kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"WhenIGrowUp.0"

words

Mist curls under the French windows, tickling toes. Father wakes up first--well, I'm already awake, couldn't sleep, so it hardly counts. He startles up, a gasp in his throat--sweat freezes on his forehead and his eyes are huge black discs, like inverted pacman dots. The mist reflects and refracts, all sorts of colors, some bonus round orgy; I wonder where the points are adding up. Probably in my personal book of judgment--still low, for now; school helped me put that in perspective, at least. I mean, I'd have to kill billions of people at this point to get near the top ten.

I can tell he can't see me--he's about to start screaming, mouth moving all funny, like in the Sims. But he's not screaming, he's calm, collected--shaking his head to clear the fog and shaking Mother to wake her up. She--she's screaming, poor Mother, but she's always told me she wants what's best for me, right? That's why she takes all my video games away when I can't pay attention in school. Tells me I need to act more like a lady. Maybe I'd be able to pay attention if they took some clues from marketing, commercials and games. I mean, there's some good material, like the Holocaust, and the Dinosaurs, but they don't know how to present anything.

Not like this. This is real.

But Father and Mother are moving--Mother's in her worn bunny nightgown, and she's looking for her bunny slippers. They're under the bed, but there's too much mist to see; the mist is warm and burns my nose when I breathe it--it's getting higher, going to be hard to get out, but I have to see, I have to experience. Anyway, if it goes wrong I'll just wake up again. Reset. Have to see it all.

They're stumbling, now, stumbling to get out--and I think, they have to see me, they have to see me, but they're not seeing me, still. Why can't they see me? They should be rescuing me, I mean, the story goes I'm up here to warn them, right? I came up with that myself; Mother tells me I'll be a writer some day, or a detective, the way I think through things. She doesn't understand I take a lot of that from the games she doesn't want me to play. When I grow up, I think I'm going to be a game developer. I haven't told her that in a while, though--it makes her unhappy.

They're running to my room, peering in. I want to scream--of course I'm not there! I want to scream, but that's not right--this is their story, not mine. I just have to see how they react. When I grow up, this will just be material, unlocked from my mind after I've gotten over the trauma, after I've seen a shrink about it and all that. That's what famous people do, right?

Now they're going for Sis--they have to be screaming, but I can't hear them--I only hear the crackling of the mist, and the chittering and dancing of fairies--the fairies want my parents to dance, too, to pull them away from thoughts of danger and into their own dream realm. I see the little fairies' teeth snapping at my parents and I move to scare them off. Father's ignoring them entirely, perhaps he doesn't notice them, and Mother is patting them away. I try to tell my parents to be careful, not to upset the fairies, but they don't listen to me. They never listen to me, especially when I let slip it's stuff I learned from games, like there couldn't be any truth in a game. The best games are all about truth!

Sis is tired; I can almost hear her squalls, and it looks like the mist is trying to snake its way into her nose and mouth. I hope it does! I hate how she screams, all night, screams and cries and gets all the attention except for when I'm getting yelled at for my grades, or games, or for not taking out the trash or feeding Buster. Can't be too tired, cuz she'd normally be waking up the whole house right now to be fed. But she does look weak. Maybe it's the mist that's making her weak.

Oh my God, Buster! I run down the stairs because Buster's not supposed to be part of this, either, but I didn't think of her. It's the details that lets the Devil get you, that's what Mother says, but it's also the details that make a story good. It's the knots in the wooden boards of the stairs that I can feel warming my feet as I run down into the mist--it's heavier here, harder to see, but I have to get Buster. I hear skritching from the kitchen--I don't remember letting Buster into the kitchen, we keep that door locked because she'll make a mess of her dogfood, but maybe I forgot. Mother says sometimes I'd forget my head if it wasn't already attached, but who can pay attention when there's so much going on, always so much going on, right? Maybe when I came upstairs I left the door open--

Sure enough, the door's open; the mist is deep here, sort of an anti-Fog-of-war effect, the closer I get to what I want to see, the harder it is to make anything out. Man, that would really piss me off, that's just not good gameplay. The mist is warm in my lungs, kind of tickling, kind of, no, really, really tickling, like it's massaging my lungs from the inside. It makes me want to cough, makes me want to cry--tears are leaking from my eyes, and I wipe them away, and there's grime. Grime! I would never have thought about grime in a game. What a touch that would be! I must look a fright. If I could draw, I'd draw myself right now; I'd go get some crayons or a pencil and some paper and draw how I look right now, and put that up over my bed, because that would be the awesomest picture ever. My nightgown's got all sorts of stains, splotches, soot and grime from the mist--and a rip! How cool is that? Just from running around, and there's a spot of blood that I didn't even notice.

I can barely see anything, and sound is coming from all directions--Buster is whining, keening, growling, keening. I can't tell where she is, though, because it's bouncing off the walls, bouncing off the mist. I call her name and then she's next to me, I can feel her fur--it's wet and icky, but I pet her anyway. Good dog, good girl, Buster. Good girl. The mist clears a little with her next to me, and I see another dog lying down, and that's funny--it looks like Buster, but it can't be because Buster's right next to me. I look down and sure enough Buster's still with me, so I skritch her head and tell her good dog, good girl, Buster. It looks like the other dog was trying to drag something, though, there's sort of a trail I can just make out--something dark along the ground, like blood, but it's dry--char, a trail of char; there's something under her, under the other Buster, but I can't see--

Buster's pulling at my gown, trying to pull me away from the mist. I look down at her, and I can see she's burned, it's really not pretty--oh, Buster, I'm so sorry! Her flesh is sore, and weeping. Oh man, that's gross. Buster! I'm torn between following her and seeing what's under the other dog, seeing what's wrong. I didn't mean for you to get hurt Buster, really I didn't.

Now my parents are coming down the stairs; the boards are creaking, and I can hear Mother coughing. Sis is deathly quiet, I think she must really be asleep now. Mother's going out the front door--is she crying? Some of the mist clears out from the door being opened, and I can see the body under Buster, the other Buster. And I see the same wounds on the other Buster as are on the one trying to pull me out.

I follow her, numbly, past Father who's stopped in the kitchen doorway--his mouth open, frozen like the game's paused, only I'm still moving, and the mist is drifting out the door. The mist is so amazing, the whorls and eddies, layers deep, and more layers.

I try to pull Father away, I know what he's seeing and I don't want him to see that, but my arm passes right through him. I can feel the house bending inwards, feel it like a snake around my neck, squeezing slowly. Okay, I've seen enough. I don't need to see how the house collapses. I don't want to see Father impaled or crushed by the roof that he spends weekends sweeping. I don't want to see anyone else hurt--it's too real, too real. I just want to wake up again; I want to wake up! This time I won't play with the stove, I promise! I won't even play my video games! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry they made me do this. I'm so sorry I've got an imagination at all, because this hurts. I don't want to see Father cry! I don't want to hurt!

I want to wake up now. Okay? I want to wake up! I want a reset! Do over! Buster's pulling me away, pulling me outside, but the house is pulling me back; the flames, the boards, they're screaming my name and that's all I can hear, and all I can feel, and Buster's beside me, not struggling anymore. Good girl, good dog, Buster. I love you. We're going to the next level, now; it's okay. There's nothing to fear. When I grow up, I'm going to make a game just like this. When I grow up.