REPERCUSSIONS
DREADFUL - EVENT #19
Truth and consequence.
Somewhere, somehow, those two words became non-monogamous partners with one another. Does it mean that consequence follows truth, or that truth is a byproduct of consequence?
No, that doesn’t seem quite right.
Perhaps it is lodged into human brains because of the town in New Mexico called Truth or Consequences.
Doubtful, but a pleasant thought nonetheless.
What if those two words don’t actually mean much anymore? What if truth is a myth? What if consequences are only experienced by unlucky individuals? What if they sound nice together because of a burning, unquenchable desire for both to be reborn anew?
Once upon a time, fire was discovered. And when it was, the first humanoid to touch it likely recoiled and let out an alarmed yelp. Consequence.
Once upon a time, hysteria ravaged towns, and individuals were believed to be witches. Those found guilty were hanged; their lives forfeited in the pursuit of rabid stupidity. Consequence.
Not all consequences are warranted. Not all consequences are good-natured or evil. Like all things, consequences are amoral, a concept meant to frighten children and make middle management seem important.
What about truth, then?
Ahh, well, truth no longer exists. Say thank you to the internet.
Thank you, internet.
Moreso now than ever before, people can lie, connive, abuse, cheat, steal, and be immoral cretins. Shake your head and waggle your fist. No, no, no, you say. A gross generalization, you argue. Have you lied on the internet? Have you posted on a social media channel and made your life sound wonderful and beautiful, all the while you are miserable and hanging on to a fraying string? Eh? Have you ever used Facetune to rid yourself of a stubborn wrinkle or the acne scars that just won’t go away? Hmm?
And to think, those are benign examples. Extensions of the truth, but harmful to no one outside of fragile egos and shattered hopes.
Truth no longer exists because consequences are lagging. Politicians lie for your vote. Corporations practice performative gymnastics to earn your business. Prisons are overstuffed with petty offenders because the court system is antiquated, both in law and personnel. The list, quite frankly, is tiresome.
Are you convinced? Unlikely. If anything, you are ready to tussle and throw down against this incoherent argument.
Sure. Fine. Go right ahead. Jab a finger in the face of this argument. Let the spittle fly.
Speak your truth. You’ve earned that much.
Before you go, here is a pleasant fact: Sometimes, when the stars align and a little boy in Jakarta says his prayers before bed, consequences do follow truth. It’s a reminder that the world continues to spin, that shit will always exit an ass, and that absolutes only exist at car dealerships and funeral parlors. It isn’t nearly enough to make up for all the bullshit and cascading chaos that suffocates everyone, but it’s a start.
Anyway, here is what happened to Aiden Katana, a victim of consequence.
Aiden Katana balances his focus between the droning conversation and the game he is tapping away at on his phone.
“Uh huh,” he says.
Aiden has already spent a hundred dollars tonight to unlock power-ups and blitz through the various time gates the game is fond of pushing on its players. Money is of no concern to Aiden. His golden parachute has been patched and retrofitted to be made of whatever material is necessary to land and continue on without the slightest misstep.
“I hear you. I understand,” he continues.
He doesn’t understand, though. He doesn’t even remember what the conversation is about anymore. Probably another dropped sponsor or another reprimand from someone who wears a suit to bed. Aiden paces around the apartment in a lazy loop, neck strained and eyes bulged at the screen pushed close to his face. This distraction centers him.
“Okay. Yeah. Sounds great,” he says, hoping the response is appropriate.
The game is simple, as are most that can be played on a phone. Aiden is a customizable ($) space pirate, born on the planet Casrab, who must rebuild his ship and save the galaxy from aliens and citizens defying order. In order to craft his ship, he needs gems ($) and dingdongs ($). Gems are easy. Log in three times every day and you are automatically given enough gems to build one subcomponent ($) of the ship. There are eight hundred and twelve subcomponents. For every nine subcomponents collected, you can combine and weld them to make a component ($). From there, components are slapped together to make master components ($). Master components then materialize into parts ($). Parts then meld into gears ($) and screws ($). Gears and screws morph into wingdings ($). If you combine wingdings with dingdongs, you are rewarded with a single scrap ($). With only twenty-eight scraps, you can construct the necessary item ($) for the ship. Rinse and repeat for about five years in real time and you have yourself a beautiful virtual ship.
Ah, almost forgot: In order to receive dingdongs, the user must agree to have their personal data harvested and shepherded out to any agency who will then use those demographic details to hound and harass the user with ads for products they don’t need.
Fun, isn’t it? Rewarding, isn’t it?
“Thanks . . . Yup . . . B—no, yeah, mhmm. Thanks, bye.”
With the call ended, Aiden can dive into Casrab 3: Quest for Supremacy without the needless chirping of whoever that was. He continues down this tedious path until the phone rings again. He sees the name pop up on the screen and immediately answers the call.
“Hey, sweetheart,” his mom says. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” Aiden says. He closes out the game and gives his mom proper attention.
“Any word yet on the petition?”
“No, it takes up to a week.”
“Even for someone like you?”
“They don’t make special exceptions for anyone,” Aiden says, unsure if that’s true or not.
“That’s a shame. I still don’t believe that what you did was wrong.”
“Me either.”
“One word. That’s all it takes these days for someone to be canceled. Such a short leash.” She sighs into the phone and lets her frustration be known. Like most mothers, Aiden’s mom would defend him religiously, regardless of the crime or offense. Her blind spot for him is egregious at best and baffling at worst.
“One word. One tiny mistake,” Aiden agrees. “How is Dad?”
“He is the same. He says hi.” She pulls away from the phone and her next words sound distant. “Isn’t that right?”
Aiden and his mom talk every day. It was part of the agreement when Aiden moved to Dallas. The opportunities, he said. The ability to expand, he argued. Mostly, it’s worked. He found success and ways to grow his audience. Living alone also allowed him to walk around in his underwear whenever he wasn’t streaming and eat cookie dough right out of the container.
The downside to moving south and away from family is that he can no longer help his dad. Paralyzed from the neck down after a car accident, Greg Katana is a burden and a shell of what he used to be. Once boisterous and quick-witted, Greg is now reduced to detritus and a quality of life best surmised as rotting roadkill. While at home, Aiden would assist with cleaning, feeding, and spending time with his father to eliminate even a fraction of the burden from his mom.
Truth: Greg Katana had six beers under his belt and in his gut when he got into the car that night.
Consequence: While driving twenty miles over the speed limit, Greg drifted into the concrete median, crushing the car and severing his spine.
Another truth: Death would have been better.
Aiden tries not to consider the minute-to-minute life his mom now suffers through. She is the sole provider and caretaker. She wears a brave face, one made of stone, but Aiden knows she is worn and perpetually tired. Some days, he wished his dad would die in his sleep to achieve peace after a painful few years. Aiden sends whatever money he can to assist with bills and provide a needed cushion, but money only goes so far.
“When is the doctor’s appointment you were telling me about?” Aiden asks.
“Next week.”
“Do you need me to come home for that?”
“No, sweetie. We have it covered. You have your life down there. You can’t be upending it every time things get a bit chaotic up here.”
“But I have the time. I don’t think the petition is going to achieve much.”
“You focus on yourself,” his mom says. “One word,” she scoffs. “I still can’t wrap my mind around it.”
Truth: It was one word but said three times without hesitation.
Consequence: A ban, loss of income, and a lifetime of people who will never forget.
“I know.”
“Anyways . . .” This is what his mom said whenever the conversation was nearing its end. “Anyways . . .” she repeats.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“Sounds good, sweetie. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
The line drops off, reducing Aiden’s world to silence. Usually, in the corner, his PC would be chugging and whirring all day and night, moving water through the system to keep everything cool. But it remains idle and stagnant now, a useless prop. A taunt and reminder about how quickly a rug can be pulled out from beneath an unsuspecting pair of feet. Aiden walks over to the desk and runs a hand along the surface as if he is in a museum and disobeying the ‘Do Not Touch’ sign. It’s only been three days, but he misses it. The ritual of sitting down and cracking his knuckles in a non-ironic way. The way he’d say, “Let’s do this,” like he was stepping onto a treadmill for a five-mile run. The process of logging on, booting up each necessary program, and watching the viewers flood into his stream. The interactions and inside jokes with his audience. And, the most critical aspect, being paid to play video games for five hours a day. Who wouldn’t want that?
For the last four years, Aiden Katana has streamed on Twitch at least five days a week. His audience started out humble and almost pathetic. Consistency is key to drifting away from the hundreds (or thousands) of others who have dreams of streaming full time. Aiden put in the work, and his skill roped in newcomers. After three arduous years, he began seeing a spike in his viewer count. No longer was he pulling in four to five hundred a stream, but upwards of a thousand. With the growth came opportunities for sponsorships and inquiries about joining an e-sports team. Aiden chewed up everything greedily that was handed to him and enjoyed how powerful it felt to say no to the offers that were second rate. But with success comes a routine. And with that routine comes laziness. And laziness breeds and reveals who someone truly is.
See: Aiden Katana, like many others, is an actor, a paid participant in a game of self-censorship.
Three nights ago, while playing his go-to FPS, Aiden Katana was being abused and embarrassed by the same player for an entire match. He hid the frustration as best he could, burying it behind layers and layers of stone, a trait he inherited from his mother. But that method isn’t a failsafe. Sometimes, liquid dribbles and seeps from the walls. Sometimes, the stones crack and reveal a decaying corpse.
After the fifth death without retribution, Aiden’s façade crumbled away. Later on, he would blame it on a momentary lapse of judgement as if the defense excused the misstep.
He slammed the desk with a fist four times, bouncing the keyboard and jiggling the monitor. His chat loved the outburst. His audience waited for moments like this. They suffered through hours, days, months of content, drooling for the creator to unravel and uncoil for the briefest moment. With Aiden Katana, they hit the fattest goldmine one could hope for if interested in self-sabotage.
“You nigger! You stupid fucking nigger! Fuck you! Fuck you, you dumb nigger! I will fucking kill you!” he screamed, voice cracking and neck veins protruding. His chest pumped; his heart hammered. Adrenaline coursed through him as if he’d just evaded death. Aiden stared into the screen as his character died again. He looked over at the chat and saw the explosion of messages and emojis—those in agreement and those in condemnation. Realizing what he said, Aiden cut the stream and retreated to the couch, where he assaulted a pillow and shouted the word until his voice went hoarse, blaming them for everything bad that’s ever happened.
He knew what would happen next. He ignored all the calls and text messages that evening. He avoided looking on Reddit and Twitter to see all the people who posted the clip and wanted to partake in his downfall while propping themselves up on a pedestal of self-righteousness.
It was a mistake, he wanted to plead. It was a slip. It will never happen again, he wanted to say.
Truth: Aiden Katana grew up in a small town in Oklahoma where the word nigger is adopted and used by everyone as if it was their own. It’s a word that has no consequence or fallout because nobody cares, because Aiden didn’t directly interact with a Black person until he moved to Dallas.
Imagine that? Imagine when the truth is too stupid to comprehend?
Another truth: Aiden has never understood why people could call him white trash, but he couldn’t refer to them as wetbacks or spics or kikes or faggots or niggers? Where was the equality in that? Anyways, in what world was a word that harmful? A single word carries no power, right? Aiden rationalized and theorized and sermonized these thoughts and came to no soothing conclusion.
Consequence: Less than twenty-four hours following his racist outburst, Aiden was given a two-week ban from Twitch.
While the timeframe may seem laughable, in the Twitch world, it means potential death. Viewers move on to other streamers. They unsubscribe. They avoid. They forget. Twitch is all about relevancy, and some may argue that when Aiden Katana returns, his view count will be higher than ever, but that is living under the assumption that Aiden will make it to the end of the two weeks.
He is a resident of The Amorphophallus, after all, and tonight is fated to be dreadful.
Since the ban notice came in, Aiden has drifted around the apartment like a poltergeist waiting for the new owners to settle in. His feet shuffle and grate against the floor. His eyes are bone dry from the number of hours he has busied himself with mobile games. His stomach is distended from the countless pizza rolls he has consumed. He emanates sadness for all the wrong reasons.
His friends advised against releasing a statement, saying that he would dredge up the Barbra Streisand effect, essentially giving the situation more attention than it deserved. Anyways, they said, you called that guy what he was. They claimed they would—and have—done the same.
Back in the present, Aiden still has his hand delicately massaging the wood and fantasizing about what game he will return to Twitch with. His imagination runs wild with ideas of whether to stick with something familiar or branch out into a new genre. Before he realizes it, he is seated, and the PC is turned on, bringing back the soothing sounds of water moving through the tower and gears spinning. This is home for Aiden. This is what companionship looks like. Aiden envisions waltzing through this same routine for decades to come. Why bother with real people when he can step into fiction? Why bother with mediocrity when he can be at the top of the leaderboards? Some people want to be doctors or astronauts or provide clean drinking water to poor people in third-world countries. The true heroes, in Aiden’s mind, are the ones who entertain. That’s what he intends to do for however long he can.
After the PC completes its startup, Aiden stares at the desktop as if it holds answers to all the profound questions he is fond of dreaming up. Eventually, he opens Chrome and navigates to one of his email accounts. He is expecting to be flooded with hate mail and accusations. He is hoping to see an outpouring of support from those who understand his unfair persecution.
Instead, there is only a single unread message in his inbox.
To: Aiden Katana <hakunakatana021@gmail.com>
From: Dream Logic Games <DLGSupport2025@dlg.com>
Subject: Check This Out – NOW
Hello AIDEN,
It has come to our attention that you need a distraction. The last few days have been tumultuous, to say the least, but we believe your cure is waiting below. Our newest game, FEVERED DEATH 3: RIPPLES, utilizes new proprietary technology never before seen within the video game industry. You may find that phrase overblown, but we are confident that after even a short time playing, you will wholeheartedly agree. Don’t be dissuaded by the simplistic nature of what we have to offer. Our game adapts to your choices and environment, providing you with endless unique scenarios to conquer.
Please be mindful that our game is only in early access and may be plagued with bugs, glitches, and performance issues. If you feel queasy, unsettled, or distraught, please reach out to someone on our Support Team for guidance. Any side effects are only temporary and ultimately harmless.
By clicking the link below, you agree to the terms and services of this game.
Enjoy,
Dream Logic Games
-----CLICK HERE TO ACCESS FEVERED DEATH 3: RIPPLES-----
Aiden skims through the email with mild interest. This isn’t the first time that some second-rate company has reached out trying to hawk their game. They see him as an easy sell. One mention of their game on a stream and their sales will catapult to unseen heights.
“Screw that shit,” he says, confident that such a phrase won’t get him re-canceled. As others in his situation often do, Aiden is quietly developing a persecution fetish. He wants to dip a toe into piranha-infested waters to see if they will nibble on his bones. He wants to try out new phrases in the solitude of his apartment to understand if they cross the invisible line that the sensitive are always shifting. “Screw that retard shit,” he says, laughing. Aiden looks over his shoulder to ensure no one has infiltrated his apartment.
“Nigger!” he yells. “Nigger, nigger, nigger,” he says. “Yeah, that’s right. With a hard R. I’m not a sissy, nigger. Does that make you uncomfortable?” he asks, sticking out an arm that looks as brittle as balsa wood. “I can say whatever the fuck I want.” What consequences? If anything, the ban has only strengthened his stance, his unfavorable viewpoints. The truth is that Aiden enjoys being a racist prick. “Life is more fun this way,” he says. His words are for no one and for everyone. He spews them toward his computer screen, expecting a response, but he is only met with silence. The email continues to stare back at him.
CLICK HERE
CLICK HERE
CLICK HERE
It beckons him. It taunts him. He has nothing else to do. He has nowhere better to be. Riding high on his newfound resolve, Aiden clicks on the link and watches as a new webpage opens. He doesn’t waste time reading through any of the placeholder text and immediately moves to the download button. He watches as the bar works its way from left to right and the number of downloaded megabytes gallops toward the goal.
Once completed, Aiden grabs a Red Bull, a bag of chips, and his headphones. He returns to the desk and locks himself in, tugging on his knuckles until he gets a satisfying crack from each one. Rhythmic and timeless. His routine will never change.
“Let’s do this . . . faggot,” he says. His cheeks swell until he lets the laugh break through.
Fevered Death 3: Ripples boots up on his computer. Before the title screen, Aiden is shown a message that once again stresses how this game leverages “advanced technology” to adapt and enhance the playing experience based on the player’s tendencies. At the bottom, in barely legible font, is a vast warning about flashing lights, epileptic seizures, and how the game was created by a studio of diverse individuals from various backgrounds. “What kind of tranny shit is that?” Aiden asks. He taps down on the space bar to skip past the boring bits.
The title screen appears. The image is grainy, but he can make out that an object is slowly falling. As it reaches near the bottom, it splashes into a body of water. Unsurprisingly, ripples radiate out from the point of impact. Partially mesmerized, Aiden watches the ripples move outward in an unending sequence, ignoring the flashing message to start a new game. Aiden tilts his head and waits for something more profound to take hold. Perhaps the water will funnel away to reveal something sinister underneath, or maybe the entire scene will just reset after a certain amount of time. After five minutes, Aiden decides that nothing more will happen.
He selects the option to start a new game. The screen fades to black for ten long seconds before a new message emerges.
You are a survivor. You are the 1%. The world has become a harsh wasteland where every corner lurks with hazards. While you may wish for death, your goal is to endure and make it to the safe haven on the other side of the city. Time is crucial. Once it reaches sundown, you will be overwhelmed and killed.
Your actions have consequences. Your choices matter. Every decision opens a new path.
Proceed with caution and care.
For those lucky enough to survive, they will be rewarded.
For those unfortunate enough to perish, they will discover torment.
The words linger long enough for Aiden to read them over twice. As they eventually fade away, Aiden is already unnerved and pulling up Google on his phone to research what type of game this series is supposed to be. The results are scattered and uninformative. Google returns articles talking about cases of fevered deaths from the late 1800s but no mention of the video game series.
He pushes away his phone and returns his attention to the computer screen, which is now showing the first-person view of a dingy, disheveled apartment. Aiden’s character is standing at the foot of a makeshift bed of cardboard boxes assembled into a coherent rectangular shape. A single blanket lies on top. Aiden clicks and moves the character forward.
“A point and click? Really?” Aiden sighs. In the pantheon of video game genres, point and click games are crusty, neglected gods that, while they had their reign, no longer serve a purpose in the modern era where graphics, storytelling, and performance have improved substantially.
It could be worse, Aiden considers. It could be a text-based game like The Oregon Trail. People will pretend that nostalgia is why games like those are worth revisiting, but Aiden has never been one to enjoy history. He’d rather stick with the present, which is why he clicks on the menu button in the top corner and then selects the option to quit the game. The action sparks another message to show.
Aiden notices that there is no option to proceed. Nothing else exists on the pop-up outside the passive-aggressive message. He clicks outside the box and it disappears, depositing him back into the perspective of his dilapidated character.
He hears a rustling sound coming from the closet in the corner of the room. Aiden clicks and moves the character toward it. As he stands before the door, two options appear on screen: (1) Open the door or (2) Do nothing.
In real life, Aiden might have considered walking away from the door and moving ahead with his life. One of the beautiful things about video games is the ability to take risks and realize that they have no effect on your health or sanity. With that justification in mind, Aiden selects the first option. The door swings open and reveals a decaying body. The arms hang limp at its side. A tattered shirt drapes loosely as if it were meant for something twice the size. The neck is broken and twisted so that the astonished expression on the poor soul’s face is skyward and begging for salvation. Like a massive overhead door opening to reveal the treasure within, the mouth widens and widens until the jaw cracks. Skin rips to ribbons as a thin trail of discolored blood leaks onto the carpet. Aiden clicks on the body, but no further prompts are given. He is locked into whatever happens next. A groan emits from the maw. Louder and louder it grows until the groans morph into a hacking cough. The sound is unrelenting and forces Aiden to turn down the volume on his headset. “What the fuck is this?” he asks. Liquid then sprays from the mouth, dousing Aiden’s character in a thick, phlegmy slime. Aiden’s character screams and collapses to the floor.
The screen goes black before an arthritic, severed finger swipes down to paint a single tick mark in blood.
“Stupid fucking bullshit,” Aiden says. “I hate gay shit like this,” he whines. He pouts and stomps a foot off the ground like a judge calling for order.
The game resets, and once again gives Aiden control of his anonymous character. This time, Aiden clicks away from the closet and out the bedroom door. The apartment is barren and unsettling, a standard caricature of what we’d expect a post-apocalyptic would to be. The kitchen cabinet doors have been repurposed to board up the windows. Dirt and grime clutter the floor. Bookshelves stand empty except for a framed photograph too blurry to recognize any of the pixelated faces. None of this matters. It sets a mood that Aiden doesn’t bother to take in. He continues to click on every detail presented to him, looking for the next choice to make. His hectic and uneven clicking points him toward the window. He is now given two more options because even in a video game, choices never amount to more than the black or white variety.
(1) Pry loose a board from the window or (2) reinforce the boards.
Given the complete lack of context Aiden has about this world or the dangers he faces outside, he opts to pry loose a board to understand what the landscape looks like. As he chooses that option, a streak of light peeks through and then a crack of sound belts out through the air. The bullet buries itself within the character’s chest as blood pours out onto the floor. The character collapses, muttering nothing more than a weak cry of surprise.
The screen goes black before an arthritic, severed finger swipes down to paint another tick mark next to the first.
“Nah. Nope. No fucking way. They made three of these shitty games?” Aiden cries out. He juts out his arms and pushes back from the desk. He rolls across the floor and jumps out of the chair before it comes to a stop. He walks to the bathroom and pops two Benadryl tablets to help him fall asleep. It’s the only way for his brain to unwind after staring at screens for most of the day. In moments when Aiden has no outlet for his frustrations, he buries himself under the covers and forces himself to sleep. His mind wanders for twenty minutes before the tablets take hold. His thoughts are stale and trite. They are equivalent to a nonsensical ramble from a pseudo-celebrity who uses Twitter to spread their unwanted opinions. Before the worst of them can take hold, Aiden falls asleep, allowing the wider world to rest easier.
He wakes up hours later to his phone vibrating in his pocket. With eyes half-closed, he answers the call and puts the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” he mumbles.
Aiden hears breathing on the other end as if the person is working up the courage to speak.
“Hello?” he says again.
“Aiden?” the voice croaks, unsure and unconvinced.
“Dad?”
“I’m outside. I’m outside, you see. And I’d like for you to come outside and see me. Come see me, son. It’s been so long. See me as I am. See me whole.”
Incredulous, Aiden bolts upright in bed. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. Make sure you bring a jacket. It’s chilly, you see.”
“Where’s Mom? Is she with you?”
“You always ask a thousand questions. I’ve always liked that about you. It kept me on my toes, mostly because your questions reeked.”
“Reeked of what?”
“Softness, son. You got a soft brain and soft thoughts. You never understood how circular things are. Slap one cow on the ass and the next in line is bound to give you the same punishment. You comprende, hefe? You see? Your momma never wanted to admit it, but I have spent nothing but years watching you. I’m like that kitty clock. My eyes were always watching wherever you went. Come on now. Come outside and say hello. See me whole, son.”
The call ends.
Aiden stares at the screen until it goes black. He swipes a finger against it and sees that the call came from his mom’s cellphone. Without questioning the situation further, Aiden pulls himself out of bed and makes himself presentable. He stands before the hallway closet and surveys his jacket options. He is torn between two choices: one is more fashionable, while the other provides a bit more warmth. Aiden sides with practicality and grabs the red jacket.
Aiden strides through the hallways. They are empty, lifeless. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume he was the sole occupant of this entire building. Was there ever a time that he interacted with one of his neighbors? Did he ever have any interest in doing so? They are NPCs to him. Their lives mean little. Even those in his audience who sub to his channel and pay him money each month serve no higher function than being a source of funds. The elevator brings him to the first floor. Although his dad didn’t specify which entrance he is waiting at, anticipation and an overwhelming hunch carries Aiden to the set of doors leading out to Congrass Avenue. The door screams and whines as the hinges flex. Aiden lets the door slam shut, rattling the mesh that runs in between the metal slots.
One car idles out on the street, surrounded by a thick sheet of darkness. The headlights are on and beam toward the end of the block. Aiden can hear the drone of classic rock blaring in the interior. Either Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin, or Pink Floyd. Nothing else ever played inside the car. The cassette tapes were burned out and unraveled countless times. Somehow, his dad always scavenged another copy.
As he walks down the sidewalk and peers inside the passenger window, Aiden confirms it is in fact his dad sitting in the driver’s seat. He bounces his pointer fingers off the wheel to the beat of the song. Slowly, he looks over as if he feels the heat of a stare on his neck. He lets his arm circle out wide and gestures to Aiden to get in the car.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Dad prods as Aiden opens the door.
Aiden slides into the passenger seat and absorbs the complete creature next to him. Limbs are functioning. Speech intact. Personality no longer diminished.
“Is this really you?” Aiden asks, reaching out. As his hand grazes Dad’s arm, Dad pulls away.
“What the fuck are you on about? Of course it’s me, you fucking dolt. Christ alive.”
“I—just . . .”
Dad shakes his head and puts the car in drive. He pulls out of the spot and drifts down to the stop sign. The soothing rhythm of “Going to California” floods into Aiden’s ears. Instinctively, he turns down the volume. They need to have a serious conversation.
“Hey!” Dad calls out. “You know better than to touch my shit.” He reaches and turns the volume halfway to what it was.
“Dad, look. What is going on?”
Dad snorts, offering no further reply.
Aiden takes a breath and centers himself. He was quick to forget the rough edges that his father had. Yeah, everyone remembers his boisterous nature and the endless jokes that poured out of him like a bottomless keg, but how many recall his short temper? How many dealt with his rampages through the house? Aiden remembers cowering in fear and burying himself deep in video games to escape the unpleasantness of the bickering sessions between his parents or the occasional glass thrown against the kitchen wall. Thank god for noise-canceling headphones. Thank god for a teenager’s ability to teleport themselves to a haven.
“You can drive,” Aiden says. “And talk. And—”
“Well, ain’t you the class queen. You must even know that shit stinks and money is green with those deeductive skills. That’s my son, everyone. The class bitch. A pansy with his earrings and painted nails.”
Aiden attempts to pivot the subject. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere. Nowhere. Everywhere. Does it matter?”
Dad pulls up to the stoplight. He doesn’t wait for the green light, opting to roll through the red. He turns north onto Cedar Springs and moseys up the empty street. Aiden pulls his attention to the window and notices how dark each building seems. The countless apartment buildings show no sign of life. The trees sag, and the small batches of leaves that remain on them look dead already. Eventually, the stoplights don’t bother to offer anything more than a faint flashing of yellow.
“Where is Mom?” Aiden asks.
“At home. Taking care of me. That’s all she does. I know she resents me. Probably has since the moment we married. She would tell you that I hid my true self from her, but that just isn’t the truth. And ever since she had you, I could see that her allegiance shifted. You became her world. You became this dependent object she needed to nurture and cater to. Look where that got the both of you? My bitch wife turned into a cunt and my soft son turned into a bitch. One replaces the other. My father used to say that women should be seen not heard. And you know what? I didn’t follow that rule nearly enough. Maybe if I did, things would be different. Comprende, hefe?”
They reach the intersection of Cedar Springs and Mockingbird. Love Field is just beyond, an open stretch of land with two runways. Every ten minutes or so, the runways rumble with activity. Not tonight, though. The airport is bare, as are the fast-food joints dotting the road leading up to it.
Dad flicks his turn signal and heads east on Mockingbird. “What have you been up to? We haven’t talked in a while.”
Aiden clears his throat and waits for “When the Levee Breaks” to reach a lull. Aiden knows it is the last song on the tape. He will rewind the cassette once it’s finished because the thought of sitting in silence is unbearable.
“I am streaming on Twitch.”
“Uh huh, yeah. Explain it to me like I’m some fucking half-breed retard.”
“People pay to watch me play video games.”
“Uh huh, yeah. So that’s why you ain’t go to college, right? Thank Christ you didn’t waste more of my money. Chasing your dreams, huh?” Dad is amused by this and digs in deeper. “You can’t be very good, I imagine. I heard all those times you cried and slammed your fists onto your bed like an untrained circus animal. Still as whiny as you used to be, huh? How much you get paid?”
“Enough to pay my bills.”
Dad turns and glares at Aiden. “How much?”
“About eight thousand a month.”
Dad lets out a low, long whistle that resembles the last shriek of a dying animal. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut, I s’pose. Good for you, son. You’ll find some way to cock it up.”
The song ends. Aiden is quick to press the rewind button. He lets the conversation stall because there is nothing to speak about. Nothing with his father ever made sense. And yet, he devoted so much of his time and energy to ensuring his dad’s continued existence.
Truth: Aiden helped care for his dad because he knew he was suffering. His mind wasn’t deprecated by the car crash, only his body. Aiden saw brief glimmers of discomfort when he shoved the spoon down his father’s throat. Aiden sometimes went days without washing his father, going against what he told his mom, hoping his dad would develop bedsores and die from a prolonged battle with infections.
Another truth: Aiden was glad his dad hadn’t died in that car crash. It gave Aiden time to torture his deadbeat father.
Consequence: none that Aiden could see.
Once the tape finishes its backpedaling, Aiden presses play. The cassette begins again with “Black Dog.”
“How does it work?” Dad asks, re-energized by the music restarting.
“How does what work?”
“Your job, dipshit.”
Aiden tiptoes around the details but provides Dad with a neat overview of how Twitch works. The streaming, the audience, how he selects the games to play, the schedule he is tethered to. At multiple points, Dad makes an overt snoring noise to signify his boredom. He twirls his finger to hasten things along. When Aiden finishes, Dad asks only one question.
“What’s your name on this Twitch? I want to watch my son. Critique his work. Give him notes. Knowing you, there are areas that could use a wax.”
“Aiden Katana,” Aiden says as if the words are shameful.
“Aiden Katana,” Dad repeats back. “What kind of pussy shit is that?” He tilts his head back and laughs. A roaring laugh that triumphs over the speakers. “Katana? You think you’re tough shit or something? My bitch son thinks he’s tough,” Dad observes. He chews on the information until an epiphany forms. “No, that’s not it. You ain’t tough. You’re ashamed, huh? You’re ashamed of your last name, so you went and fibbed to this audience of yours about who you are. You’re a gimmick. A sham. A tiny puppet for people to shove their hands inside and manipulate. There you go. Why be Aiden Keane when you could be Aiden Katana?” Dad shakes his head. “You manage to find new ways to disappoint me.”
They are now driving through a portion of the SMU campus. Dad looks out the driver’s side window and unleashes another diatribe about how Aiden would never have been good enough to get into this school, how it’s a blessing he didn’t embarrass the family by trying. For his part, Aiden lets the words fall away. Eventually, the assault ceases, and they merge onto Route 75. The world is still devoid of life and energy.
“Make yourself useful, will you?” Dad says and points to the backseat. Aiden obeys and pivots around, groping his hands around the darkness until he feels the cardboard container. He shoves a hand into the opening and latches onto the object inside. He turns back around with the beer in his hand.
“Are you going to give it here or what?” Dad barks.
Aiden does as told. “Are you sure you should be—”
“If you finish that sentence, I will beat you to death,” Dad warns. He balances the beer on his leg and uses his right hand to bust open the top. He takes three long sips, letting the car slip into the middle lane.
“Dad!” Aiden calls out.
Dad jerks the car back into the fast lane. “Shut the fuck up, you pussy.”
They continue on in silence toward their unknown destination. Aiden pushes the seat back and props his legs up on the dashboard. His mind is clear, unbothered by the rants and insults. You learn to ignore the giant, leaping elephant when all it does is ask for constant attention. Aiden’s eyes close and his world shrinks to the blackness we all surrender to . . .
“What is this fucking jackass doing?” Dad shouts, looking into the rearview mirror.
Aiden pulls himself from the depths of near-sleep. He doesn’t even need to turn around to see the glare of the headlights behind them.
“Go around, you fucking cocksucker. Go around,” Dad shouts. He tosses his hands up in an animated fashion, spilling whatever remained of the beer onto the floor. “Get me another one,” he says, still watching the rearview mirror.
Aiden hesitates, contemplates the forthcoming verbal abuse, and obeys. He fishes out the last beer from the pack and hands it over.
Dad deftly opens the can, juggling his attention between multiple tasks. After a satisfying sip, he says with a bored bluntness, “Probably some fucking nigger. Did you ever notice that? It’s always the niggers who don’t know how to drive.”
Aiden cringes and sinks further into his seat. “Dad, come on. You can’t say things like that.”
Dad bangs his hand on the steering wheel with each word. “Shut the fuck up, faggot. Shut your fucking mouth.” Now he squeezes the steering wheel. “You are just like me. You are just like me. Don’t pretend you aren’t. My blood and yours ain’t so different.”
Truth: Every slur, every racist phrase that Aiden ever learned came from his father. The first time Aiden repeated one of these words to himself, it sounded right. A flood of emotion escaped from him as if he had just unclogged a sink. He liked the way they rolled off his tongue. He liked the way they made him feel superior. He liked how he could say these words with his bedroom door closed while playing video games, and no one scolded him.
The only consequence? A two-week ban on Twitch.
Dad mutters more insults and wishes of harm to both Aiden and the driver of the blinding headlights. With his attention divided among a multitude of tasks, Dad takes another sip of the beer. As he does, the hand still on the steering wheel pulls down hard, jerking the car to the left. Before Aiden can react, the car hits the concrete median. Dad lets this second beer can fall to the floor as he tugs at the steering wheel. The effort is wasted. The car slides against the median until the tires screech and the car flips end over end. By now, the airbags have deployed, and Aiden’s femurs are pushed up into his groin. He doesn’t recognize the pain as his legs shatter. He doesn’t recognize the beautiful parabola of the car as it ascends through the air, rolling, spinning, fighting against gravity. He doesn’t recognize the yelps of Dad saying “Not again, not again” on repeat as if he were a fractured cassette tape.
The car meets the highway and rolls half a dozen more times until it skids another thirty feet on the roof. Blood pours from Aiden’s body like a flooding river. Bones protrude and pierce his skin. The carnage is fantastical, dreamlike. Once the car comes to a rest, Aiden blacks out from the pain. When he comes to, his seatbelt has come loose, causing his body to be a mangled mess on the roof. He drags himself from the car and out onto the road, unconcerned about the jagged glass creating new grooves in his skin. He curls himself into the fetal position and keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead.
A hooded figure comes into view. With each step, they further obscure Aiden’s vision until the world beyond slips away.
The hooded figure bends down and offers a hand. Aiden focuses all his remaining strength and latches onto the stranger. Like he weighs nothing, Aiden is lifted to his feet. He expects to fall over again, hampered by his shattered legs. Instead, Aiden stands strong. He feels full.
Aiden looks over and sees Dad’s body in a heap. Shallow breaths push out from him, but his neck is twisted at an unfortunate angle. His eyes dart open, and a groan squeaks past his lips. Dad’s mouth opens wider and wider until the blackness of that cavernous hole swallows everything around it.
“The first of many,” the hooded figure says. “Ripples, Aiden. Millions of ripples radiate out from the center. You are that center. You are the catalyst. Feel the ripples. Understand the repercussions. You are ours.”
“See me whole,” Dad says, slime pouring from his unfathomable darkness. “See me whole,” he gurgles.
“Repercussions,” the hooded figure says.
With a solid push from the hooded figure, Aiden stumbles into the middle lane of the highway. He turns his head just in time to see the headlights bearing down on him. The impact feels like a spray of bullets ruining skin and bone.
Aiden comes to at his desk, headset on and Twitch sitting at the ready on his computer. Two weeks have passed. The ban has been lifted. His audience is waiting with anticipation.
“Let’s do this,” Aiden says, cracking his knuckles and thinking about how he won’t ever slip up again. The nightmares have been horrible during his forced sabbatical. The feelings of loneliness, let alone the loss of income. Never again. He is a changed man.
“See me whole,” he says.
Right before he switches on the stream, Aiden hears a rustling behind him. He swivels his head and sees the hooded figure standing fifteen feet away under the dizzying glow of the kitchen lights. The light is eaten by the darkness that circles the entity.
“Say it,” it says. “Say the word. Yell it. Shout it.”
Aiden pulls off the headset and lets it rest on his shoulders. “No, that was the old me.”
“A choice, then,” the hooded figure says. “One: say the word and be renewed. Two: stay trapped within this ripple. Who do you choose to be?”
“What is this?” Aiden laughs. “All this because of a mistake. All this because I slipped up.”
The hooded figure extends a hand. Aiden sees now that one finger is missing. The stump is bloody with drops falling to the floor in an uneven pattern.
“I won’t,” Aiden says. He turns back around and begins his stream. On the monitor, he can see that the hooded figure is gone, no longer standing behind him.
And yet, he feels a chill against his neck. The words ease into him like a lullaby sung by a tired mother. “The ripple continues. Forever and ever. You are now whole.”
At the center of this endless ripple, Aiden sits staring at his computer monitor, the one showing the perpetual title screen for Fevered Death 3. Drool pours from his mouth. His eyes are wide, unblinking, and shriveling from dryness. The skin sags on his cheeks. Bedsores are forming from the lack of movement.
An arthritic, severed finger continues its lazy, ceaseless pattern of a sideways eight. No more tick marks are needed. The bloody symbol smears and sears into the screen.
For Aiden, this night is boundless.
For Aiden, truth and consequences no longer matter.