Chapter 11:

358/2 Days

Yesterhead

Do you remember being born?

Of course you don’t. It’s not like we even have free will or a conscience until we’re like, what? Three years old?

But it’s fucked up how we can’t remember any of that…

Sometimes, I feel like I don’t remember anything.

“Good morning, Molly!” Elaine calls to me as I walk down the stairs to pick up breakfast for once. Now that I’ve got the time, I find myself eating a lot more than before.

A bowl of peanuts and a glass of water is all I want. Back to my room I go. As I prepare to set the meal down, I see I already have two cups in here. I decide to take them back to the sink later.

I boot up my cracked TV.

I’m mostly into console games nowadays. VR is just bad memories, and it’s really kind of a hassle. Not to mention it’s physically exerting. I’m still a small, frail kid, after all… and with that big thing plugged into my face, I couldn’t feel more weighed down. I rub the holes in my forehead. Guess I should get ‘em filled soon. Or buy some covers for ‘em. It’s just embarrassing, honestly. What will Elaine say when I ask to get them fixed? “I told you so,” probably.

I scroll through an army of games in my library before I pick one I actually feel like playing. Nothing that crazy or anything. It’s just Valedictorian Chronicles 4, the not-quite-mainstream-but-pretty-close anime life sim RPG of people slightly older than me’s generation. This is one of the few popular ones in the wider series I haven’t finished yet. I started not too long ago, but I’m already pretty damn close to the end by the looks of it.

As I watch the virtual high schoolers on screen fight to upbeat J-rock music I’m struck with a feeling I haven’t had before. Used to, when I saw kids this age, I thought… “Oh. That’ll be me one day.” or, “Oh, I wish that were me.” But now… huh. That’s not me. It never will be me. It couldn’t be, not anymore. After all, I’m not a highschooler. As far as typical anime go, my story’s already over. And that’s okay, I guess. Just… weird.

Really… really weird.

Before I know it, the day’s over. Yep. Time to go to bed. Lying under the dirty covers, I stare at my three glasses. I can’t remember which one’s the newest.

I’m at least responsible enough to take them downstairs when I get up the next morning. Unfortunately, I’m clumsy enough that I drop one, too. Luckily, Elaine is at work, so nobody gets upset or anything. I just clean it up and go back to work.

These later dungeons are better than the start of the game. The combat’s always more engaging when the difficulty gets cranked up. As a veteran of RPGs like this, it kinda has to get to that point before I have any fun. While I’m playing, I see out of the corner of my eye that I get a new text on my phone.

The reason it took me so long to get to this entry in the series is kinda childish. I mean… it’s just, everyone likes this one. I heard it pissed off plenty of assholes like me when it came out. It’s just as tropey as the previous entry and twice as upbeat. Well, when you ignore the murder. But that’s just plot. I kinda wish I wasn’t spoiled on this one, I’ve known who the killer is for years thanks to memes on the internet. The text showing on my phone’s lock screen is from an unknown number again.

A funny thought crosses my mind. Maybe I should look at the text for once. I get them all the time, but I never look at them because they remind me of weird things. You know, like high school. All these swallow memories I’ve been trying to toss aside ever since life became a series of simple off-days.

But… I am a teensy bit bored. I’ll check it, just this once. Hopefully it’s not from one of my many, many discarded contacts.

Today 3:32 (Unknown)

Hey, Molly? It’s me again. It feels like it’s been forever since we last spoke. I still really want to see you sometime. What’s up?

When I’m not playing anime dating sims, I’m on my phone. Listening to music isn’t as exciting as it used to be, but I still find good stuff now and then. Only bad part is being subjected to message notifications every hour.

Today 4:15 (Unknown)

I don’t want to bother you. I promise, I don’t. But if there’s anything you ever need again, I’m willing to help. I get that the Elopas project is over, but I was thinking.. maybe we could make a game together or something? Something real, achievable. If we can’t make living art, we could at least make art.

Please respond.

I don’t have a car or anything. I don’t drive. And I don’t have anywhere to go. If someone asked me to go somewhere… that would be a hassle. I don’t want Elaine to take me anywhere, that’d be weird. And there’s nowhere I want to go anyway. It’s a good thing I can listen to all the music I want from the comfort of my own room. And I’d be all alone, were it not for these messages.

Today 4:34 (Unknown)

Dylan misses you too. I don’t know what’s up, but he’s been going through it lately. He always really looked up to you, I think. He could probably use a few of your harsh words.

I love music. I listen to a lot of music. Do you wanna know all the music I listen to? It’s a lot of music. Why, if I were to list it all, it would take forever. I dislike how it reminds me of the man who introduced me to it, (my father) but anything Rob Zombie is great. And Trial of the Golden Witch really isn’t very technically impressive, but I’ve always loved the lyrics, even if I only discovered the band as a small bonus from going down a much deeper rabbit hole of people’s overly-publicized lives. Clown Core is one of the better reflections of myself, if I do say… of course, I could never listen to “End” or “Google Your Own Death” without crying. Gotta love Kobaryo. Voodoom’s incredible. I love Ho99o9, and I love Ging Nang Boyz. I still really like Panchicko ever since a shitty video essay introduced me to it, and I like Acetantina a little more than that. meganeko’s not something I listen to much anymore, but I used to enjoy it. KFC Murder Chicks is the GOAT. I’ve actually listened to the soundtrack to Cruelty Squad more than any other video game. Bubblegum Octopus has gotta be in my top three. Coakira is perfect noise. I’ve gotten a lot more into Five Star Hotel lately after I went through picking out the kind of songs that I came to the band for in the first place. Golden Boy is another great one… and Shoebill’s fun. I especially love DJ Technorch, and I often find myself craving Creepy Nuts. Big fan of Death’s Dynamic Shroud. Out of everything I listen to, Jackal Queenston is probably the most reflective of my essence. I enjoy Deathwishiz too. Can’t begin to name all the vocaloid producers I listen to. I like the songs from Lily Chou-Chou, whatever that is. I like Parsley Onuma. I like Red Vox. I like Fear, and Loathing in Las Vegas. I like The Mirraz. I like Cornelius. I like… I like…

My phone died.

I forget the message.

I often feel like the ground underneath my feet has slipped out from under me. Like I’m floating. Like I’ve lost the plot. Was there any plot to begin with? Life is life, it’s not a novel. But when your only point of reference is fictional stories, it’s kinda hard to see it as anything else. I guess that’s just how I’ve always interpreted things. Or is it? How long have I thought this way? I can’t really say for sure. Most of the time I just feel like I was born yesterday. It's true that it might be that way for everyone, but I’m so aware of it that it breaks me up inside. Is any of this real? When did it all begin? I’m smart enough to know that thinking this way hurts me, but my brain is too loud to shut it up. Even my dreams are post-modern meta commentaries these days.

So did I really wind up this way out of chance? Am I just an unlucky bastard in a world full of normal people? I force myself to think back to the kids a younger version of myself thought she knew. Most of them were just like me, weren’t they? So how the hell are they managing right now? I guess the person who texted me earlier was probably Wire. Wire always felt pretty much the same way about life that I did. The only difference with him is that he convinced himself he could take it. He’s a brave kind of guy. That positive trait outweighs the negative one, or at least balances it a little. I don’t have anything like that. He mentioned Dylan was in some trouble, and I guess that makes sense. He’s got even less going for him than I do, so how the fuck’s he still fighting? Why haven’t I stopped hearing from him? Is it seriously just ‘cause he’s had Wire to bitch to?

Let’s see, who else? Debbie (Debby?) would be a senior now, wouldn’t she? Maybe just a junior. I can’t really recall how old she was... not that it super matters or anything. I think she was just crazy. I mean what point of reference does it take to be able to understand your life when you have such abnormal desires? I don’t get it. Things can’t possibly feel real when you want to saw your own leg off. She was doing well enough by the end of the year, though. Maybe she’s just so fucked that it wrapped around so that she just takes everything for granted.

Those are the only kind of people that’re really able to make it in this world. I mean, if you can just believe in your own narrative, and keep working on like a slave, you’ll never have any of these problems. God, I wish I was so fucking stupid.

Most of the time I’m just trying to get stupid enough to keep on living. I’m just trying to distract myself- that’s what all the music’s for. That’s what this very game is for. I’d say I was numbing myself, but the truth is I don’t feel anything to begin with. When I’m not completely invested in some fantasy, I become enraptured by this all-encroaching nothingness. Instantly I become aware that my reality is more fiction than anything. The more time passes, the less I remember certain things. I can no longer say for sure what exactly happened in my childhood, or what any of the details were. I forget which memories are true and which I just made up for some reason or another. If I was stupid like everyone else, all those memories- real or fake- they’d just blend together. I’d just accept it. But I’m too damn smart for that. Instead I’m constantly fucking fighting myself over what’s real and what’s fake to the point where instead of it all seeming real, it just all seems fake.

My parents would often tell me about how I loved a show as a child that I’ve never seen, or how an interest or opinion I don’t recall having defined part of me for them. And all the same, I will often bring things up to them about my past that they deny. Like, didn’t we used to live in a cabin somewhere? Did I just make that up? I swear to god I remember living in a cabin once.

Media, my one true love, is what hurts me more than anything else. Sometimes I will mistake a scene from a film I saw as a child as a memory I experienced in reality. Other times, I will witness a scene in the present, only to be struck with a strange deja-vu for either of those possibilities, when really, it reminded me of something that never happened in fiction or reality- a fake memory I made up on the spot. It’s like how sometimes, you’ll have a dream that seemingly references something you came up with in another dream- but then you wake up, and start to wonder if it was all really just the same dream, convincing you of a past one you never fucking had in the first place.

All these fake memories, whether from dreams, or fiction, or just reality itself- twisted by my sick and clouded mind, force me to stare at this world through a thick glass pane. Unaware of what the truth really is. Unable to differentiate the facts and figures from abstract interpretations brought upon by myself.

My memories collapse, so I cower. my aesthetic breaks, so I cower. I fear my links to the real world so I cower. I forget who I am, so I cower.

I hate myself, so I cower.

Tonight, I’m eating dinner with Elaine. I don’t like to admit it, but it’s felt very, very weird ever since Huey left. It’s not even like I miss the guy, it’s just… it still feels like my parents getting divorced was something that wasn’t supposed to happen. My own dad just dropped out of my life like that, before I really even knew him. We’re a secretive bunch, so I can’t really say much about what he was like. He was nice, I suppose. I didn’t dislike him. But I knew fuckall about his past or his dreams.

Across from the empty table sits my mother, with her identical plate of eggs and bacon. I’m sick of breakfast for dinner, but it’s all she makes nowadays. Even though she’s got no time to cook anything good, she usually refuses to eat out. Looking at her from this angle again, I’m reminded of that horrible day when we spoke, just before my stupid dream got debunked. It’s an embarrassing thing to remember, to say the least.

“How was your day?”

She asks this like she won’t know the answer already. It’s a lifeless, stilted “good,” as always. Mom doesn’t bug me. If I kept saying I was good the rest of my life, to her I would be. And more or less, I am. This is all I want, really. Fighting off my brain is annoying, but… overall, this sure beats the shit out of going to school. Really.

“I’m glad I got the day off today. Work hasn’t been the best lately.”

I freeze. “I thought you went to work.” I say.

“No, I work tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

I’m not paying very much attention, huh…

“Have you given any thought to…?”

“To what?”

“College. Or… you know, a job.”

“Not really.”

“Okay. Let me know if you do.”

We continue to eat. I don’t say anything else as my mind starts racing again. What about I forget as soon as she starts flapping her lips again.

“Grandma was talking about you today.”

“When did she come here?”

“On the phone.”

“Oh.”

“She said she wanted to hear from you more… we talked about you getting more in touch with the family.”

“Yeah.”

“And I’m sure your friends at school would like a way to keep up with you, so we signed you up for social media.”

“Oh.”

“Here.” She shows it to me on her phone, my face plastered on a profile pic. It’s a school photo from two years ago. There’s information below. Most of it is outdated.

“I see.” I look away to my food.

“Your login is your birthday.”

“Alright.”

“What are your friends up to?”

“Hm?”

“Is Dylan doing anything lately?”

“Who…?”

“The boy you went to preschool with.”

“How would I know?”

I’m almost done with Valedictorian Chronicles 4. I stay up all night playing that and thirteen other games I pirated and dumped onto my system. It’s an uneven selection. I try them all, but most of the ones that end up working suck. My wasted effort is a decent distraction nonetheless.

Six hours of hard-fought sleep.

I wake up in the middle of the next day. I decide to brush my teeth for once. Looking in the mirror, I see Molly again. I wonder why she’s still there. I’d get bored, being behind glass all the time. What a bitch.

Lying in bed doing nothing, I have a sudden urge to cry.

Not like, the feeling of being about to cry. I’m not even close. I mean… the desire to cry. I dunno why, but… I think it might be fun to cry right now.

I listen to the two saddest Clown Core songs, but they don’t even get me to the edge. Even after looping them, it’s not doing it. But I keep them playing. The longer they play, the more I become used to hearing them instead of silence. This is the normal thing for my ears to be hearing in absence of anything else. I use this state to delve.

I force myself to think of the saddest things I can imagine.

I think of never having any fun in high school, but that doesn’t do it.

I think of Gormage and death and suicide, but that doesn’t do it.

I think of my failed relationships, and people like Harley Burtrue and Harmony, but that doesn’t do it.

I think of Elopas, but that definitely doesn’t do it.

Then I remember an old feeling.

Dylan wanting to borrow my Tails toy.

The subsequent loss of that toy.

That does it.

I start silently bawling, unable to be sure if Elaine is really at work or not. I can’t go all out, but it feels good for a while. And then…

It stops.

And I don’t even feel sad.

I don’t even feel anything.

I’m not even sure if I really cried or not.

It’s possible I just imagined it. That’s how it feels once it’s been a few minutes since the present truth of me crying died, giving way to the present I inhabit now.

I’m playing Valedictorian Chronicles 4 again when I get a new message on the phone I charged for the sole purpose of listening to my music earlier.

Today 3:13 (Unknown)

Molly can we talk

I really don’t feel like I’d have anything to say to anyone. I don’t understand what this person would want from me. Maybe they’re just texting to complain? Shit, it’s probably Dylan, I bet. Maybe I’ll fuck with him, just a little.

Today 3:14 (Me)

who is this ?

Today 3:18 (Unknown)

Dylan

Today 3:18 (Me)

Today 3:18 (Unknown)

Is this Molly?

Today 3:19 (Me)

Today 3:19 (Unknown)

Sorry.

Huh.

Shit, guess I fooled him.

I’m a little too convincing for my own good.

With that pointless little side event over with, I’m free to go back to my game.

I play all day long, but don’t beat it. Turns out there’s this whole extra quest after the final boss you have to go through to get the true ending. I don’t really wanna play it, but I’ve already devoted so much time to the game that it feels like a waste to settle for the normal ending.

I just want to feel something.

With Elopas gone, my life has become utterly meaningless once again. It was a silly diversion, but it gave my life a meaning. A meaning I’ve now lost, along with the people and places I’ve abandoned. I don’t want any of these things. Just thinking about them makes my skin crawl.

But I must confess… lying here, my eyes projecting the still image of the boring ceiling above me… I feel a deep longing for those foolish things I once held. That past was so exciting compared to this. In present… so little happens. So little matters. I don’t understand a thing going on around me, and sure as shit don’t care to in the first place. I am not alive. This is not my life. It’s just someone else’s, that she abandoned on the sewer floor.

I retreat to the main menu of Valedictorian Chronicles 4.

Ignoring the gazes of the fictional teenage love interests, I select the well-worn “LOAD” icon. Inside lies the single, lone save file containing all my progress.

Eighty hours, forty-two minutes, and six seconds of saved gameplay.

One very interesting option waits for me at the bottom of the screen.

“Delete.”

My hand hovers over the X button.

It’s like I’m driving a car, and something in my brain just told me to run over the nearest dog on the sidewalk.

I want to know what it feels like to delete this save.

I want to know how much I will care after I render days of my human existence completely meaningless, discarding all of the progress I made during them.

Will this make me feel?

Will I cry?

If I do, will I remember?

If someone knows the answers to these questions, it isn’t the Molly I inhabit right now.

Without thinking I slam on the button.

“Are you sure?” It asks me. Two options await:

“Delete.”

“Cancel.”

Not wanting to second-guess myself, I select “Delete” immediately.

But it poses one final prompt:

“This action will delete all your progress. Are you really sure?”

“Cancel.”