Reality Reconstruction

Early. Bright. Head hurts. Not sure where I am. Look around. Curious. Takes a while to recognize my surroundings.

White. Laboratory. Body sensations few. Have trouble moving my limbs.

Look down. Horror. Shock.

Recognition.

It slowly dawns on me. The reality (is that what it is?) creeps into my consciousness bit by painful bit.

Accident.

There was an accident, that’s why I’m here. Something happened. Family? Wife? Daughter?

All gone.

I am property of the state.

More memories come flooding back. Natural, or drug induced?

Cold table. Steel. Gurney. Machines. Connected.

All I can move is my eyes. Blips, lights, humming, buzzing.

A door opens. Footsteps. Floor sounds hard. Soles of shoes sound hard. Two pairs. Walking up behind me. Peering over me, staring, investigating.

Eye contact.

“Do you think he remembers anything?”

“Maybe, let’s run the tests.”

They are talking to each other. Not to me.

They walk over to some instruments, glancing back at my (body?) as they do.

“Seems we had a success. Full simulation. Again?”

“Yea, let’s up the matrix this time.”

Eyes go blurry. Room fades. Now fades. I’m back (when?). I’m back (where?).

“Daddy!”

My daughter runs, and jumps into my arms. I just had one of those weird moments where you kind of brain fart. I grab her and hold her tight. Today is her fifth birthday party. At least it will be in thirty minutes or so. That’s when the invitation said to show up. Fifteen of her friends had already RSVP’d, well, their parents did at least. Five years old. She is growing quick. It only seemed like yesterday we were in the delivery room, her mom, my wife, screaming and crying at the same time, only to have that look of complete wonder and astonishment when they placed her in her arms.

“We have a girl!” she’d said to me through tears. Happy tears. Wonderful tears.

“Daddy!” she screams in my ear.

“Can we eat the cake yet?”

“Not till everybody gets here!” I say, putting her down.

“Hey!” I hear my wife calling me.

“Help me with this!” She is reaching down under the cabinet, getting the extra plates for cake and ice cream. She has trouble bending. I smile.

“Let me do that, be careful.” I say, patting her big stomach. Two more months.

I put all the plates out on the table, as my little girl runs around me in circles, signing. Not sure where she picked up that song from, but it sounds cute.

The doorbell rings.

“Daddy, they’re here!”

I turn to walk toward the door. My feet won’t move. Like those dreams where you try desperately to run, but can’t move. Why is this happening to me when I’m awake?

The doorbell rings again. Not the doorbell. An alarm.

Footsteps. Hard soles on a hard floor.

Please, not again. I want to go back. I can feel a tear running down the side of my face. I can move my eyeballs, but nothing else.

“Wow, look at this.” I hear one voice say to the other.

“Almost eighty percent.”

“Better than expected. Let’s try to change the algorithm. See what that does.”

No, no, please. I’m desperate to get up, to run, to flee, to end this somehow, but I can’t move.

The room starts to fade.

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