Act I: At some point, your house was a refuge
from you. I remember our shared delight the day you brought the virtual reality headset home. You and I both needed an escape from yourself. In virtual reality, we found, you didn’t exist. And while you played – an hour for you, an hour for me – I would eye the clock. Three minutes slow, I insisted; you didn’t believe me.
You asked at some point why I bothered coming over, if we weren’t going to talk or pretend to be friends. You wanted to hear that there was something left for us to salvage, so that’s what I told you. Not yet too late, I insisted; you didn’t believe me.
Act II: At some point, my mind was a refuge
from your house. I can’t even remember what it was we did all those hours, what excuses you made to see me, what excuses I made to see you. You tore a gash in my sled. You hunted me with plastic bullets. My parents were angry.
The virtual reality set had vanished at some point; we both knew it was no good for us. No matter. I didn’t need it anymore. You were drawn to shiny blades. You saved money for a gun. I could still slip out of reality. I played tetris in my head. I recited pi until it turned to song. You were angry.
Act III: At some point, you were a refuge
from my mind. You had vanished at some point; we both knew you were no good for me. I’d met new devils by then, ones who settled to dismember with pencils rather than knives. They didn’t need guns; scissors worked just fine. No matter. You still lived in that virtual reality I retreated to. The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.
And when I’m upset, I still walk by your house. I check to see if the light is on. I know you’re alive because I saw you at some point. You’re taller. It isn’t scary because you’re bigger, but because the kid in my head had gone and grown up while I wasn’t watching. You are no longer the devil I knew. The devil I knew was better than the devil I don’t.
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