Horror Game

Here are the rules of the game.

You can only travel preordained paths — from 1 to 2, or 1 to 3, depending on your choices. It is impossible to remake a choice. It is impossible to restart. It is impossible to step outside of a preordained path.

These paths existed before you. They will exist after you. You are a point on a grid, a unit of consumption. At the end of the path, you cease to exist.

1. You’re stoned on the floor of Syd’s dorm room, fingers tangled in the fibers of a cheap pink rug. There is a blue neon sign from above you, reading FUCK YEAH. You and four of your friends have your eyes fixed on the computer screen, watching Drew Barrymore in a cheap blonde bob. You’re transfixed by her falseness, by the plasticky sheen of the film set.

You wish you looked like Drew. You’ve been toying with the idea that you might not be the man that you thought you were. Tonight, you’re wearing some makeup — eyeliner applied haphazardly, pink lipstick, pink blush. You’re not sure how you look in it. It’s hard to see past your stubble, the defined angles of your face. Your friends were affirming when you arrived — “Yes, bitch! You look so good!” and “Slay!” and “Stunning, diva!” — but you suspect they would say this about anyone. Still, it felt nice to hear.

Your friends surround you now. Syd and their roommate, Eres, are sitting on the couch behind you. They share this huge, newly constructed suite. On weekends they throw parties; on weeknights, like tonight, there are usually several of you hanging out, smoking weed and drinking, watching movies or playing Super Smash Bros. You met Syd through Kole, your best friend here. He’s perched next to Syd, chewing on his fingernail, knees drawn to his chest. Kole has a solidity you appreciate; he can be cold, but he’s honest, and occasionally shows a disarming silliness.

Finally, there’s Jamie, sitting next to you on the floor. They’re shorter than you, with hair dyed bright red and a nose piercing; their eyes have a sleepy insouciance. Their features are sharp, wolfish. When they smile, they bare all their teeth. Jamie is beautiful, and they know that they’re beautiful. They wield their beauty like a knife. The light of Jamie’s self-assurance is a desert sun: you need incredible strength to flourish within it. You are not sure that you have that kind of strength. But whenever you come here, you long for a few seconds of warmth beneath that sun. It is Jamie that you always want to see.

These gatherings are what keep you going. They pass in a pleasant blur, unimpeded by outside concerns. No one asks too deeply about your life or what you’re feeling; nothing breaks the haze of inconsequential jokes and minor ecstasies. Every other space makes you feel like a glass figurine on the edge of a lunch table. Here, now, stoned and dizzy and thoughtless, you’re a few inches closer to the center.

Onscreen, a music cue, a camera zoom: Drew realizes that she’s in danger, that her life is dictated by an unfeeling, irrefutable logic. She paces through her house, her eyes growing wider. The phone rings, and the man at the other end of the line yells at her. She asks if he’s playing a joke on her. He responds, “More of a… game, really.” You’re scared; you stiffen.

Then you feel warmth on your shoulders. You look away from the screen and see that Jamie, suddenly closer, has wrapped their arm around you. They’re half-smiling as they look at the screen; they glance at you sideways, one eyebrow cocked, asking for forgiveness or permission or something else. You’ve always wanted some version of this, but you don’t know why this is happening. You don’t know what Jamie is thinking or what it is that they’ve suddenly chosen to see in you.

The music onscreen swells. Jamie pulls you in closer. You have a choice.

If you rest your head on Jamie’s chest, proceed to 2.

If you push them away, proceed to 3.

2. You let Jamie pull you in and rest your head on their chest. They’re warm. You can feel their calm breathing, their heartbeat slow and easy. They stroke your hair absentmindedly with one hand and run their other hand up and down your spine. Your cheeks flush; you feel a sparking kind of slash where their skin touches yours. Your neck hurts from holding this position.

Drew runs through her house, gasping for air. “Run, bitch!” Syd yells from the other side of the room. Everyone laughs. You remember that you’re in a room with other people; you remember their glances at your makeup when you arrived, the practiced and predetermined feeling of their praise. You suddenly imagine that they’re all looking at you. You feel exposed. Your feet are asleep. You straighten and Jamie looks at you quizzically. “Is this alright?” they ask. You pull yourself to your feet and stumble to the bathroom, feeling every eye in the room on you. You bend to gulp down some water from the tap.

When you stand up, Jamie is in the doorway. Their eyes are questioning, confused. “Are you okay?” You have a choice.

If yes, proceed to 4.

If no, proceed to 5.

3. You feel a sudden, unplaceable tension and push Jamie’s arm away. Jamie looks hurt, somehow. They get up and stride to the bathroom; onscreen, Drew runs through her house, gasping for air. You look away, at Jamie. Through the half-open door, you see them turn on the sink, wash their face, investigate themself in the mirror. Their sharp features and neon red hair look harsh in the overhead bathroom light. Before you know what you’re doing, you’re on your feet and stumbling after them. “Run, bitch!” Syd laughs behind you. You stand in the doorway and whisper, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Jamie says. They’re still looking in the mirror. “I’m just… I thought you wanted that. But I was wrong.”

You don’t want to hurt their feelings. They are your friend. You love your friends, especially now, here, high and with your head swimming and without thinking about anything. You remember the way Jamie took in your makeup at a glance when you arrived, how they leapt quickly to a compliment before you could say anything self-effacing. How you felt the warmth of the sun, those brief seconds of relief before burn.

“I do want it. I think,” you say. You try to gather your thoughts. Jamie cuts you off. “You think? I need more than that. It’s either yes or no, and you shouldn’t have to figure it out.” They suddenly seem angry. You have a choice.

If yes, proceed to 4.

If no, proceed to 5.

4. “Yes,” you whisper, “I’m just… kind of stressed out from the movie.” You don’t know if you’re saying this for you or for them. Either way, Jamie softens, accepts it. “Okay. Thank you,” they say. “Maybe we can just stay in here for a while. It’s quieter anyway, and you can relax a bit.” They pull the door closed behind them, moving closer to you.

It is quieter, but it’s a smaller space. Your back is to the wall; a towel hook digs into your skin. It smells like fruity conditioner and mildew. The light above flickers. Jamie produces a blunt from their pocket, lights it, takes a long drag, then lifts their face up to yours. “Shotgun,” they say, in a strange half-moan to keep from losing the smoke. You open your mouth; they blow the smoke in, then kiss you.

What does the kiss feel like? It feels like emptiness, blankness. There is the slippery heat of their tongue, their probing hand on your neck. Beyond that, within you, there is nothing. The hook is still digging into your back.

You don’t know what Jamie wants from you. It doesn’t feel bad — and you’ve always thought Jamie was beautiful — but why here, and why now? You wonder who you are to them, how they see you. You don’t want to disappoint them or hurt them, but beyond that is static and grain — you don’t know what you want at all. You feel like a passenger in someone else’s moment.

They must feel your hesitation in your mouth. They pull back; frustration flickers across their face again. “What now?” they ask. You have a choice.

If you ask them what they want, proceed to 6.

If you keep quiet, proceed to 7.

5. You turn away from them, looking in the mirror. Sometimes you fancy yourself to be beautiful, soft, but not right now. Your eyes are red, your hair in tangles and flat on one side. The corners of your mouth are turned down, tight. You are tired and sad. You feel like a killjoy. “I don’t… I feel so confused,” you mutter. Before you can stop yourself, you bend over the sink and feel yourself start to cry.

“Hey, wait,” Jamie says, their voice softening as they wrap their arms around your waist. You realize you’ve been shivering; their body is so warm. They snake one arm up around your shoulders, dangling a blunt from their fingers. “Here. Hit this,” they murmur in your ear. “You’ll feel better.” You comply, and then cough out the smoke. You turn back around to see them. When your eyes meet, the absurdity of the situation hits you — your mascara running, your lipstick smudged, your sobs choked by coughs — and suddenly you’re laughing. Jamie starts laughing too, and you laugh harder and harder, together. You move to lean on the wall next to them, still giggling, feeling that desert-sun warmth again.

“That’s better, right?” they ask. You slide your gaze over to theirs. You feel so fucking high, and the world is a series of impressions. The flickering overhead light is irritating, bright, buzzing; the bathroom smells like fruity conditioner and mildew. Jamie’s face is so beautiful. They hold your gaze, and then lean into you, pushing you up against the wall. A towel hook digs into your back. Their lips approach yours. You can’t read their eyes. You have a choice.

If you look away, proceed to 6.

If you accept, proceed to 7.

6. You look away from them and struggle to get the words out. “I just —-... I don’t know, Jamie.” Jamie sighs. “I don’t understand you,” they say. You feel a flash of anger. You ask, “What do you really want, Jamie? What’s happening?” They pause, taken aback. “I want you. You look so pretty tonight.” You must make an expression of surprise, confusion, or something like it; they back up a little and look in your eyes. “I’m serious. You do. Don’t you trust me?”

You want to trust them; you want to believe that their intentions are pure. But you’re still confused. Maybe kissing them, feeling their body on yours, would feel good; but maybe it wouldn’t. Your relationship with them already feels so uneven, your desire for their approval so unflattering and strong, and your thoughts are muddled from the weed. You stutter, “Jamie, I… you….” They adopt a knowing look, and put a finger on your lips.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to feel ashamed,” they say, their voice low. “When you walked in tonight, I was so proud of you. I thought you were trying new things — like, being more open to the world. Sometimes when we hang out, you seem so small and so scared, trapped in something. I want to help you out of there. The world can be so giving if you accept what it wants to give you, if you aren’t afraid of it. I want you to be open to everything. I want you to be open to me. Please.”

The moment holds for a long time, spinning around in your head. They make it sound so simple; they make your thoughts seem so easy to dismiss. Sunlight on shadow. Is this what you’re feeling? Is this what you really want? Are you afraid of embodying yourself? Are you ashamed of your desire?

Jamie has made their intentions clear; they know what they want. It’s so simple for them. They lean in again to kiss you, their weight pressing you to the wall. You can’t tell what it is that you need or want right now. Your thoughts tumble around in your head, paralyzing you. Do you have a choice?

If you accept, proceed to 7.

If you push them away, proceed to 8.

7. You swallow your doubts and let Jamie kiss you. You want to enjoy whatever pleasure life can give to you; you don’t want to want more than what you’re given. That would be unreasonable, absurd. The hook digs into your back. You grunt and try to push Jamie away to move elsewhere. They push back, grab hold of one of your wrists, and pin it to the wall.

“Jamie, wait —-...” you groan into their mouth. They break the kiss; your arm is still held to the wall. “What now?” they ask. “It was just getting good.” You grimace as you try to move off the hook. “There’s a hook behind me, and….” Their face shifts from irritation to understanding. “Oh my god, why didn’t you say something? Here, let’s move.” They pull the shower curtain back and lead you by the wrist into the bathtub. They lay you down on the ceramic, straddling your hips. The flickering light dazzles your eyes; you can only partially see their face. The tub is cold and still slightly damp. You feel the warmth of their body as they lean forward towards you.

Their weight is pinning you down. Their mouth covers yours; it feels warm and slimy. You don’t want this. You try to push them off, but your arms are confined by the walls of the tub and you can’t get enough traction. You try to talk, to tell them to stop, but they press their face harder to yours. They move one of their hands beneath your shirt and place the other hand on your throat, softly — they don’t squeeze, but it scares you. You have to get out of here.

Do you have a choice?

If you tell them to get off, proceed to 8.

If you try to push them away, proceed to 9.

8. You cannot speak.

If you want to move, proceed to 9.

If you want to find another way, proceed to 10.

9. You cannot move.

If you want it to end, proceed to 10.

If you want to escape to another reality, proceed to 11.

10. You cannot speak or move. What else can you do?

If you want to scream, proceed to 11.

If you want to have a choice, proceed to 12.

11. You need to get out of here. This is the only choice. You cannot get out of here. You do not have a choice.

Proceed to 12.

12. You hear your friends screaming at the movie from the other room. How long have you been in here? How long has Jamie held you, pressed you, pressured you? Can you get out?

This is what you want. This is the love reserved for you. Proceed to 13.

13. You learned, at some point — you’re not sure when — that you aren’t allowed to ask for respect. You have to take what you are given. You can never ask for more. You swallow discomfort and confusion, and you stay alive, one day into the next, barely hanging on. Is this enough? It doesn’t feel like enough. Do you want enough? Is enough available? Do other people want like this?

You cannot escape.

You cannot escape.

You cannot escape.

You cannot escape.

You cannot—

A knock at the door. Syd’s muffled voice: “Do you still have the blunt in there?” Jamie breaks from your mouth and you start screaming.

Images shuffle like cards: Jamie’s face, so beautiful, ripples with anger, then reconstitutes into puppy-eyed sadness. Sunlight floods through your open mouth. The door bursts open, shivers, and then flies off its hinges. You can see the universe in the mirror; it is endless, empty, and cold. One star, one sun, means nothing there. You look into the other room and Syd and Eres laugh as Drew is stabbed over and over and over. You look down and see a bloody hole in your chest. Kole floats off of the floor, his hands distended and dripping, reaching. He claws at Jamie’s shoulders and shouts distantly: “Get off her!” Jamie turns to them and starts gesturing, talking, babbling, “I don’t know what happened —-... Suddenly they started screaming —-”

Their weight is off you. You can move. You feel calm — blank. Tranced. You know what your choice is. You put your hands to Jamie’s shoulder. You push as hard as you can. Jamie drifts toward the tile wall. Their head hits it, cracks, shatters into crystal. The universe folds into itself.

Jamie is an illusion. A fiction. This is based on a real story, but it isn’t real. The walls bend. You stand in mid-air. You fall like wind. You are water burning at the center of the world. You are emptiness at the edge of time. Jamie will dissolve into confetti. Their body will pass through you and fade into the nighttime sun. You are underwater and swimming in the warmth. You throw a punch at God. You let go. You you you you —

You cannot—

You are

You cannot—

You will

You cannot—

You do

You cannot—

You have a choice.

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