Alterlife III Read online

  Tarin speaks to me. “Well, how about it? Go ahead and introduce yourself to the group. It’s alright, this is a…”

  “Safe space. Yeah, I get that,” I say, cutting the group leader off.

  The woman chuckles and leaves the room as Tarin sits down, extending his hand for me to begin.

  Shit. I’ve been coming here for two weeks now and haven’t said a word to anyone.

  “He doesn’t speak,” Margarette tells Tarin. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say anything to anyone. Not even a friendly greeting. He just comes to these meetings three times a week and sits there, stares at the floor and listens to everyone else talk.”

  “Listening is often best,” Tarin tells her. “What is your name?” he asks me.

  My name…

  I’ve too many names.

  “Steve. My name is Steve,” I reply to him, then focus my eyes back to the floor in the middle of the circle.

  My name is Steve Green. My wife’s name is Pamela. Daughter, Sasha. Son, Jackson, who’s in the hospital from an accidental drive-by shooting in a bad part of Seattle, Washington.

  “Share yourself with us, Steve. Unpack your virtual experience and the emotions that you feel.”

  How can I explain to them who I am and what I’ve done? I can’t. Even if I could reveal my true identity, they would struggle to comprehend that I am Ace the Great from Alterlife, and am part of the reason why people are suffering from virtual reality. After the virus struck, millions of players just stopped playing and gave up Alterlife. Even ones who didn’t play the game gave up VR just to be safe. I’m sure there’s at least a few in the group here who are refugees of Alterlife themselves. If they knew who I truly was and everything that I’ve done, I’m sure they’d string me from the ceiling with a hempen rope, tape my mouth shut and shove tubes of diffused oil up my nose until I choked to death on the effervescent healing powers of lavender and frankincense.

  The whole world would want me dead if they knew my true identity and what I’ve done.

  I look up into each one of their eyes and shake my head. “You don't want to hear my story. You can’t relate.”

  Tarin looks down, places both hands together, and grins. “Sure we can, Steve. We’ve all been there,” he says. Others resound his vote of confidence.

  I raise my voice, eyes still cast upon the floor. “No you haven’t. You don’t have the slightest fucking clue.” I stand up and leave to a gawking circle of idiots.

  In the hall, I pass the woman coming out of the bathroom.

  She takes a drag and puts the cigarette out on the wall. “How’d you do in there, champ?” she asks as I walk past.

  I keep walking and flip her the bird.

  “That good, huh?” she says, amused. “See you next week.”

  No you won’t. Because I’m not coming back.

  2

  Regrets

  Holding the keys to my used Subaru, I lock the doors and look at my house—the one that Jim Pattocks placed us in. Personally, I would never have chosen this house, or thought of Washington as a place to hang my hat, but Jim insisted on us living here, in a subdivision around plenty of people. Which doesn’t make sense to me, but whatever. My hair is long now, and I have a full beard, so the odds of anyone mistaking me for Ace the Great are slim to none.

  I still prefer the country. Wide open space and room to breathe.

  I’ve never felt so closed in before. So choked by cookie-cutter houses and concrete streets with fancy signs on every corner of a seemingly endless subdivision. From the sky, the streets look like a maze on a kid’s coloring book, but there are no walls, just connected roads.

  Looking up and down the street, half the people who live here drive a Subaru.

  I’m one of them now.

  Everyone around here is the same. From their houses, to their cars, to the jobs they work, to the dogs they own as substitutes for children; it’s a lemming mentality, and a life that people have programmed themselves into believing is satisfying.

  I look up and see Carla waving at me through the front window with a big smile on her face. I wave back, and she takes off running to go tell her mother that I’m home.

  A moment later, Jenny opens the front door. She waves at me to come in. “John, what are you doing out there in the rain? You’re soaking wet. Please come inside.”

  As the rain runs down my face, I fumble the keys in my hand, wanting to get back in the car.

  You can’t run from everything.

  “Coming.”

  Hot shower. Fresh pair of gray sweatpants and a white tee.

  Jenny’s potato soup is done and she makes each of us a bowl.

  Steam rises from my spoon, and I blow to cool it down. Take a bite. “This is delicious, babe.”

  “Thank you,” she replies with a forced grin.

  Everything has been forced this year; ever since the Christmas party. It’s all we can do to just hold on.

  “How was your day?” she asks.

  “Fine.”

  Jenny stirs the bowl, eyes fixed on the soup.

  “Daddy, after we eat do you want to play a game?”

  I give Carla a forced grin. “Maybe later, sweetheart.”

  “Did you go see Ben?” Jenny asks.

  I idly stir my soup. “I did.”

  She waits for me to say more, but there is nothing more to talk about. She knows it, and I know it. She gets up and goes to the fridge. “You want some milk?” she asks.

  “Water’s fine.”

  She brings the water and sits back down. Silence accompanies the slurping sounds as we eat.

  Bored, and apparently not hungry, Carla hops up and grabs a stack of coloring books and her box of crayons from a small table nearby. She brings them back and pushes her bowl of soup to the side.

  “Carla, eat your soup. Your mother worked hard to cook that.”

  “I don’t want to,” she replies and opens the book.

  “I’m not going to tell you again,” I tell her, not liking her disrespect.

  “John,” Jenny cautions me.

  I bite my tongue and look away. Carla’s going through a hard time with all of this as well, and I need to be sensitive to that. My sweet girl has developed an attitude and has become more rebellious since we moved, and I can understand why. She lost her big brother—her best friend and protector—and is dealing with it in her own way.

  Jenny and I continue to eat as Carla colors.

  “How was the group today?”

  “Same as usual. Except we had a new group leader.”

  “Did the new leader work well with the group?”

  “I guess.” I take a drink of water.

  Carla shuts the book. “Daddy, do you want to do a puzzle?”

  “I’m eating, Carla. Food is good for you, so I’m eating food to make me strong and healthy. You should try it.” That came off condescending. I know it’s no way to talk to your child, but I can’t help it right now.

  “I’m not hungry,” she pouts, looking down, avoiding eye contact.

  I stare at her, then look to Jenny who continues to sip and stare at her soup, though it seems she isn’t enjoying it.

  I speak to Carla. “If you’re not going to eat, then excuse yourself from the table.”

  “I don’t want to,” she replies.

  “Excuse me? Young lady, you’re pressing your luck.”

  “I don’t care. You excuse yourself from the table,” she tells me.

  I point to the living room and raise my voice. “Go sit down. Now.”

  She looks at me with tears in her eyes, hurt and confused, then stomps off to do as I said.

  Jenny drops her spoon in the bowl and jumps up to take it to the sink.

  I shake my head and continue eating.

  Jenny practically throws the dish into the sink.

  “Calm down,” I tell her.

  She snaps around. “Shut your mouth. How dare you come in here and treat us like this.”
/>   I drop my spoon into the bowl. “What are you talking about? I come home, get twenty questions from you in a condescending manner, then have my daughter disrespect me. How dare me?”

  She slaps both hands on the kitchen island. “Well maybe that’s because you don’t talk anymore. You won’t say anything. You avoid home whenever you can, and when you are here, you want to be left alone.”

  I throw my arms out. “Then leave me alone!”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you taking drugs again, John?” It’s a warning disguised as a question.

  I meet her gaze. “No.”

  She searches me for a lie.

  I stand up and nearly knock the chair over. Walk to the island. “But the thought does cross my mind.”

  She folds her arms. “Oh, and what thought is that?”

  “To get drunk, get high, to blow my fucking brains out,” I tell her, making a pistol with my hand and putting the barrel to my head.

  Jenny’s eyes widen at me and she nods to the living room where Carla is. “Keep your voice down.”

  I continue. “I want to do anything that will take this pain away. But you know what keeps me from doing any of that?” I ask with tears of anger welling in my eyes. “It’s the guilt and shame from what I’ve done. And every time I think about drowning the pain away, I don’t because it wouldn’t be fair. I deserve to live with the consequences of my actions and to feel every heartbreak, every pit of despair, every nightmare that haunts my dreams.” Tears fall as I look at the ground, then back up at her. “I have created this hell, and this is where I must stay.”

  Her hand covers her mouth as she starts to break down.

  Silence.

  It’s too much.

  “I didn’t mean it like that…”

  It’s all too much.

  I begin to sob, letting it all out for the first time since we’ve moved. I’ve tried to remain strong, not only for myself, but for my family. But I’m tired of trying.

  Jenny walks to me, holds me in her arms, and cries with me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, choked from the emotion that’s washing over me.

  Jenny squeezes me tighter and sobs. My legs give way and we both fall to the floor; she still holds on to me.

  “I’m sorry,” I sob.

  “It’s okay. I forgive you,” she says, choking back her emotion.

  Face pressed against her chest, my body convulses with the pain of remorse and the shred of redemption that just came with her words.

  “I love you, John Crussel. For better or worse. And I’m sorry. I’ve let myself sink into despair and haven’t been here for you or Carla the way I should have.”

  I reach up and caress her head. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

  She rocks me back and forth. “I just want you to know that I’m going to be better for the both of you. And I believe Ben will come back to us. Everything will be better soon, you’ll see.”

  “Change your thoughts, change your world,” I note.

  “Yes. I like that.”

  “It’s something you said once.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I sit up, wipe the tears from my eyes, and give her a kiss. It feels like the first time.

  Jenny wipes her face and gives me a grin; one that doesn’t feel forced.

  I brush my hand across her cheek.

  From behind, Carla is staring at us from under the table.

  “We’ve got company,” Jenny tells me.

  I turn and see my baby girl, apprehensive and wondering what’s going on with us.

  Jenny cry-laughs and waves her over to join us. “Come here, baby.”

  She curls into her mother’s lap. “Are you and daddy done fighting now?”

  Jenny brushes her hair. “Yes, we are done fighting,” she says, smiling at me, her face wet from crying. “We just had to talk things out. Sometimes grownups need to talk about things to make everything better.”

  I put my hand on Carla’s shoulder. “We love you so much, Carla. Sorry mommy and daddy haven’t been acting the best lately.”

  “I haven’t been acting the best, either,” she notes, looking down in shame.

  I kiss her on the head. “Well since we’ve all been acting poorly, what do you say we turn things around? How about we all start acting better?”

  “Yes!” Carla says.

  Jenny nods. “Yes.”

  I smile at them. “Alright then.”

  “Can we watch a movie?” Carla asks.

  “Sure. Your choice.”

  She jumps up and runs to the living room.

  I help Jenny stand.

  “I’ll make some popcorn,” she says with a smile, wiping the black, mascara tears from her eyes.

  “That sounds good, babe.”

  On my way out of the kitchen, I peek into the living room. “I’ll be right there, Carla. Pick something good.”

  Inside the bathroom, I close the door.

  I stare into the mirror.

  My fist clenches and wants to break it.

  Though I want to with all my heart, I can’t be better. Nothing I say or do will change anything that happened. I can’t erase the past. I must live with this…

  If I must live in this hell, then the least I can do is wear a smile and enjoy the flames.

  For my family.

  Because I told them I would try to be better, even though the effort is futile; the remains of my life will forever be in part misery.

  Sometimes, trying is the best we can do.

  And it’s got to count for something.

  3

  Old Friends

  Walking onto the job sight, I knock on the door of the foreman’s trailer.

  “Come in,” a rough voice calls from inside.

  I open the door and step inside. “I’m here for the interview. My name’s Steve.”

  The large man with a smoke-stained mustache sizes me up. “Hey, Steve. Have a seat,” he says, motioning to a chair on the other side of his desk.

  I hand him my resume and sit down. Nostalgia from a past life hits me as I watch him look over my credentials, deciding if I’m qualified enough to work for him.

  A piece of paper sums up a man, and a man’s worth is judged by this…

  “We’re under the gun right now and are in bad need of some help.” He lowers the papers and looks me in the eye. “Fifteen years as an operator, huh? What can you do?”

  “Anything. Grade, pave, run a dump truck. You name it.”

  “Any other skills?”

  “Basic mechanical. Hydraulic, and some electrical. Enough to troubleshoot a machine if it breaks down.” I wait for him to ask another question, but he’s busy going over my resume. “I can weld, as well. Nothing pretty, but enough to make something stick.”

  He sets the papers down and leans back into his worn, leather office chair. “That’s good. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find a decent operator now days, especially one that can run various equipment. And your other skills, the mechanical and welding, make you even more qualified.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” I stand from my seat and reach to shake his hand.

  “Bob Fisher,” he replies as he leans over his desk and grips my hand firmly.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fisher.”

  “Likewise.”

  I sit back down and rub my hands. “So, what do you say? Do I have the job?”

  He reclines back in his seat again. “When can you start?”

  “Right now.”

  He laughs. “Seriously?”

  I stand up. “I’m serious. I can start right now. You said you’re running behind schedule, right? Let’s get to work, then.”

  He raises his eyebrows, stands up, and places both hands on his desk. “Alright. I’ll get your paperwork processed right after you show me what you can do on that excavator out there,” he says, and points to the machine outside.

  “Sounds good, Mr. Fisher. Th
ank you for the opportunity.”

  He extends his arm, guiding me outside first.

  I open the door and see the excavator in front of me. My gaze turns down at the fresh dirt and, with each step, I stare at my old work boots that I once wore in my former life. They feel just as I remember.

  It’s you and me, old friends. Nice to see you again. I know we haven’t seen each other in quite some time, but I guess that’s about to change. Hell, I don’t know, maybe not? It’s not that I need the money. I just think going back to work is going to be good for my family and myself.

  I climb into the machine, shut the door on the cab, and fire the engine up. Standing thirty feet away, Mr. Fisher writes on a clipboard, preparing to evaluate me.

  My hands run over the steering wheel. Touch the levers. Feel the pedals under my feet.

  Mr. Fisher nods his head at me to begin.

  I nod back.

  Then I make the machine do what I want. The arm and bucket move effortlessly, as if they’re an extension of my own body. I dig a hole and place the dirt to the side. For show, I drive the machine around the pit while simultaneously scraping the dirt back in—most operators keep the machine in one place while they work until they have to move to another spot. Yeah, I know it’s showing off, but I’m just that damn good. And it feels good to showcase my skills and realize that I still got it.

  After filling the hole and grading the surface smooth with the bucket, I cut the machine off and jump from the cab. Walking up to Mr. Fisher, it's not hard to gauge his reaction.

  Needless to say, he’s impressed.

  He chuckles and slaps the clipboard on his side. “Damn, son. I didn’t expect that.”

  I smile at him. “Where should I start?”

  He points to the far end of the job site where there’s backhoes, excavators, and dump trucks all working in earth-moving harmony. “Take that excavator over there and see Adam. He’s the foreman, and he’ll tell you what he needs you to do.”

  “I’m on it.” I shake his hand again. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  He shakes my hand and smiles. “No. Thank you. I’ll go handle your paperwork now.”

  I watch him walk back into the trailer before turning around to face the big, yellow machine.