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As your sore lips touch mine, at first, starved, I cannot keep from staring at the broken screen behind you, this shattered you, my closest company for the last five years. My feeble heart bursts from my chest, as I keep pouring you in, this crushing, murderous you. Your fingers tilt my head up, until we meet.
Your merciless eyes, all I’ll ever see. My past, the future, imagined and real. The vibrant, raw emotion and betrayal on your face. You will punish me. You will forgive me. Moritat was nothing but a dream of my escape. In death, the machine you have just destroyed makes no noises. Panic seizes me.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself, Law.” Your voice is low, expectant. Your body solid in front of me. I can feel the old irresistible pull towards you. I want to bury my hand in your dark, sinful hair.
Jesse. Don’t offer me what I cannot have.
When your light touch leaves my face, my gaze lowers on its own, defeated. You take my hand and drag me out of this tomb. Your fingers are still cold, as if this ardent surge your actions have kindled is consuming me alone.
In front of the mansion, you let go first. As is appropriate, my own hand falls loosely to my side, useless. The streets are empty except for us, an opaque darkness is shrouding and clinging to your fair silhouette. I repeat, I am not you. When I dare to look up again you are frowning at me, as if in deep thought. I cannot face you.
I wanted to completely wreck you and could not, wanted for you to hate me, to finally discard me, after you have gone through Moritat. You have to. I will never tire of you, I can only ever lie to you. And now that you know even this last secret about me, now, without your false idol at my command, I am just as defenseless as five years ago, just as weak. I cannot hide anymore, anywhere. From this need. The prospect is so terrifying, I double over.
You seem to hesitate, I can see your fingers twitching towards me, but you do not reach for me, widening the sudden chasm between us with a single shake of your head.
“No. Not like this again.” You sound hurt, angry? I know, I am pathetic.
“Not like this at all.” The frown now reigns your whole composure, with a snarl you turn around and disappear. I cannot make out your fading footsteps, but imagine you running away from me as fast and far as you can.
I keep standing. For a long time, I keep standing, my nails cutting into my left palm, carving a place for me in this ruined reality. It bleeds, but the bleeding will stop. I am not you. You do not return.
***
At home, I cannot sleep. I cannot go back to the mansion, either. I am isolated from you in a way, I have only ever been for a short amount of time, as you denied my access to Brown estate. I am craving, tossing and turning. You consume me.
As for tomorrow, I have been invited to hold a guest lecture at a nearby university department about the foundations and current state of biochemically enhanced VR systems. Over five years, I have put all my efforts into building Moritat, going behind your back, your very convictions, only to gather any useful knowledge in the fields of neuroscience and psychology, computer systems, virtual reality, I even ventured as far as studying the unconscious and its urges in Freud’s original works, hunted for clues all over modern theories of psychoanalysis and philosophy. Numerous frustrations, failed experiments. Only to decipher the nature of will, truth and desire, to decipher you. You are consuming me.
Only last week, when I had been reconsidering and preparing for the invitation, shuffling through my notes, I had felt a small sense of pride. This could be an unparalleled opportunity for my scientific career, as if my life devoid of you could ever be promising, ordinary, as if there was a future to be had on my own. Now, the prospect feels paler than the cheapest illusion Moritat would provide. Insignificant, only after a single touch from you. I dread the next time we will meet.
I cannot sleep.
***
The lecture hall is so bright, I am exposed, like a newborn bat without wings, a creature of the night, dissected under sterile white light. To soon introductions are finished, the host is looking at me expectantly. Your face flashes before me, a balcony, never ending white snow, white noise. Are you crying because of me?
This morning, I have bandaged yesterday’s wound on my left palm, but the pressure I apply now still stings. I hope it will fester. I am alive and this is real.
I start talking, solidifying and reassuring myself again in the wonders, formulas and possibilities of the human mind and the destructive hubris of technological progress. When I am gazing from nowhere, nobody, nothing can reach me. Not even you.
The discussion following my lecture is of minor interest, I know, I have been convincing, thorough yet nuanced. As I gain confidence, my gaze sweeps the crowd, until I simply seize to exist. Over the rim of your scarf, your eyes are placid. You raise your hand.
“Thank you, Mister Chester, for this captivating insight into your pioneer work and current composition of prototypes. Yet, your vast and open theory of mind leaves room for speculations in two regards, first, on a conceptual, but more important, on an ethical level.” Heads turn in your direction. “What can we actually derive from processing, altering and depicting neural and biochemical signals in the manner you propose? If I understand you correctly, the test subject in question, a living and breathing person, would not even be awake in your experimental arrangement in order for the connecting substance to work. Still, you claim that in your supposed virtual reality their true motives or self would resurface? How can this be the case, if they are not aware of their deeds at any time during the procedure? How can you ever be sure that the choices they make, the things they experience in this environment, would have anything to do with their real life decisions? Wouldn’t it be possible that they are even acting out against their explicit or true will, given, there even exists anything close to something called truth or authenticity?”
“As far as I see it, in this regard, the human mind, the relation between its ‘unconscious’, if one is inclined to run with the term,” you frown as you speak, “and the ego is still an unknown to us, a correlation not to be confused with an explanation.”
“So, I wonder, human subjectivity and agency reduced to merely a dreamlike state, to perfect computation prone to manipulation, is this your research’s goal?” A final, provocative pause. “Lastly, the dangers for a misuse of your apparatus could be immense, not only on an individual but societal level, wouldn’t you agree? As would be the opportunities for an unregulated commercialization. I would love to hear your opinion on that.” You lean back, quiet murmurs spreading in the hall. With a few sentences the world collapses, its pretentious foundations swept away, only to be rebuild according to your liking and strong convictions. My legs might give way this instant, I am small and despicable in front of you, desiring nothing but to fall on my knees, weeping, and to crawl through the rows, only to collapse at your feet in futile atonement.
Instead, I smile just as confidently as you have taught me, I can do this much in order not to embarrass you. “Excellent questions, thank you. Well, first of all, of course, I agree, there are major uncertainties and complications to all I have presented today. I can assure you, the whole research endeavor still remains hypothetical at this point. Never would there ever be a violation of a real person’s integrity for the mere purpose of experimentation, at a point where the consequences of participating in the procedures I have sketched cannot be monitored accordingly yet. Still, I want to highlight that among all the potential dangers you have rightfully pointed out, first and foremost, the therapeutical and overall benefit of future research in this field could be immense, and I am convinced that this commitment to the health and well-being of society as a whole in times of growing crises and uncertainty alone compels us to continue on this path, even though with caution.” I continue, diving further into this improvised fail-safe, several people are nodding. Obviously, this detour works, you meet my gaze across the room, a shrewd smile blooming on your face. I, only I know you well enough to tell it does not reach your eyes.
Do you sense my utter despair, enjoy ruining this very moment, not with an outright accusation but a mere subtlety, by rightfully reminding me that I, still, do know nothing of you? That I, despite all my research and manipulation, am as far away from making sense of your feelings towards me as I have ever been? That I will never know, if you would have chosen me?
Even in this noxious pale light, you look unbearably cold and beautiful, and, in that moment, I wish for nothing more than never having laid my eyes on you. I nod politely to a colleague remarking on my references. I answer another round of questions I won’t remember afterwards.
The next time I look for you in the crowd, you are gone. I want to storm off the platform, but somehow make it through the whole event, even talking to everyone lingering to congratulate on my work. Two persons approach me, from a company interested in starting a cooperation, a large application-oriented research project. If anything, your reservations and critique have only fueled their interest, and my reaction to your inquisition has stood the test. I have qualified as eloquent and quick-witted enough to sell a harmful tool as beneficial, a potential business partner. I feel uncomfortable, flattered. We agree to stay in touch.
This is it, I guess. I don’t need you, Jesse. I don’t need the Brown Company. I could continue just fine.
Alas, my thoughts collide, clawing at my skull, your prompt disappearance urges me to act, to trace you before you might be gone forever. You have crushed my only constant, this mechanical image of you, who can never run, who will never play my emotions the way you just did. I cannot enjoy, not even taste, the silent bitter praise it would have given to me in your stead tonight. I am completely alone.
When I exit the building, a nauseous feeling having taken hold of my body, you are smoking calmly on the other side of the street. The trees are losing their last leaves in a soft breeze, the humid air is almost biting.
“Come, join me for a cup of tea, Law.” Leaving no room for me to decline, you start walking towards the nearby station. “Since our major subjects and research interests are so intertwined, I cannot wait to hear every word of how you came to design such a powerful and interesting prototype.”
The whole train ride, two short stops, I am waiting for something, anything, you won’t give me yet. I cannot guess, execution or funeral. You seem at ease, keeping a fluid balance between polite meaningless conversation and foreboding silence. Will you punish me by never addressing our joint episode in Moritat ever again?
“Where are we going?” I finally ask, lighting a cigarette of my own as we exit the platform.
“The apartment, where I live of course. It’s not far.” I smoke too quickly, my head spinning at the prospect to glimpse a part of your current life. Soon we arrive at a middle-sized apartment complex.
“I cannot help but wonder,” you muse as we are waiting for the elevator in a square lobby, a withered plant the only witness to our encounter, “it almost seems, as if you had chosen the exact edges of my own research, without ever touching on my own topics of interest. As if I could perfectly use and rely on your knowledge in the future to improve my own approach, should I follow through with it.”
The assertion hovers between us like a sealed question. I cannot read your expression now, a blue stare, partly concealed by your accurate hair. Is this approval? Are you furious? Bored. Intrigued?
I would never dare to surpass or rival you, Jesse. If I cannot destroy you, if I failed to destroy you at my only chance, all my work is yours for the taking. I won’t allow myself to entertain a fantasy in which we are working alongside each other. I tear my gaze away. Thankfully, there is no mirror in the elevator.
On the third floor, we continue down a flaked hallway. You seem unperturbed by my lack of speech. “By the way,” you announce before turning your back and the key, “I absolutely adored your answer to my probing questions earlier today. Not that I’d agree to any of your showcase arguments, but seeing you in front of a crowd, confident enough to explain your own views and salvage your reputation makes me kind of glad.”
I feel my cheeks reddening, hating the instant reaction a single phrase arouses. I wonder, are you only preparing the proper ground to wound me?
With two hesitant steps I follow you inside. Just a small one-room apartment. No maids, no riches. Not even curtains. Plain and tidy, with a modern, dark interior so very different from the superfluous and lush ornamentation of your parental home. A small writing desk and a couch competing for the company of a chair, an open doorframe leading to a tiny kitchen, a bed in the other corner, next to what must be the door to the bathroom. It suits you in its simple elegance, yet, I feel my constant guilt resurfacing, my heart beating faster.
What did I take from you?
Lost in the small entry space, I study the titles on your crowded bookcases, as if I would be required to pass an exam on them.
You have been watching me the whole time. Slowly, I put down my bag next to the shelves.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Law.” We both know, this is not true, be it in a virtual or real world. “Why don’t you sit down.”
For once, you don’t seem aware of your folded arms, the way you turn away from me with a slight scowl. I choose the chair, resting my coat on its backrest.
As you exhale, your expression softens. Your eyes are tracing the open doorframe of your kitchen, looking for imperfections. “If I had wanted to sue you for what you did, I already would have done so.”
I know as much and I tell you so with a murmur.
I watch you preparing tea. You do so with a silent concentration, as if the layout of the cabinets were a complicated equation. I love you, Jesse. The way my body turns, hums, attuned to every motion, every remark you make. The air fills with a warm and subtle bergamot aroma. You place the cup directly into my hands and sit down across from me. The cushions must be soft.
“So. Tell me. I have seen you talking to two company representatives.” Tiny ripples on the dark surface of your cup. “What did they want from you?”
I take a sip as well. I am not fooled by your amicable tone. “They have offered me a potential contract. I can lead a research project on VR based on today’s lecture, maybe even establish a department.”
You place your teacup on the desk to your left. Your smile widens, piercing the skin of your cheeks.
“Congratulations, Law.” I can see the blow coming, but there is nowhere to dodge.
“I feel happy for you. Even though, as far as I see it,” your chin comes to rest on your right hand now, “it would be bold from you to accept. Honestly speaking, are you even fit to conduct a research project, carved out to comply with good scientific practice and ethical guidelines?” Your voice drops as do your eyelids, head tipping to the other side. “Since you abducted and abused an involuntary test subject.”
“Not even gaining any new insights. It must be frustrating, I guess.” The words sound overarticulated to my ears, as if spoken to somebody else, underscored by a smooth movement of your hand. The dots of fresh scar tissue on your neck are glossy. When did I disconnect the cords? I squint, against the blinding snow around me, the sudden chill. My palms are sweaty.
“On top of that, you are struggling heavily from virtual withdrawal symptoms yourself.” The room tilts, your even stare fixes me back in place. “Depressive episodes, anxiety, dysphoria, disorientation,” my left hand visibly twitches, Jesse, don’t look at me, when I am like this, don-t— “flashbacks.”
Somewhere, I can hear you, hoarsely, begging me, to erase, to make it stop. Make it all stop.
“Law, you seem in danger of serious of retraumatization, if you continue.” I cling to that memory. You are not me. I close my eyes. The roaring subsides.
“Should we stop?” You ask into the dark.
I relax in the midst of your cruelty.
“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss such important matters, if you are feeling unwell.” The suggestive slur in your voice carries me to safety. “You had a long day, are probably tired. I can only imagine, how your research must have worn you down, engaging with this attraction-poor environment, again and again. In the long term, weariness leads to a lack of judgment. I assume, now you only want to forget.”
I reopen my eyes, speaking firmly, “I am convinced, every trial was relevant.”
I would never want to give away a single second with you, Jesse.
You trace the flowery pattern on your cup with your finger without picking it up. I know, you appreciate its symmetry. “Don’t get me wrong. I would never say that you are not competent enough as a scientist, Law. I am just wondering, where your true motivations lie. If they are even grounded in academic interest. And, most of all, I am afraid for your well-being. That’s all.”
“Well, thank you, for your concern,” I answer. It stings. “But I am fine. I think, I will seriously consider their offer.” To which you nod once.
“Well then,” you are smiling sweetly again now, “of course, I will be interested in your progress, if you can fix that major issue with your prototype. I would like to hear about it in person.” I am struggling to block out your next sentence. “But, unfortunately, this won’t be possible.” Failing.
“Why.” I play into your hands without any resistance.
“I will go abroad. I, too, have a job offer, a contract for two years at least. In three days from now my flight departs. Bay area.”
I shatter, in a pool of blood. Crack high. You are still sitting motionless across from me. I register, I must have dropped my cup. I sink to the ground, my rightful place, my knees are wet.
“Pardon me.” I stammer. I pick up a large shard, but my hand is trembling so badly, it drops into dark liquid again.
When you squat down next to me, somehow you have returned with a dustpan and kitchen towel.
Jesse, I hate you. “No. Let me,” I rush, “there is no need for you to cut—” But you proceed, picking up pieces of porcelain with your bare hands as if to show me, how insignificant my presence is to your well-being, that you are perfect on your own. I break.
“Jesse, I—” My head spins. The teacup. Shards and blood. I see multiple timelines flash before me, fear gripping my insides. I don’t remember, what I wanted to say.
“Law.” A hint of worry ghosting over your features. Your hand on my shoulder, briefly anchoring me to reality, before you continue in a detached manner. “Stop excusing yourself. Not only are your deeds regarding Moritat inexcusable, I’m not even interested in your pitiful attempts.”
I am trembling. My breathing stills, not my heart. You repeat my name, through a fog. I need to get away, Moritat’s arms have always been forgiving. Here, my whole self is in danger of being obliterated. You are gone, are to be gone soon, you are right in front of me. I see your smiling face, remember you crying. I bleed, I am not you. This you does no longer exist. Pressure on my palm. I cannot calm down. I am on my own against you.
“I cannot stand that I hurt you.” my disused voice utters in answer, before I realize, I don’t know to which question.
You ignore my statement and dispose of the shards in the kitchen.
“I want to show you something.” At your dampened words I am recomposed. I rise from the ground, still shaky.
“You might already have guessed, I did not bring you here only to chitchat.” I blankly stare at your raised eyebrow. Whatever it is that just transpired, you seem complacent, softer. The edge gone from your voice. I don’t want your pity, your fury. I remember, why sometimes I enjoyed your fear.
You guide me to the only table in the room, your writing desk. Paper, piled up on the right side, some pens. I cannot focus. “This.” You snap your fingers in front of my face. “Are you listening? ” I blink, following your finger, there is a metallic casket, no, a hard drive. I nod. “Good.”
“This is an enhanced future replica of the machine I destroyed yesterday. That means, all the data necessary to rebuild the main unit. Unaltered or even readjusted, introducing new features, just as you seem fit.” My attention snaps back to your face, warmth returning to my limbs. How, Jesse. You genius. It makes me sick, how well you know me, every twist of this lost version of myself, only ever eager to yearn for you. I can only take so much, I bite my lip in livid gratitude, reaching for the hard drive.
You cover my outstretched hand with both of yours. I pause, suffocated by your proximity. “I will only say this once.”
“You can either take this hard drive and its data and walk away. I won’t ever contact you again.”
“Or you come with me.” The tone of your voice does not even change. You let go of my hand. “The choice is yours.”
My breath is becoming shaky once more. You take a step back, assessing my reaction. An uninvolved observer behind a lab screen. So, this is retaliation then. Clever, clever, Jesse. My gaze devours that hard drive, my mind processing this hilarious proposition. I can only ever walk away with your help, you have figured out as much. I will be dead at first, but I could walk.
Maybe, I have been the true test subject all along, Moritat a mere scratch on your psyche. If I stay by your side, I will live in constant fear of you discarding me. Any serious option to venture down my own path, to build my own career will be done for, sacrificed. You are out for blood.
My chest aches in want, you reciprocate my stare openly. You, never to be controlled, making sure that, whatever I attain, I can only lose. My mouth covers yours.
I cannot hold back. At some point, the hard drive falls down, dislocated piles of paper, your voice breaks, as I take you, violently on the table, shame, lust, did you call my name, it does not take long for both of us.
I feel dead, as you guide and pull me into the shower.
My hands run down your now bruised throat, my own becoming tight in response. “It’s alright.” you whisper as you tenderly brush, kiss my fingers, rinse my hair, always, always knowing what I need, my feeling of guilt at your physical injury, witness to my loss of control, well calculated. I will never be free from you.
My thoughts drift back to the broken machine in the mansion and your impossible offer. Dealing with a fixed image, only an idea of you, I realize, is likely the only prospect keeping me alive without being crushed by my need for you.
“Can I see it. The data.”
“Is this your choice then?” You regard me with a sad curiosity, through dark strands and pale steam.
My lips remain sealed, tight, still throbbing from your heavy caress, the water feels colder. I won’t give you an answer yet. You leave the shower, without turning it off. How would you feel, if I really abandoned you for good, what capacity do I have to even make you feel, Jesse?
I look into the mirror, a frightened lab animal, fair hair, tired eyes. I still want you to feel. When I exit the bathroom you are already sitting on the bed, cross-legged, reading a book. My heart aches, so wrongly familiar this scene. How long, since we have last shared this kind of intimacy?
I stand, unsure, If I am even allowed to exist next to a perfect creature such as you or if this is a dismissal. My chance to leave. Five years, I have cut into my own flesh, convinced, it had been you, cutting us off. How can I believe you, how can I believe now, after everything, that you might have cared too much, that you still do? That you see the same necessity for us to part?
“Did nobody teach you, it is actually rude to stare,” you say, turning a page and indicating I should decide how to move on soon. Your patience is thinning.
You won’t give me a hint. It is for myself to take my place. I cannot will myself to leave, denying you completely. I cannot give you an answer, cannot betray my own future, when all I want right now is for the turmoil in my head to just stop.
I walk over to the bookcases, open my bag and take out the brochure of my prospective company, along with a stack of three other books and two magazines I have received today. I sit down next to you, covering my feet with your blanket. The bed is not spacious, our shoulders do not touch.
With mild interest, you take a look at my selection, only to return your focus onto your own book again. Maybe something has changed, be it over Moritat or over these past five years, you do not rage at my silence, you do not even speak. You strain to respect my choice, almost disregarding your own margins. We both know, every word from you is a danger. I want to believe you. I want to believe we can change.
You lie down first, while I continue to stare emptily at the letters in front of me for a long time. I don’t know what to do. Jesse, I don’t know what to do with your cruel mercy.
I turn off the light. Alone and isolated, I am left, only able to harbor a silent desperation, at the same time my mind yells you are this close to me. I could reach out for you, if I dared.
You have not been asleep. With a soft stir you pull me into a hug, resting my head under your chin, as you have done at numerous, better times, when we have been younger and our wounds only scratches. I feel alienated and stiff, but only at first, as you tenderly console me. My heart flows over.
“What do you want me to do?” I whisper, vulnerable and unwise as I am.
“This is not my choice.” I agree. The gradual descent and utter destruction of self a person is committing, would it be so compelling to watch, were it not resulting from their very own actions?
I can feel it, ticking away, slipping through my hands, my only chance of survival, the longer you caress me with a repelling honesty. I disentangle myself from you, putting some distance between us. I cannot make out your full features, but sense your full attention. I cannot deny myself any longer, I want to trust you.
“What do you want from me, Jesse?” I can see the shift in your eyes even in the dark.
“Oh, Law. You really are stupid.” You speak into the space between us, as if it were that simple, inhaling my offer of initiative, taking everything from me with your next words.
“When have I ever not wanted you close to me.”
The space between us collapses.
“I will come with you.” My voice quivers.
“Promise.” you breathe.
As I sink deeper, between your legs, I do just that, wishing for the glint in your eyes to be a mirror of my tears, truly worshiping, tracing a seal with my tongue.
***
Later that night you sleep peacefully. I remember, one time I have almost strangled you, before turning off Moritat, but the comforting memory stays hazy. I cannot stop thinking about the destroyed machine, doubt and unsatisfied inquisitiveness wrestling in my head. How did you succeed in gathering the knowledge for a rebuilding scheme, what changes did you make, what data did you collect, when did you even start?
I peek at your innocent, perfectly sculpted face. What do you really know about Moritat and its workings, would you be interested, if I explained? Who did I meet in these realities, what do you remember now? What do you feel now? Are you as haunted, fragile and fragmented as me?
I turn away. You have been right all along. An image is nothing but an image, no matter how sharp the illusion. Would I ever know, if you loved me, Jesse? What I am to you? Will this torture ever end? I get out of bed.
Quietly, checking if you are still sound asleep, I gather my computer and sit down at your desk, connecting the external hard drive I have picked up from the floor. It is safeguarded by a password. Nothing too complicated, it breaches almost instantly. I loose myself in lines of code for only a couple of minutes. I should have known then, this is too easy.
“Going behind my back already so soon?” Your question, a knife twisting in my guts.
“I am s—” I stop myself, I will give no more excuses. With you being the insolent one, standing there just behind me, barefooted, I can almost muster a cold anger. “It’s pure interest.”
“And then you’ll be on your way again, with all the data you need?” How does your smile turn into one pure injury?
“I gave you my promise. I intend to keep it.”
“Go ahead then,” you answer, a nuance more icily. “Have a look. At what might have been.” If I didn’t know any better, I would say, you almost sound jealous of your own virtual image, the time I have carved and stolen from you, with you, without you, outside of your control. Did I ever disgust you?
“You will not rebuild that machine.” You come closer. “Remember, after all, I chose you.” A shiver running down my spine.
“In that reality.”
I grab the desk, anything to hold onto, not as volatile as you.
I open the files.
Pictures of me, some more of me. Hundreds. From the age we met until today. My heart stops.
“You played me.” Just like the first time. This has never been about actual technologies or brilliant impossible machines, only a song of my imagination, playing on my darkest desires. I flip through the shots, through your delicate ridicule and laid bare secret, until I am compelled by one shot in particular. One picture of us, I didn’t know existed. I didn’t know you would keep. You are smiling at the camera, I am looking at you, unawares. You look unguarded. More than happy, simply sitting next to me.
I feel lightheaded. After all I just put you through, before all you will do to me.
Your laugh is so soft. “Do you regret your choice?”
“… Yes.” I don’t restrain my smile.