wall.
Damn, I am so tired.
Where are my clothes? My clothes are missing. It’s freezing in my apartment. There are bits of plaster stuck in my hair and skin. The hole is so deep, that the insulation of the wall is visible. The carpet is a mess. And my arms. My hands are coated entirely in blood. One of my fingernails are completely gone.
Using the wall for support, I rise to my feet. I stumble in the dark, make it to the bathroom, and turn on the sink. I don’t want to see my face in the mirror. As I splash cold water in my face, I can hear the static of the television growing louder. I gaze at it for a moment, the tiny white and black dots across the screen.
After I take a quick shower, I slip on a pair of dirty jeans and fumble with the buttons of my stained shirt, before just giving up. They are crushed at the bottom of my laundry basket. I wander barefoot around the room, confused how I have gotten here, and why there is such a mess. I scratch the back of my head. My hair is dripping wet, glued to my face. My journals. I pick up all of my crumpled drawings and place them on a neat pile on my bed.
It smells funny here, too. I need to take out the trash today. My stomach grumbles. I could use some breakfast. I gaze at the hole in the wall. I don’t know how that had gotten there. Maybe it was those damned people from the seventh floor. They usually break into other people’s stuff, I heard. The landlord’s been getting complaints about it.
I go into my safe and pull out my rifle, to make sure it is fully loaded. I set it on the kitchen table as I open my fridge, the cold air causing me to shiver.
There is still blood stained on my arms and wrists. I enter my tiny kitchen and pour out a box of Frosted Flakes in a bowl. As I begin to chow down loudly on them, milk dribbling down my chin, I decide to reach for my remote, just to check the weather today. I slurp the rest of the milk in the bowl, wiping my mouth with my baggy sleeve.
My TV is broken. I sigh, before setting the remote down on the table with a thud. It’s two thirty—won’t I have to be at work at six? I glance at the clock. I can use a couple hours of extra sleep. So I rinse out my bowl, put it in the sink, turn off the light, and crawl back on my bed, lying my head on the pillow. I try to close my eyes.
There’s commotion outside. Yelling. I hear a couple arguing loudly outside the block, just down the road. I roll off my lumpy mattress, slowly appearing to my window. I pull down the blinds and push it up. The man is pushing a woman repeatedly against the car, striking her. She is screaming. She has a bloody nose. She is batting him away. I watch them for a few moments, gently placing a hand against the stained glass.
My eyes water.
I slowly go to my kitchen table, pick up my rifle. I position it against the moldy ledge of the window, and my stained fingers carefully glide against the smooth wood. I swallow lightly. My bare feet curl up against the carpet. Fortunately, the moon is still visible, just above the dense clouds. The street is empty. I focus on the man’s form. He’s swinging both fists at her.
The woman shoves him away.
“Alright, bear with me,” I whisper in the dark. “Bear with me. It’ll be over very soon.”
My finger releases the trigger. The popping sound echoes in the air. His head becomes an explosion of red, spraying all over the car and the sidewalk. The woman shrieks, stumbling backwards. Some of his blood has splattered across her dress, shoes, and purse. I sit down on the ground before she can see me. Her wails echo down the road, and there are lights flickering on near in the other buildings. Some people run out, yelling. Others are ducking down behind trash cans and lingering behind stores for cover.
I clutch the rifle close to my chest for a moment, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Once I set it down, I go to my closet and pull out my suitcase, before throwing it on my messy bed. I begin to cram all of my clothing inside of it, ignoring the pain shooting from the missing nail on my finger. Beads of sweat drip down my nose, but I don’t stop.
In the corner of my eye, I can see my father sitting at the kitchen table. There is blood leaking from a large hole in the middle of his forehead. It is on his work uniform. He is quietly watching me, not blinking. Just motionless.
I turn and smile at him.