My family has completely disregarded me for the past two years. I have not received a single acknowledgement from them since my 14th birthday. No birthday cards, no Christmas gifts, no plate for Thanksgiving. No Halloween candy. No new years wishes. They don’t even take me on family trips. They just leave me alone in my room every day of the month. Even my sister doesnt spend time with me anymore. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. But it doesn’t feel quite like resentment. Every time I see their gaze drift to my bedroom door, covered in cheap slasher movie posters, I see their eyes briefly fill with hopelessness.
Come to think of it, even my classmates and teachers have ignored me as well. I’m never on the attendance list. I wasn’t assigned a specific seat; I just walked in and took the empty seat in the back. Teach doesn’t collect my schoolwork, and I have no friends because everyone absolutely refuses to talk to me. They don’t even look at me.
I really feel like I’m a victim of a cruel prank and everyone is in on it but me. I have no one who will even acknowledge me.
Naturally, like your average socially inept child, I recluded into fantasy to distract myself from the isolation. I obviously had no one to play with, but I would read every DnD rulebook that came out, imagining a table full of friends who listened to my every description of the game. This only made me more lonely though. I delved into science fiction, particularly dystopia. I really liked to see fictional characters’ worlds fall to Ruin, much like mine did 2 years ago.
The other week, a vhs store that went out of business was taken over by a new company. Open to visitors, inside they have tall machines with all sorts of flashing lights and fancy animations. A red stick protruded from the surface of these machines, with 4 or 6 buttons next to it. Insert a nickel, and you get an audio filled experience in the new “digital world”. There were spaceship games, games involving guns, some little red dude with a silly hat on, and a weird yellow circle that went “waka-waka”.
There was so much to choose from, and the machines even let me play for free! I was able to immerse myself in a new world, where i didn’t feel the heart wrenching pit of loneliness in my life. For months I stared at these screens from morning until nightfall. Sometimes I wouldn’t even go home for the night, making this red man jump into bright green pipes, or moving around this yellow circle to consume white dots.
It was 3 months ago that I observed something strange. When the games go idle, and the machines play their demos , sometimes slipped into these clips are missing person’s reports. All children. Mostly girls, but a few boys. These would come on at irregular intervals. But at least 5 children were named in the first week. But as the weeks went on, the roster was increased to many more. I lost track once it hit the 30s. It became difficult to determine which were new and which i had already seen. Eventually I brought a pad of paper to write down each name I saw, then I put an X each time I saw them come back up. Thousands of children. People I knew from school. Neighbors. Old friends. Cousins. My sister. And today, after months of this, while I was playing Galactica, I saw my own face pop up. Christopher Malcolm Fischer. Missing for more than two years from the point of posting.
What the fuck. This can’t be right. Can it? What does this mean? And immediately after I saw this, as the demo reel started playing again, the screen blacked out for the final time. The screen in front of me blacked out after, and before my eyes I saw all of the screens blinking out one by one, like Dominos, until the room around me was completely dark. The only light left in the room was the red glowing plastic of the “Exit” sign. I take my final exit from the arcade, take one last look at its glowing sign, and thanked it for its time.
I think i understand.
I returned home, fully appreciating the architectural design of the house for the first time in my life.
I took a deep breath, and entered the threshold of my home.
All of the pictures of my sister and i had been taken down from the walls. Some were in boxes. some waiting to be packaged, leaning against the wall patiently. On the far wall of the living room, a small side table has been illuminated by candles. Incense burned in a small bowl, giving off the loveliest scent. Newspaper snippings are strewn across the stand, showing various children’s names. Ours were circled in red. There were other clippings too; Various people found guilty of capturing children and slaughtering them,disposing of them in ways that prevented them from being identified. Cold, evil people. Leaving families to forever wonder whether their children are dead, or lost somewhere out there in this terrible world.
And at back of the altar, in carved wooden frames, were pictures of me and my sister, at our last birthday parties.
I walked upstairs to the bedrooms. I could hear my mother sobbing from behind her closed door, and my father hopelessly trying to console her. “I can’t do this anymore” she says. Father responds “I know.” And begins to sob along with her. I step into my sister’s bedroom. The place was surprisingly fragrant. It appears my parents were spraying the room with her perfume, the glass bottle left open on her nightstand. A picture of her stood there in a black wood frame, the glass cracked through the middle. A drawing whe made in class of a multicolored unicorn was placed on amongst these things, smudged and tear stained.
And with that, I went into my room. The posters were no longer on my door. My belongings had been packed up in brown unmarked boxes. A cardboard castle, surrounding the only thing left unpackaged; My bed. The gray light sheets were still on it, freshly washed. The pillows freshly fluffed. My blanket tucked away neatly.
I sit on my mattress, feeling the creaking of its worn out springs. A single candle burned on my nightstand, illuminating a lone newspaper clip, reporting that large numbers of children were going to local arcades and never making it back home, lost to the world. The picture for the article was the glowing sign of my beloved arcade, the lights of all my favorite games visible through the glass windows. In front of the building stood a small group of children, waiting for the doors to unlock, smiling and waving at the camera. I can’t make it out for sure, but i think the tall kid standing in the back was me, wearing my favorite Hendrix t shirt that my father got me on the last Christmas we spent together.
As I read this article, my mind is flooded with memory, painful but truthful. Playing Pacman, getting struck in the head hard enough to bring stars to my vision. The hand over my mouth. The pleasant, sweet scent of the cloth. Waking up behind iron cell bars. A locked door before me.
I wasn’t alone in my cell ,and it reeked of unwashed bodies , piss, and feces. There was a metallic scent as well. In the corner there was a boy, unmoving, unbreathing. I look around, and all about the room are more than a dozen of the very same children from the flyers. Kids of various ages and skin colors. One of them didn’t even speak English.
One looked directly into my eyes and sobbed. It was my little sister; bruises covering her face and arms, scabs dotting her skin. We spent the night together upon my arrival. But alas, our reunion wasn’t to last.
Slowly, one by one, each of them were dragged out of the room, screaming - the first of them being my sister. They never came back. Each was used, tortured, and abused. Probably threw the bodies in the trash. Eventually, I was the only one left. He had his turn with me. I shoved my face into the pillow, sobbed heavily, and screamed as loud as I could.
And then I felt my chest burst open. Blood drips out if a gaping wound to stain the white sheets underneath me. And suddenly everything grows cold, and dark.
I get it now. I took a deep breath. My very last, somehow two years after my death. As I exhale, I softly whisper “Goodbye” as I fade out of this realm, hopefully to a better one. In my absence, a cold gust fills the room, smelling lightly of roses and cherry wood smoke.
The flame of the candle extinguishes, leaving behind a whisp of smoke, as the sun sets, a golden light shining throughout the two bedrooms longing for the presence of their inhabitants. Shadows briefly pass through the room, seeking for the bodies that they once called their home.