by Eric Smith
Still. It feels good to try.
I go to all the blogs covering what happened and scour through the comments sections, which are just a collection of human garbage. Usernames that are one word followed by a bundle of numbers, with no other posts beyond the one here or there. No profile photos. No information about who they are. Some of the comments are labeled as “marked for deletion” or “pending” on a few of the outlets, and when I click to see their full contents, I feel sick to my stomach. They’re either full of the vilest of the comments section or have photos of D1V. Some are screenshots of her and her mom, or animated GIFs from the Quarter Slice Crisis incident. The worst are photoshopped images of her doing unspeakable things, or having horrible things done to her.
It’s mind-boggling. Where does this hate even come from? And who has the time to create these kinds of intricate animated pictures and photoshops?
Link-sharing sites don’t provide much else, either. I scour through Reddit, looking at the forums sharing the posts about D1V. There’s a subforum encouraging people to keep pressing her, a place that looks like it’s made just for trolls, but even here, where these people congregate, I’m finding nothing. Profiles that post a ton of stuff but are anonymous, focused on one spot, one place.
The organization of it all is terrifying.
I feel this awful wave of helplessness, followed by another wave of guilt. Because this fleeting feeling is nothing compared to what D1V must be going through every minute of every day. I wonder why she keeps doing it. How she keeps doing it. Where does that strength come from? There’s no way I could deal with that.
My phone buzzes, and I see there’s a message from D1V in the Reclaim the Sun chat client. I look around the office quickly to make sure no one is here, a movement that’s really more instinctive than necessary, especially considering the chat my mom just had with me.
I open the app.
RECLAIM THE SUN: CHAT APPLICATION
D1V: Hey.
D1V: Rebekah has class and all my social media feeds are locked down.
D1V: So...hi, you’re my silver medal.
AARON: Hahah, wow.
D1V: Kidding. At the office?
AARON: Yeah, giving my dad the day off.
AARON: My mom had this talk with me about how she’s into my gaming dreams, kinda?
AARON: Just worried about me not getting paid.
D1V: Not getting paid?
AARON: Yeah, the ManaPunk team still owes me and Ryan for our freelance work on the last title.
D1V: Eek.
AARON: Yeah.
AARON: How are you feeling?
D1V: Let’s not get into that. Tell me more about your family. Your dad. What’s the deal with that?
AARON: Ah. Well, he moved here when he was about our age. He doesn’t talk about it much.
AARON: Worked a lot of rough jobs, eventually worked his way up at a restaurant.
AARON: Met my mom when he was the manager.
D1V: That part is sweet.
AARON: Yeah. I just feel bad. My mom is always trying to get him to relax, but he hates that.
AARON: He doesn’t want to be taken care of.
AARON: He just wants to take care of us, and other people. Like his family back home.
D1V: Sounds like someone I know. Always trying to be the savior type.
AARON: Oh hah hah. Now you really need to meet Ryan.
AARON: Anyway. I’m glad to get him away from the desk. He needs a break, even if he won’t admit it.
D1V: Well, you know what they say.
D1V: It’s hard to change your stars.
AARON: Did you just reference A Knight’s Tale?
D1V:
AARON: You’re awesome.
The string of messages has me grinning like a fool, but our conversation is interrupted when my phone rings, the name and number taking over the screen. It’s Jason. I stare at the ringing number for a moment, utterly perplexed. He’s not the sort to use his phone like a phone, so it’s either incredibly important or, far more likely, he left his phone in his pocket and is accidentally butt-dialing me—something you’d think would have died in the age of the smartphone, but he still figures out a way to do it.
God, maybe he finally has a paycheck for me. That’ll definitely help ease my mom’s worries. And Ryan’s. And mine.
I pick it up.
“Hello?” I ask carefully, expecting to hear the rustling of pants or the inside of a backpack. “Jason? You never use the pho—”
“Aaron. What’s the deal with you and that D1V girl?” he asks. The tone of his voice, the one that’s normally jovial and playful, is replaced with a harsh edge I seldom ever hear from him. The one that only surfaces when we pester him about paychecks. “The streamer, the one getting trolled and all?”
“The...deal? I’m not even sure what you’re asking.” I look around the office again and keep talking. “We chat sometimes. Online friends, I guess. Why?”
Though something inside me twinges a little bit as I say that. There’s something more between us, in the chat rooms, that feels like more than an “I guess.” But the edge in Jason’s voice makes me want to hide.
He exhales, and there’s a long pause.
“Jason?” I venture. “What’s up?”
“Aaron, I have to let you and Ryan go from the project. From ManaPunk.”
It feels like my heart just explodes in my chest.
“What?!” I shout into the phone. “What are you talking about? Why?”
“I’m bringing the game to publishers at the indie showcase in New York, and with all the attention your...friend has been getting on social media and in the news...” He sighs. “When she mentioned you and ManaPunk in that first video, sure, it was a great bump for us attentionwise, but now people think we’re sympathizers with what’s going on. That we’re supporting her.”
“Aren’t we?!” I demand. “Don’t you see what those people are doing to her? It’s not just on the Internet—it’s in real life. They egged her mom, Jason. They attacked her. Those people—”
“Those people, Aaron...” Jason exhales again, and it’s starting to drive me crazy. “I can’t believe I have to say this out loud, but those people are our audience. They buy our games. The publicity and marketing team that handles ManaPunk’s social feeds are seeing people calling for a boycott on our current and future games.”
“So what?!” I yell. “To hell with those people. We don’t need their money.”
“Yeah, I do, though,” Jason says, his tone full of finality.
There’s a long pause.
“So...that’s it?” I ask coldly. “What about Ryan’s artwork? What about my story? What about our money?”
“I already talked to Ryan, and he’s fine with it,” Jason says calmly. “We’ll still be using his concept art, and we’ll still use your story. A paycheck is coming, and you’ll still get a portion of the game sales, don’t worry. I just...” He pauses. “There’s a nondisclosure agreement I need you both to sign, and I won’t be able to credit you as a writer in the game.”
“Fuck that,” I spit. “I worked too hard. I gave up my weekends and my nights this entire year. I dealt with your harsh, needless criticism, and so did Ryan.”
“He’s already agreed to it,” Jason says.
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” I snap.
“Look, the showcase is in another two weeks,” he says, and I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’d really appreciate it if you could sign the contract and the NDA and move on from all this. It’s not about this girl, it’s about your career. Just because you aren’t credited doesn’t mean you can’t put it on a resume. Or a college application. And think about the money. If you don’t sign... Well, I’ll just have to fire you without giving you a share, instead of letting you leave of your own voliti
on and still get an uncredited stake in the title.”
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“That’s because I have one,” Jason says. “I had to get one.”
“Who even are you right now?” I ask. “After everything we’ve done for the company? You’re really going to do this to us?”
But it’s like he doesn’t even hear me. “Choose wisely, Aaron,” he advises. “I really don’t want to be the enemy here. We’re friends, you and me. Remember, the money from this game, it’ll help you go to whatever college you want. Or start your own studio. That’s what you want, right? You can get away from your doctor parents and—”
“You keep talking about money, but you haven’t even paid me yet! Or Ryan! And friends?! You’re trying to use that against me? Fuck off, Jason,” I tell him, but I feel my voice cracking. There’s a sob in the back of my throat, and I’m not about to let it out. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
My lip quivers as I hang up the phone, tossing it onto the desk. I lean back in the office chair and stare at the computer, and then around at the waiting area. At my future. The hard, inevitable future of this place, the fluorescent lights and angry patients and years of medical school that I don’t want to go through. I feel the tears, hot and heavy, streaming down my face, and I hurry to wipe them away. All those nights, all that time spent working on that damn story, and all last year, fussing over that puzzle game Jason released, copyediting shitty menu text and tutorials.
And now there’s nothing.
Well, I guess that’s not entirely true.
There’s either nothing, an NDA, or there’s a lawyer and some sort of legal battle to keep my name on the game and the story. Except I don’t see my mom being down to bankroll a lawyer and court case.
I look over at the door to her office, still closed. I’m surprised she hasn’t come out, with all the shouting I was doing. I glance at my phone, upside down against a corkboard full of to-dos and business cards, and wonder how Ryan is taking the news. His parents will certainly take it better than mine; even if things go entirely south, it’s not like he has to prove himself the way I feel like I have to. He’ll probably get a scholarship to art school and be just fine next year, anyway.
The scholarship for people who want to write video game narratives doesn’t quite exist yet, at least as far as I know.
I move to grab the phone when something catches my eye on the desktop: a folder squeezed all the way into the corner of the screen, as though somehow that would prevent someone from seeing it. I select it, the tiny edge of the pixelated folder barely large enough to get the mouse cursor over, and drag it over where I can actually see the full folder.
Dad’s Files.
I stare at the folder and wonder if this is where he stores that game he’s been trying to hide. I click it open and feel my eyes go wide.
There’s an icon for a game called Ultima Online—just like Ryan had suspected when he saw the photo I took—as well as what looks like hundreds of Word documents. Their file names all have long strings of numbers and letters, all nonsensical, with dates that stretch back... God, years. Over a decade. I scroll down, down, down... They just keep going.
There are Word files in here older than Mira.
I glance away from the computer and peek around the office, as though my father might walk in while I’m here thumbing around. The waiting room is still empty, the only sound the hum of the old PC and the soft voice of my mother talking in the back. She must be on the phone, since I haven’t seen a patient come in yet.
I open one of the Word docs, my eyes flitting back and forth from the screen to the waiting room as the old computer opens Microsoft Word, the hard drive whirring angrily. It’s as though the computer is trying as hard as it can to do what I’ve asked, the ancient beast making actual sounds. It’s something newer computers rarely do, unless there’s something wrong with them.
When it finally blips up on the screen, I squint at it, not entirely sure what I’m looking at.
It’s a letter.
My Dearest,
How many days has it been? Or has it been weeks? Without you, time has no meaning in this place, where I’m surrounded by strangers. I walk through this world, listless, and find no joy in the treasures that surround me. For what is the point of any kind of riches, whether they are found in wealth or in friends and family, when I cannot share them with you?
Soon I will see you again.
I will return to you, my queen, my love.
Yours, as ever.
My stomach drops, and I feel as though I have to force myself to breathe, inhaling and exhaling. I grip the soft foam-rubber armrests of the office chair and slide myself back, staring at the computer in horror.
My dad.
He’s...having an affair?
Suddenly, the door to one of the patient rooms swings open, and my mom walks out with an older woman, the two of them chatting about...something... I don’t know. Everything feels like a blur.
When did a patient walk in? How did I miss that?
Their words are floating through the air and landing on my ears unheard. There’s a laugh, and I see someone wave. My mom? The patient? I turn my attention back to the office PC, hurriedly closing all the windows and hiding Dad’s secret folder down in the corner again.
His secret folder.
His secret life.
Am I really hiding this for him? Why?
Some of those Word files are over a decade old. How old was the one I opened? What else is in there? What other secrets are in these letters? Has this person been in the picture before Mira? Is there more than one? Was he talking to this woman while Mom was pregnant?
My heart plummets down into my body, past where my stomach maybe was, and everything inside me feels hollow. Empty. It blends intensely with an awful swell of anxiety, an urge to open that folder again, to find out more.
“Aaron?”
I blink and look up to see my mom standing at the desk, an inquisitive look on her face.
“You okay?” she asks, crossing her arms. “You don’t look so great. Are you...are you crying, sweetie?”
“No. Yes,” I mutter, and wipe at my eyes. I didn’t realize that was still happening. I shake my head as my mom leans on the desk, and I feel myself digging for anything else to talk about. In the span of ten minutes, I lost my summer job and all the plans I’d laid out for myself, then stumbled upon this...thing...with my dad...
I clear my throat. “Jason, the ManaPunk guy... He has to let me go. Because of the Internet stuff.”
“What Internet stuff?” my mom asks, giving me a confused look.
“There’s...” I exhale. My heart starts pounding again as I realize I’ve never explained any of this to my mom, to anyone in the family, really, and that if I don’t dig into it properly, she’ll likely unplug me from everything. And right now, I’m not sure who I need to protect more—myself and these dreams I’m barely able to cling to, or my mom from all this nonsense tucked away on the computer here.
“There’s this girl I’ve been talking to. She’s sort of famous in the video game world.” I stammer the words out, still reeling over what I found out about Dad, but I have to talk about something else. Anything. “She’s being targeted by a bunch of trolls online. They’ve been harassing her on social media and in the games she plays.”
“That’s awful!” my mom exclaims. “Why?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it? ’Cause she’s a girl. ’Cause she’s brown like us. ’Cause people are garbage. ’Cause you can’t trust anyone anymore.” I feel myself getting heated and try to dial it back. “It gets worse, though. They sent her emails, pictures of her apartment building. They harassed her mom where she works.” I watch as my mom’s face goes from surprise to abject horror. “And since I’m associated with her, Jason said he has to sever ties with
me, since his game company is getting all this attention now from those trolls, and that’s supposedly our audience.”
“And how long have you been hanging out with this girl?” my mom asks. It feels like she’s asking the wrong question here.
“We haven’t. We just talk online, game sometimes.”
My mom fiddles with her ID badge, and her eyes search the room.
“Aaron, I’m not sure you should be—”
“Please don’t tell me not to talk to her anymore,” I plead, standing up. “Jason is already pushing me away.”
“How’s it going to look on college applications with your name in the news and—”
“Mom, I’m already in the news! On the blogs! And I’m not going to be a doctor!” I shout. I grab my phone off the desk and charge by her. “Who the fuck cares?”
“Aaron, don’t use that language with me,” she says sternly. I can feel myself breathing heavily now, my chest tight, and I know the rage isn’t just about D1V and my mom’s disapproval and what she wants for my career, but I don’t care.
“You’re going to medical school, or we aren’t paying for college—”
“Will you stop hanging that over me already?!” I roar, almost to the door. “I’ll take out student loans! I’ll go into horrible debt! I’ll work shitty jobs like...like Dad did for years, if that means I can get away from all this and you and live the life I want. It’s bad enough you keep Dad locked up in here. You can’t keep pushing me to do the same thing.”
“Aaron.” My mom suddenly starts tearing up. “Is that what you really think of me? Of this family? I don’t put your dad here and make him do anything. He’s here because I love him, and he loves me. He likes being an active part of his family.”
I’m balling my fists, trying so, so hard not to say something that will shatter this entire family right now. It would be so easy. They’re just words. And then D1V flashes through my mind, reminding me of the way words hurt. The gaping wounds they leave behind. Even words from strangers. Forget them being from family.
Mom takes a step forward, her eyes wet, her mouth trembling in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.