A Story

Paper

Well, I can’t think of anything to write about. There are many interesting things to say and many interesting things to say about games but right now they elude me.

It was guaranteed to happen at some point. A more experienced writer would probably have some sort of contingency plan, and wouldn’t be trying to wing it 7 hours before the deadline.

I am not that writer. Probably a good thing, dude sounds like a square.

So maybe I should try to tell a story. Let me see. I will make one up as I go.

First: There was a man.

Every day, this man would go to work: He worked in an air-conditioned building that was never cold and never hot. His responsibility was to compare sheets of paper. He’d be given two stacks of paper full of figures, and he’d mark any numbers which were different with a red pen.

He was not allowed to take the pen home.

He would wake up in the morning with his perception of the world a haze, go to work for eight hours, and then go home and watch television until he felt ready to sleep. He lived in an air-conditioned building that was never cold and never hot.

And every day began to blend into the next.

And every day began to blend into the next.

Each day, the time he spent at home, not beholden to his employers, became more and more indistinct. You see, when he’d started this job, he had believed that he was simply spending time to get money, and that the rest of his life would be untouched. He’d believed that when he went home he’d go back to being the same person he was before he’d ever started this job.

What he didn’t understand is that pressure doesn’t stay in one place. What he didn’t understand was the weight on his heart during the day spread into his nights and crushed him in his sleep. In the end, because the office was the only place he was prepared to actually bear that weight, the office was the only place he felt even half-alive

At home, all of his beautiful possessions, his magnificent television, his immaculate apartment in a building that was never cold and never hot, these were just enough to help him pretend that this massive pressure in his chest didn’t exist.

Then, something changed.

There was a storm.

His windows collapsed inwards, flying glass daggers caught heroically by the curtains before they could reach him. The water backed up and pooled cold on the floor. The electricity went out, and the television finally fell silent.

Everything fell silent.

For the first time in years, he heard actual silence. For the first time in years, he felt actual cold air. For the first time in years, he was in true darkness, not like the fake blue movie darkness he saw on his television or like the half-light darkness that he drove home in, but black, black, black.

The storm guttered out into feeble breezes.

Everything was cold and wet. His face was cold and wet.

The sky began to brighten. How long had he stood there, in this caved in husk of home?

He felt these things he hadn’t felt in years. He picked up a ruined electronic gizmo and threw it out the window that had once been solid glass and once been murderous knives, and he skipped it across a lake that hadn’t been there the day before.

And then he called in to work, to tell them he wouldn’t be able to make it in today because of the storm.

The End.

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