When you meet someone new, one of the first things asked is often "What do you do?" It's an innocent question, small talk on par with discussing the weather. The thing is, that's a broad question, but they always mean "What is your job?" Watching how our parents speak to others and the lessons imparted at school lay the foundation. Television, movies, video games, books, and other forms of media that revere the status quo have subliminal instances of this same exchange to bolster the idea that it's normal, even good manners, to begin a conversation with this question. It does make some sense; you can tell a lot about a person by what they chose to do for most of their adult life. Assuming it was really a choice.
Many times, we unconsciously default to our work being a prerequisite of our value. We accept that honor, perhaps even //pride// in our vocation, is a foundational tenet of our lives, even if the work is exhausting, or humiliating, or barely gives us enough to do much more than survive. Sometimes all three. There are just as many reasons to want to be seen for more than what you do to afford to live. If you never have, this experience might invite you to take a step back and ask yourself how much of your personal value should really be assigned to what you do for a living. Because you are worth much more than what you do to stay alive.
Regardless of how relatable or foreign the concept is, if you continue past this point, you will become a person reluctant to be defined by their career. I hope that you'll wear the skin of this homunculus I've fashioned of pre-written code as though it were your own. After all, it's only pretend. Deeper still, some selfish part of me hopes that the role that I have prepared for you, imparted with so many of my own experiences, fears, and shortcomings, is closer to you than could be admitted without the accompaniment of a brief pang of despair. But don't despair too deeply. You and I have made it this far, after all, and we deserve a happy ending, in this scenario and in our real lives.
Lastly, to every possible "you" that is not a figment of my own imagination, but still relates to what is contained within, [I offer my condolences]<1| (click-replace: ?1)+(t8n: "flicker")+(t8n-time:.5s) [[[Sorry for your loss.]]] You struggle to remember what brought you here, hoping to exhume some sort of clue from the depths of your recollection. You know your name, you know that the body that you are in belongs to you. You know where you live, what you like to eat, how you dry off when you're done bathing. You have forgotten nothing, you simply //did not// experience whatever force brought you to this place; not the sensation of motion, the sound of change, the sight of movement, any tangible thing that would help you understand what brought you to where you are now. You get the feeling that the only way things will improve is if you [[move forward.->I don't want to stay here]]
Your vision darts around the landscape, searching for landmarks you can use to guide yourself in this strange place. (after:5s)[Directly ahead of you is a small [[cottage->Go to the cottage]], looking more rundown than it does quaint.] (after:9s)[There's no indication that there is anyone home, nor even in the area.] (after:14s)[To your left is a patch of [[woodland->Go to the woods]], little more than a scrub of stubborn trees roughly the size of a soccer field.] (after:19s)[To your [[right->See what's to my right]] there seems to be only an infinite expanse of hilly turf, extending past a horizon you cannot fully see.]
(after:24s)[You are not sure what's [[behind you.->But what's behind me?]]]
When you get close enough, you can see through the gaps of the tree trunks that there is a small clearing hidden by the arboreal fencing. You could [[look around in there->Go into the clearing]], or maybe foreboding forest interiors [[aren't your thing->No thanks, I'll look elsewhere]].
You take your chances with the path lacking any recognizable aberrations, and head east. After walking a while, you begin to feel as though you haven't actually gone anywhere. The field has not changed, nor does there seem to be anything ahead of you that would prove your steps were moving you forward.
(after:10s)[Your steps grow more erratic as the worrying realization dawns on you that you are tracing circles through the brush.] (after:13s)[Frustrated, you return to the area where you first appeared.] (after:16s)[The [[house to the north->Go to the cottage]] and the [[wooded area to the west->Go to the woods]] wait patiently for you to pick between them.]
As you approach the cottage, more details make themselves known. It is made of gray, roughly cut stones bonded with mortar that has thinned to make room for croppings of moss. Ivy crawls up several sections of the walls, although it has been cut away from the small [[window->Look inside the cottage window]] a few feet from the only door. The door itself is unremarkable, wood and metal in the places they belong and shut tightly over the passage they protect. You pause, your ears perked in hopes of hearing some occupant, some indication that you are not completely alone in this strange place.
(after:14s)[You hear nothing. It's honestly frightening just how little sound there is around you. There is no breeze, no ambience of faraway things that feel commonplace in the place you know you have come from. Perhaps that's why you can hear the door sing, music that does not reach your ears, but can be understood all the same. [["Open me,"->Go inside the cottage]] it seems to say.] This section of the woods is harder to examine than the outskirts, thanks to a thick canopy of overlapping tree branches. (after:6.5s)[As your eyes adjust,] (after:8s)[you are able to discern a patch of long, thick grass that seems to have been recently disturbed. It is the only sign that anything recently alive and moving has been here.] (after:12s) [You feel a chill up your spine when you realize that you cannot hear any sound from the forest.] (after:16s)[There is no birdsong, no animals scurrying through the underbrush, nor the calming certainty of the wind, blustering through the boughs to rustle the leaves.] (after:20s)[Your heart feels very confined in your chest, bidding you to search the clearing for anything that might help you, quickly.]
(after:23s)[You notice a shape sticking out of the grass, its silhouette sturdy and certain.] (after:26s)[You approach it with all the grace and temperance you'd show a ticking time bomb. With a trembling hand, you wrench the shape loose from the earth. It is a flashlight, made of thick black plastic that rattles with the weight of two batteries.] (after:30s)[You test the beam of light and find that it works,](after:34s)[using it to cut a swath of light across the draping leaves of the trees.] (set: $flashlight to true)
(after:37s)[You exit the clearing, feeling satisfied with your discovery.] (after:39s)[Having explored the woods, there's really only the [[cottage->Go to the cottage]] left to investigate. Although if you're very brave, you coul scout out [[the area to your right.->See what's to my right]]] Directly ahead of you is a small [[cottage->Go to the cottage]], looking more rundown than it does quaint. There's no indication that there is anyone home, nor even in the area. To your left is a patch of [[woodland->Go to the woods]], little more than a scrub of stubborn trees roughly the size of a soccer field. [[To your right->See what's to my right]] there seems to be only an infinite expanse of hilly turf, extending past a horizon you cannot fully see.
You are not sure what's [[behind your->But what's behind me?]]. You are in a field of tall grass and waving foliage. You feel perturbed immediately, having no recollection of traveling, but clearly having needed to //appear// in this place from somewhere else. (after:7s)[The field persists in spite of your disorientation, as these things do.] (after:10s)[Above you is a light that makes you recall the sun, but you feel as though the sky is perpetually beyond the margins of your vision. No matter how far you strain your neck, the...] (after:15s)[(text-colour:blue)[blue]] (after:16s)[you'd spent your entire life knowing was supposed to be there is nowhere to be found. ] (set: $flashlight to "false")
(after:20s)[Part of you wonders [[why you are here->Why am I here?]], but another part wants to not even think about that and just [[find a way out.->I don't want to stay here]]] You lean in as close as you can to the window. Light reflects off of the glass enough for you to catch a blotchy sillhouette that represents your body, the first indication you've had that, for all of the inconsistencies, this strange world could not misplace your body. You peer inside, straining your eyes to get some idea of what's inside. There is only darkness inside, save for a sink, white in its finish but yellowed and cracked with age. Specks of dust dance in the beams of the light from above, though you can't help but notice that even standing directly in it, the light is not warm.
You step away from the window. As it stands, you can [[go inside the cottage->Go inside the cottage]], or [[check out the woods->Go to the woods]]. You're not sure that you want to go inside without a light source, since the not-sun will likely not offer much help. (if: $flashlight is "true")[Luckily, you already found one!] The cottage door is unlocked, thankfully for your nerves. You push it open to find a thorough darkness that the light above you does almost nothing to purge. There is no way you are walking into that abyss unless you find something to show the way.
(if: $flashlight is "false")[Perhaps the [[woods->Go to the woods]] or the wide field to the [[right->See what's to my right]] could have what you need.]
(if:$flashlight is "true")[Luckily for you, you //did// find something. Gripping your flashlight, you enter the cottage. The area beyond the barrier is a kitchen, looking far more modern than the exterior of the house would suggest. Sweeping the beam across the walls, you uncover various appliances; a refrigerator, a microwave, a stovetop oven, a sink that seems to be hoarding all of the light streaming in from the window above it. Next to the door, you find a light switch, although flicking it up and down does not flood the room with the reassurance you had hoped. Cooking utensils hang from a rack over a central island, a dining table in a cozy corner to your left.
There are two paths out; one is straight ahead, a doorless opening that leads to a room where a faint glow resides, the familiar blue light suggesting that a television is on. It may be a [[living room->Go into the living room]]. The other is to your right, past the refrigerator, where a plain white [[door->try the other door in the kitchen]] waits, unassuming]You cross the floor towards the closed door. You grip the knob with your free hand, but find that it does not twist with your wrist. You rattle the knob, feeling the door shake on its hinges but stay solidly closed. You turn, setting your eyes to the entrance to the[[living room->Go into the living room]]. It would seem that the process of elimination has chosen for you.You make your way across the threshold of the living room. Swiping the flashlight's beam across the room reveals pale-yellow walls populated with still-life paintings and decorative plates. A couch rests on the east wall, a dark-brown coffee table flanking it. Perpendicular to the table is a russet-colored recliner, faded with time. There's a television set sitting in a wooden entertainment center, but the reflection of your flashlight beam on the curved glass blinds you for a moment. Your eyes, still recovering, glimpse the recliner turning to reveal a man, as though he'd been waiting for you in this room. Your flashlight beam settles onto the figure [[for a better look.->hello father]]You struggle to stifle a sickened retch from upending the contents of your stomach. Even beneath all of the stomach-churning decay, you recognize this person. This man, or what is left of him, was your father. The features that dictated his appearance linger even in what you can only hope is death, since the alternative is unbearable agony. Much of his left cheek is rotted away, forcing you to observe his black, swollen tongue disturb the maggot larvae lingering on the fringes of flesh each time he speaks. Teeth that have not blackened with rot are yellowed with age, jutting from between his discolored lips. His skin is stretched like papier-mache across a skull streaked with pathetic wisps of white hair. His left eye is crushed, leaking aqeuous humor that makes his face shine in the flashlight beam. His right eye is trained on you, the color that you remember being there replaced with a cold, unfeeling darkness. Whatever he felt for you in life has become biting, icy contempt. His throat rattles as he speaks, somehow, his voice slow and gravelly.
(click: "voice")["So, you finally decided to show up."]
(click: 'So, you finally decided to show up.')[At first, you feel [[confused->What's happening?]]. You don't know how your father could possibly be speaking to you, much less you're meant to feel about this. In an instant, another part of you feels [[anger->Who do you think you are?]]. Why would he speak to you this way?] (t8n-arrive:"blur")["Yeah, you always did have a lot of questions. You were always so inquisitive, so confused, so insistent I explain everything to you. So here we are again, me holding your hand all the way here. Let me ask you a question. What kind of place can you think of where there's no sun, where things don't make sense, where you run around in circles forever and ever? Tell me what this is."]
(click: 'Tell me what this is."')[You've been considering this world since you appeared in it, and have come to two conclusions. This is either a nightmare (t8n:"flicker")+(t8n-time:.5s)+(link-reveal:"or")[...Hell]]
(click: "Hell")[The man that was your father wheezes a sad laugh. Not sad in inflection or tone, but sad in the pathetic way that it rattles his lungs, his throat, and the hole in his cheek as he humiliates you with derisive chuckling.
"Nah. You ain't dead yet. Try again, kid."
With a quivering voice, you tell him this is [[a nightmare->A nightmare]].]
"This is bullshit," you tell the corpse that resembles your Dad. "I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but I didn't sign up for this."
"You think you have a choice?" the zombie rasps. "You went through all the effort to come here, took your sweet time doing it, and now you're going to just try to squirm your way out of it before I've even said what I went through //all of this trouble// to say? It doesn't work that way. This moves on when you tell me what this is. Where we are. What's happening to you right now. Go ahead."
(t8n-depart:"shudder")[["What does that even mean?"->What's happening?]](t8n:"flicker")+(t8n-time: 2s)["Bingo." ]
(after: 4s) ["I came all the way to your dream just to talk to you one last time. So don't bother with whatever you were going to say, I'll come right out with it."
His face shifts, loose eyes settling themselves down into their sockets as the skin around his forehead bunches into a furrowed expression of annoyed scorn.
(after: 12s)["This life, if that's what you call this thing that you've made for yourself, is (text-colour:red)[pathetic]. //You// are (text-colour:red)[pathetic]. And you oughta know something; I will //never, ever// be proud of you. You will (text-colour:red)[never] be good enough. And the worst part is, you're so unwilling to hear it that when this is over, you'll tell yourself it was just your //mean brain// playing tricks on you, because you ''love'' to be the //victim//. Go ahead, wrap that little lie around yourself like a blanket. Convince yourself that this is just a nightmare. But every once in a while, you're going to remember this moment, and the way it felt like more than a nightmare. And I hope it makes you feel one tenth of the (text-colour:red)[shame] I feel at being involved in making such a waste of life." Your father starts laughing, a dry, coughing chuckle that grows into manical, ear-bending cackling. "Now do us both a favor and do what people do (t8n-depart:"blur")+(t8n-depart:"blur")+(t8n-time:4s)[[when a dream is over->Wake Up]]."]](t8n:"blur")+(t8n-time:4s)[You awaken from the terrible nightmare, your father's cackling still ringing in your ears.]
(after: 8s)[You gasp for air, frantically searching the room for the apparition that haunted you only moments ago. In your consciousness, you are mercifully alone. Your sheets are drenched in sweat, chilled air clinging to your exposed skin. Your chest pulsates with fear, your body having yet to understand that what you saw wasn't real. Just another nightmare, one of many that have been troubling you for quite some time now. You've always had an active imagination in your dreams, but this is the worst one you can recall having for quite some time. As reality settles itself all around you, you feel yourself beginning to calm.
(t8n-time:4s)[[You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.->prologue end]]]You sit up, the covers peeling away from your bare skin like a hastily-shed exoskeleton. The summer months are beginning their decline, but for now the heat still lingers in the night air, so you sleep in your underwear. Air conditioning isn't free, after all.
The image of your father's rotting face is burned into your memory. His dry, crackling laugh matches the resonance of the wind in the tree branches outside your window.
You yawn, wiping at your eyes with fingers still weak with sleep. Your room remains as milquetoast as it always has. Flat, lifeless fixtures that demand to be returned in the shape they were rented in. Off-white walls and beige carpeting, orange-peel ceiling like the one in your childhood home. Sometimes, seeing the stalactites of petrified drywall when you wake up makes you forget that you've grown up at all.
Your eyes slide over to the alarm clock.
(mouseover: "alarm clock")+(b4r:"dotted")[7:59]
(click: "7:59") [**Fuck**. One minute early.
With reluctance, you upright your body, your feet making contact with the carpet. It is as unremarkable to the touch as it is to see. Your soles will forget the sensation the moment they make contact with something else, be it your socks or the cold linoleum of the bathroom. You wonder if a [[shower->Shower time]] will help you wake up. Even if it doesn't, you feel sweaty and therefore gross.ㅤYou turn around to look. Behind you (text-rotate-z:1)[is] ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ(text-rotate-z:22)[a]ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ(text-rotate-z:55)[void]ㅤㅤ
(after: 4s)[It's dizzying just to see something so strange. It is not like the inky blackness of the void of space, for even that incomprehensible vastness is punctuated with pinpricks of light. Light that proves there is warmth to be found //somewhere//, even if you yourself can't reach it. This nothingness is just that; an unshaded whiteness, looking like an incomplete painting at the point where it meets with the recognizable landscape beneath your feet. The chill that tugs from beneath your skin makes it clear that there is no comfort for you or any other in that chasm, even if you knew where to look.
Taking a few cautionary steps away from where the world ceases, you face the direction that you began in. You see the [[cottage->Go to the cottage]], then the [[woods->Go to the woods]], and finally on the endless expanse to your [[right->See what's to my right]]. Wherever your egress is, it is certainly down one of those paths.]Your bathroom is just big enough to not feel cramped, yet just small enough to feel claustrophobic. Truly a feat of construction drafting. Sunlight strains through the compact window above the bathtub, not even wide enough to use as a fire escape. It makes the shower curtain translucent, reminding you of the skin on your father's face, seconds away from tearing against the rigid bones supporting his frame. You feel an ache going from your sternum into the pit of your stomach. There went your appetite. At least you won't have to worry about breakfast now.
There's a bath mat at the edge of the shower and another at the foot of the white porcelain toilet, both of them vaguely cream in color and made of loops of soft, pillowy fabric. House warming gifts from your mom, hence why they might be the nicest things in your bathroom. Two white towels hang from a rod above the toilet. There is a plasticine white sink beside your right hip; the kind with faux-wood cabinets underneath and drawers to the side, with a mirror glued to its edge that goes up to the ceiling, thin rivulets of caulk flaking in the angle where they meet.
You activate the shower's weak stream with one hand, pulling what little clothing you're wearing off with the other. Steam fills the room as you [[step in->Depression time]].You step into the shower, warm rivulets of water harmonizing with flesh. Steam consolidates while you cordone yourself off with the curtain. You inhale, deep and protracted, feeling the warm air expand your lungs. Your exhalation is lost to the surrounding vapor, a totem of the despair that has stalked you like a thunderhead swollen with rain and permeated you the way a downpour will when it finds you without an umbrella, miles away from shelter.
You realize something as simple as bathing with potable water is a luxury. Somehow, that revelation doesn't dispel the quaking discomfort lodged in you like shrapnel, tinged with the promise of tangled knots of future trauma to undo whether you manage to dig it out or not.
You have been (text-colour:red)[unhappy] for quite some time. It does not rule every waking moment of your life, but it has a habit of destroying interludes of peace with a single intrusive thought. Its favorite time to assail you is in the quiet moments when you are all alone, maybe lying in bed before sleep takes you, or standing in the shower before you're ready to wash yourself. It's snuck up behind you while you stood in the kitchen, the microwave defibrillating whatever thing you ate that night, more for the sake of survival than pleasure. It's ambushed you in the middle of laughing with a friend, reminding you of how fleeting that moment was, how temporary your complacency was bound to be.
It sat in the chair behind you at your father's funeral, wondering in a whisper only you could hear about whether it was //you// who had been the disappointment all along.
After the funeral, your mother had stricken up a chance conversation with the Director of the funeral home, who offered you a job at her behest. The money was good, and you had no other prospects worth pursuing. More importantly than that, though, she saw it as an avenue you could somehow use as a shortcut in overcoming your fear of death. Morbidly, you've come to realize that in a way, it worked, because you'd rather be dead than spend another season comforting people whose pain you either cannot, or do not wish to fathom. Hell, some days you'd rather jump in front of a bus than endure another lecture from Director Lanning.
But for now you draw breath, and so you wash yourself. Being presentable is just one way to avoid unnecessary conversation with the Director, so you make sure you are just so. Once the water rinses clear off of your body, you stand in the stream, dreading the moment you'll have to [[end this.->TEMP- Thank you for trying!]]
💜💜💜Thank you from the bottom of my heart for expressing interest in Sorry for your Loss. This is an ongoing piece of Interactive Fiction being authored solely by myself. Wherever you came from, please consider following me via my socials at remyallen.carrd.com for sporadic updates💜💜💜