I want to fill up the 'missing'/ 'hidden' elements of the game, which is (for me) the things going-on in the character's mind. So I wrote a short story from the perspective of the character as an attempt to return him a little bit of power (by addressing the limited freedom of his mind). However I didn't helped him escape from the negative tone of the game setting.
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7:47. The little red light on the alarm clock started to blink. Fierce and fleckless; two glazes a second. I can't take any more snoozes; I am going to be late for work anyway; but I shall go there anyhow. So I dressed up, and stepped out the lonesome room.
At the living room, I saw my wife behind the stove of the open kitchen. I imagined her greeting me before I turned off the blares and buzzes from the old box television. "Morning dear," she said, in my mind. I walked up towards her, curious of what she was making. It would be a good start of the day if she would turn around and give me a hug and kiss-goodbye. I saw the quivering scrambled egg in the pan. Portion for one, sadly. "C'mon honey you're late," said my wife, without sparing a glance on me. Not even on my toes.
There was an old lady in the elevator whom I could talk to. As the door closed, I invited, "How do you think an elevator works? What if it's actually the
settings, the things outside this cabin are changing, but never us here. Like if we're in a theater, we never move ourselves. We are nailed and passive. The only act we take is to wait for things to happen, to happen for us. Things shift, and the world changes right in front, but we don't see how it happens, and so we don't really care about it." Then the old lady snorted, screwed her eyes, "nonsense." I didn't like the crumples on her face, especially the wrinkles around her dark brown eyes. She continued her despise on my thoughts, "three more steps and you will be a new person." She must have considered me to be mentally sick, hence I replied, assertively with a confident and generous smile, "nonsense."
The traffic stuck on the way to work. I felt like a grain of sand trapped in an hourglass, rolling slowly and steadily approaching the narrow neck to leave the emptiness behind. I didn't really mind the sluggishness happening here, I am already late for work no matter how. There were cows on the field near the road. To kill the boredness I imagined myself to be a rearer spending most time petting the cows while they graze. I would pet them out of sympathy, and out of crave for cash in return; would they ever feel the lack of passion from soothe touch of our skins.
The tree in front of the office building became naked again. I caught the last yellowed leaf shed off from the branch.
My boss seemed to be waiting for me at the office entrance. "You're late," he grunted. Such a caring man, I thought. I took that as a 'hello', and I gently nod at him. I enjoyed walking pass him, as I could clearly see the reflection of light on the top of his bald head. I liked the fact that I'm taller, and younger than him. I often count the number of cubicles I go through to locate my seat. The boss didn't let us personalize our seats with stuffs like photographs, nor to bring our favorite mug; the company provides plenty of that for our use. To reach my cubicle, I have to count down from sixteen, and I shrink myself in the chair when I have the countdown on zero. I worked, almost automatically out of muscle memories. I spared myself by thinking about the dream I had last night. The one which I met a homeless dude at a crossroad. He was in a black cloak with a big hood pulled up over his head. I didn't see all his face but the tall nose and big beard in grey.
In the dream I followed him to a graveyard, and we just stood there facing the headstones in the wind. There wasn't much happening in that dream, and there's not much details that I would like to drill on. I checked the time and there were still five more hours to go for the shift. I have to think of something else.
I think I should at some point admit that I hate this banality, but I couldn't deny that routine makes me feel safe. Safe, even when my boss scolds at me for my late-coming, I don't worry about loosing the job. I know I could always work at a different company. For that the act of firing and hiring employees are also, a routine.
The only fear I have is to jump off from the roof top of a commercial high-rise. I once went up there. It was about six years ago; two and a half year since I graduated with a BBA degree, honored. Dreadfulness of being unremarkable pushed me up there. I remember watching the tiny vehicles crawling across under me feet, and the pixelated people without names rustling in all directions, just like the dust particles drifting in the air. It appeared to be interesting to look at, although only it was when I was standing on the edge. After a while of observation I carefully stepped back and I resumed working. I didn't recall the experience for a long long time, until now. Perhaps that would be the bravest, coolest thing I would ever have done. That should make me special, at least a little.
