I'm sitting in a dark room upon a plastic, folding chair, staring at a brightly lit up monitor that is my only source of light. I'm looking at words that fill up the screen before me and I'm despairing. I can read them, I can even understand them, but I cannot comprehend them. Something is keeping me from the information provided and I know not what it is.
The complicated words are standing before me like monolithic obstacles barring the path of my perception while confusing characters are present throughout. The small words are strewn about, leaving me to wander about the myriad of paths that lead to nowhere and yet, are still quite alluring despite the fact.
My hand reaches for the small interface device that lies at the edge of my perception, given the name of a rodent for some reason. I grip it loosely and move it along the pad as I watch the tiny graphic in the shape of a small arrow zip across the screen. I click on the plus sign at the very top of an open window.
A new page opens up that is still attached to the old one. I see the smaller images of places I frequent compiled together in a convenient dropdown list. I hover over one of them, the one marked with a single name that implies both the individual user and a rounded object. I begin to click, but alter my decision.
I return to the previous window and the mocking letters that fill the jumbled heap before my eyes. They hold me captive for several moments before I choose to ignore them and click on the icon marked 'new.' As it implies, a fresh window pops open allowing for my input.
I scan the keys in front of me as they lay like little soldiers for my purpose. I even tap on them in a successive motion so as to convey what I am thinking. I fail in the most spectacular fashion. The words don't make any sense. The subject is not in alignment with the topic. My brain just doesn't want to function.
I delete my words and just stare at the blank, white screen. I need escape. I need release. I need distraction. I return to the new tab and click upon the graphic I had previously decided against. It takes me to a new screen full of bright, colorful images of any number of videos I could get lost in.
I select one that seems to be the most capable of mindless entertainment and wait as my slow computer takes its sweet time buffering, whatever that means. I expand the video and stare at the tiny white dots spiraling in the midst of a pitch black background as they spiral repeatedly and I am forced to wait impatiently for them to complete their task.
For several minutes I stare at the flat spheres flashing in sequence, mesmerized by its simplistic aesthetic. Soon, my eyes lose focus and I can no longer see the little circles, only the darkness of the screen. Then my eyes hone in on the image within the darkness. It seems familiar. I then realize, it's me. I stare at the face staring back at me.
"What do you think you're doing?" a voice cuts through the stillness.
I look about, there's no one here. Who could have said that? I look out into the dark hallway, via the open doorway, nothing. I return to staring at the stubborn screen.
"I'm not going anywhere," the voice informs me.
I rub my eyes. Then, I stare again. I could have sworn it was the image on the screen that spoke to me.
"That's because I did," the face speaks to me as though it knows my thought.
My mouth falls open.
"It's been a while and I think it's high time we had a chat?" the face continues.
"Who are you?" I ask as I stare at the screen.
"Whatever I need to be, but right now, I'm acting as your conscience," the face introduces itself. "But we're not going to skip down the road and whistle happy tunes, oh no, right now we're going to take a scary trip."
I start to ask a question, but stop dead. The darkness of the room grows and thickens. I'm even having a little difficulty breathing. The walls around me rise, towering over my miniscule form.
I look back to the screen. "What's going on?" I ask and lean that much closer.
"It's time to remind you of the little weakness you keep locked away," the face replies. "It's time to expose the truth and shine a light on all the little monsters that reside within your psyche."
I can feel my consciousness slipping and I desperately try to take hold of something solid as though that would keep me from drifting away. But I can't even do that and so, I slip to the floor and fall away altogether.
I drift through blinding light and soothing shadow, across the things that are and those that never should be, unto the brink of reality and the deep chasm that threatens to swallow all things. I find myself drawing ever closer to a swirling black hole which sucks me inside and puts me through a kind of strainer.
I can feel parts of myself being left behind as only tiny bits of myself are allowed through. And in the end, those pieces of myself fall into each other, creating a loose facsimile of the person I am. Or is it the person I thought I was? The fragmented slivers slither around each other, writhing about, shaping a kind of form from which I could move and express myself.
"How does it feel?" A booming voice echoes from above me.
I glance about, but all I can see is the dark surface I stand upon and the even darker sky above me.
"How does it feel?" the voice repeats, undaunted by my lack of response.
I search myself. "I, can't," I struggle to find the right words as my body squirms about to find the right shape. "I can't feel anything. I just feel… I feel so… So empty. Like a bottle that has nothing inside."
"Such is the meaning of your existence," the voice explains in cryptic fashion. "The sum total of the elements which conspired together to fashion a living breathing anomaly, that is only a shadow upon the face of the Earth."
I look down at my hands, past the wriggling bits, into the flesh that had once been there. Desperately, I try to assemble the sum total of the parts and what they mean, if anything, but all I see is the same enigma that confronts me every time I feel a disconnection between my body and mind.
I stare off into the void, hoping against hope, for a sign that would solve the conundrum that is life. But it seems as though the closer I gaze, the more lost I feel in the enigma that surrenders no answers to my persistent questions. And with that feeling comes a cold disconcerting wave of ice that pours into my veins and runs the length of my body.
"Not very pleasant, is it?" the voice enquires of me. "Self reflection is not always a pleasant thing. Especially when you dive down deep. But still, you have not gone far enough. Even at this moment you hold back, even as you are being pulled apart."
My eyes go wide with fear. "No!" I shout as loud as I can and wring my hands, that is of what I have. "Don't you dare…" But even as I say the words, I can feel myself being pulled away, while shadows play at the edge of my sight.
"One more drink, then I've got to go," I hear myself say as I signal for another.
"Are you sure?" a good friend, who sits near to me asks. "Don't you think you should call a cab?"
"Naw, I'm just fine," I assure him and shake my head. "Besides, it's only two miles, what's the worst that could happen?"
I watch as I down my last beer, totaling eight, and walk out the door, into the night. I get into my car and drive away. I make sure to pay extra attention to the road and all of its signs. I'm on top of things, despite the copious amount of alcohol mingling within my blood stream. But if I am really in control, then why did I miss it?
How could I not see the little boy riding his bicycle with only simple reflectors to alert motorists of his presence? Why had he jumped out in front of me? How could I have possibly avoided his little person when he appeared as though out of nowhere? Why didn't he have on the appropriate, reflective apparel? What was he doing out so late in the evening?
I slam on the brakes as quickly as I am able, but my car is old and so were all of its parts. I hit the kid full on with a sickening 'thunk', smashing his rear tire and sending his tiny body against the hood of my car where his soft head hits the hard metal, while his bike is dragged under my wheels and mangled into a twisted pretzel.
The car at last comes to a halt and for several moments, I just sit there and breathe. All the while, I stare ahead before looking to the body of the twitching boy as he lays against the sidewalk, his head propped forward by the stem of a parking meter. I can tell he is struggling to breathe, but it's not easy for him to do so.
I pop the door open and shuffle forward as my mind tries to make sense of the things that stand in contrast to my logic. But mostly, it's trying to rewrite the past five minutes. To keep the boy from entering the road, to keep him from getting on his bike in the first place, to keep him tucked in his bed, safe and warm.
"So it's all the boy's fault, is it?" the voice asks me and I find myself propelled back to that body of loose connections in a dark world.
"What do you mean?" I ask before my mind catches up. "There was nothing I could do. He came out of nowhere. There was nothing anyone could have done."
"That may be true," the voice concedes, before switching gears. "But there is one aspect that you are completely ignoring."
I desperately search for the thread in question, but I am incapable of finding the fly that lies within the pristine ointment of my innocence.
"You should never have been driving in the first place," the voice cuts into me. "Had you taken a cab then that boy would not have painted his brains all over your hood. He would have enjoyed his evening ride and returned home safe and sound."
I so badly want to mount a defense, to proclaim my innocence by putting anyone else in the driver's seat. Or insisting that any numbers of ills could have befallen him. That it was merely the luck of the draw that made me his executioner.
But I could not. There's simply no way I can absolve myself of this wrong doing.
I had known from the moment the question was put to me that I was too drunk to drive, but I did it anyway. And now, I would have to bear that guilt until my dying day. I killed a boy simply because I was too proud to ask for help when I needed it. Despite all that, it feels good to finally admit my fault, as though a weight is lifted from my shoulders.
"You think we are done here?" the voice launches after sensing my elation. "I assure you we are not." A long pause. "You may have been responsible for the boy's death, but there is more to your crime."
I scour my brain yet further to derive an understanding of what is being intoned, but I simply cannot.
"You panicked, didn't you?" the voice quips rhetorically and I find myself reliving the moment through an outsider's eyes.
I watch as the light dies in the child's eyes, as I fall into a fit of hysteria and drive away. I make it back home, where I wash the blood off my car and pound out the dent in my hood. After that, I deny any knowledge of the accident and keep my head down so the blame can't find me. Or so I thought.
I return to my senses as I lie on the floor of my bedroom without knowing how it is that I got to that position. I pick myself up and sit back down in my chair. I gaze at the blank screen of my computer and the face that stares back through the black. I refresh the screen and open up a new window.
I enter a few keywords into the search bar and find the page I'm looking for, a kind of flyer from the family who had lost their boy, begging for any information people could bring forth. I pick up the phone and dial the number. "Mister Santos," I address the individual on the other end and lean forward. "We need to talk."