by M. R. Tapia
On the screen, Marie's shown hopping and waving next to the male geisha outside of a building entrance. After a couple seconds I come into the screen apprehensively. A quick discussion ensues and Marie runs through the double doors. She turns and stands in the glass window, waving me on, inviting me to the fun.
Hesitantly, I look away from the geisha and enter the building. My face plain and rueful as the geisha ushers Marie into one door. The geisha dawned a macabre grin as he ushers me through the opposite door.
Over the television’s speakers, the Samurai host speaks secretly to his viewers.
“They have no idea what they're in for at this moment.”
Behind the host’s sniggering, hidden cameras show Marie entering her first room, the door closing behind her. Her smile has twisted into a nervous smirk. The second door opens and the soft, purple hue of the black-light takes over. She blinks rapidly, adjusting her vision to the dark lighting. Her teeth dull and yellow behind her nervous lips, she steps forward with her palms out, walking until her hands stop at a wall. She traces the wall with her fingers as if reading Braille, seeking a coded message. Then, the floor gives way.
The host yells out from the speakers, the subtitles spelling out, “There she goes!”
Marie’s hands reach in the air, grasping at nothing as she’s swallowed whole by the floor.
“Let’s see that once again.”
In slow motion, a hidden camera from the Braille wall shows Marie’s face up close and personal, contorting with surprise, her dull, yellow eyes turning upward. In slow motion, she reaches for nothing.
The screen cuts to another angle. This one from underneath the floor. Marie free falls for a second before her bottom bounces on a slide leading to the basement floor. The slide, shiny with an oily substance, catches Marie and flattens her against the floor. Marie propels forward, her mouth agape as she screams uncontrollably. Her hands stick out in front of her, fingers straight out and wedding band glimmering.
As she slows to a complete stop, a male Geisha strides up and marks her distance. From behind the Geisha steps out another one holding a Billy-club in his right hand. He swings it behind and pulls it forward.
Marie’s eyes widen as the club connects behind her ear.
The live audience, half of them cheering, the other half laughing.
The television screen goes dark, then slowly, the samurai host’s face returns, smiling.
“Now, let's see how her travel-companion fared.”
The audience has gone silent with anticipation.
Standing still and silent, I witness the beginning of our plight.
The various posts from social media have been muted in honor of our entrance to this horrid gameshow. Reactions still floating across the screen. The ticker growing with viewers and their shitty reactions, exceeding numbers I don’t care to pay any attention to anymore.
Above the live-ticker, I appear on the screen. My eyes locked on Marie as the door shuts her smile away from me. Arms slack, legs stiff, and my mouth drooped open, I allowed her to go. I lost her, and the whole world is loving it. Hearts and smiles and wows all float across the screen.
The male geisha turns away from Marie’s door and walks up to me. With a stern hand, he places it on my back and steers me to my door. His lips move, but there’s no audio or subtitles. But I know what he said, in layman’s terms, he told me, “Welcome to Hell.”
Another camera angle, from inside the room, shows the door shut behind me and the lights go out. The room flickered as the black-lights illuminated my wide, yellow eyes. I stand there for a second, turn toward the door, stopping as I realize there is no doorknob. I turn, looking defeated, yet, determined. Determined to find Marie.
On the screen, I take a breath and enter through the door. The world watches it close behind me and my hands slap each wall in the tiny room, searching for some sort of knob to move forward. It takes a couple of shouts before the camera show me raise both palms, continuously slapping at one of the walls. My lips read, “Let me the fuck out!”
There are no subtitles for the world to realize when I shout, “Marie!”
In the midst of my rage, the floor gives way and I am no longer on the screen.
Our samurai host laughs uncontrollably.
“One more time!”
A hidden camera angle shows my face in dull lighting as I plummet out of screen. My fingers scratching at the wall I had been punishing moments before. My yellow teeth and bruised looking lips shouting, “No.”
Then, a shift in cameras shows as I land on a slide similar to Marie’s. Again, the geishas rush to my side as I come to a stop, one of them measuring my distance. Another raises a samurai sword to the air. As he swings it in the direction of my head, the screen cuts to a vision of Marie.
Marie, right now, watching the same recap I am, screaming in horror. Seeing her own face on the screen, she believes I was killed.
Grunts of anger and pleading resonate from my tiny, iron cage, as the lights lose their phosphorescent glow, ensconcing me in darkness. Gears churn to my right, iron grinding against itself before coming to a stop.
The silence keeps my control over any motor movement at bay. Different speakers crackle to existence, the silence succumbing to my heartbeat in my ears and the Japanese shouting through the speakers.
I raise my hands to where the mechanical components had churned moments ago and feel nothing.
The Japanese shouting has turned into single shouts. A countdown.
In between the shouts, I hear a whimper across the room. Marie’s cries.
“Help me!” she shouts.
“Ahhh grahhh!” I shout from my tongueless mouth.
The screen flickers once more, showing us a night-vision view of our room which beholds our destiny. On opposite corners of the room are two objects. Blunt, lethal-looking objects. One appears to be a sword. The other, a tray of some sort. No longer than a second, the screen shows us this, then, it blackens for the last time.
In between our host’s shouts, metallic cranks bang together, closing Marie’s behind her. Then, I hear Marie screaming.
I accept my only option to save Marie and step into the blackened room filled with deafening, Japanese shouting. Marie’s shouts are no longer heard.
Marie, the reason for everything good in my life. She is my life. Now, I can only pray to the godless skies that by the end of this ordeal she will be my death.
Then, my own door clanks shut behind me.
The darkness is suffocating. The concept of death numbs me.
#chapterten
We practically kill ourselves for digital attention. A few months ago, a person live streamed their suicide, jumping from a high riser. Caption: I bet my suicide won’t get one thousand likes. He won the bet.
Over 75% of people who have access to the internet have a social media account. Nearly 100% of them have an account on more than one social media platform.
The photo uploads in platforms such as Facebook and Twitter have grown significantly thanks to Instagram, which has also spawned many smaller social media platforms focusing on photos and videos. This comes with the ever-shortening attention span of the world. Our fast paced world grows ever-faster. We continually seek faster methods of entertainment..
On an average day, a person can spend three hours of their day on their phones, seeking entertainment. We care about people’s thoughts and feelings less and less. Videos of cute animals and human failures are quick outlets, reminding us although there are beautiful aspects of life, there’s always the chance for a hilarious failure, or the growing trend, a recorded death. To the victors go the spoils, and to the failures go the likes and shares.
For now, people like and share The Die-Fi Experiment.
Shouting in Japanese blares from unseen speakers in this final room. My head aches from the high pitched voice, and worse, I haven’t any idea what our host is saying; no more subtitles.
What’s left of my tongue throbs like I�
��ve been licking the edge of a butcher’s knife for hours on end. The entire left side of my face has gone numb. My lonely eye blinks anxiously, attempting to bring any focus into the darkness drowning me. The darkness in which I—we are in. Marie’s in here too.
Remembering this, I try to scream over the ceaseless Japanese shouting. I grunt incoherent noises, hoping Marie would recognize the sound as her husband’s voice. She doesn't.
Instead, she yells in between the Japanese shouting, “Leave me alone! You sick bastards!”
Her voice echoes around the room.
Knowing she doesn’t recognize me, I follow the wall to attempt to meet her halfway.
The wall is gritty like sandpaper. The room is humid and smells metallic and grimy. My body leans against the wall with little strength, my equilibrium intact enough to sweep my feet around with each step in search of one of the weapons. Not to kill Marie, no. To save her. To keep her alive.
The filthy wall comes to an end as I meet the corner of the room. Somewhere nearby, I know there’s either a samurai sword, or a tray full of surgical instruments. All of my trust going into my one-eyed sight of the night-vision angle the television provided for a second.
The ground is cold against my palms as I kneel on all fours. There’s a layer of lukewarm water—or what I hope to be water—upon the ground, as if a toilet had overflowed. My palms splash quietly along the floor, searching for a weapon. Even in my situation I can't help but hope this isn't urine and feces I'm splashing around in.
I can only imagine the scene viewers around the world are witnessing. In infrared night vision, Marie and I both walking around the room with our arms stretched out. Feeling around for a nonexistent sense of security. Both of us, walking around like amusement park mimes.
#livedeath #gladitsnotme #ilovetheinternet
Even with one eye missing and lying on some piss covered floor, I think an intelligent career choice would have been as an ophthalmologist. Nearsightedness will famine this new world, phones getting closer to the user’s face one post at a time.
#alldocumentsinemailformatreassurestheriskofnearsightedness #jobsecurity
Sliding my hands and feet around, my right foot hits an object. A metallic clamber echoes from wall to wall beneath the loud Japanese shouting. My heart uses my lungs as boxing speed bags as I crawl anxiously, feeling for what I had kicked. A tray. Recklessly, I grab at it, not realizing they’re surgical instruments.
Caught in my blind grip, a knife embeds itself in my right palm. I moan out some nonsense, tugging at it with my left hand, jerking it out from what must be a tendon or bone. The pain subsides as I focus on my mission: I need to find Marie.
Carelessly, I grip the rest of the tray’s tools and throw them in different directions, hoping to scare Marie into screaming, giving away her location.
The Japanese shouting cuts into extreme laughter, but in one of my throws, I hear Marie yelp. I couldn’t have struck her, could I have? This is like a gruesome, live version of Battleship.
I rush through the shallow puddles of warm water in the direction of Marie’s shouts. Only, I can’t hear her anymore, all I hear is our host shouting more excitedly. His voice thundering from rusty wall to rusty wall.
My feet catch ground underneath me and I plow forward with my hands out in front of me, hoping Marie has found the sword. Leaning forward I allow myself to become top heavy, plowing headfirst into the darkness with my center of gravity following behind. My hands come across a bundle of hair, but I’m unable to stop and my head collides with the room’s corner. Marie’s body tumbles underneath my knees.
“Get away!” She shouts. “Help!”
I can barely distinguish the words over the Japanese shouting and hysterical laughter.
I shout, “Brgehhh!”
Attempting to gain my bearings, I tug at her arms, hoping she has the sword.
She does.
In one of my tugs, my left hand drags across the long blade, cutting into my palm. Now, I push her, hoping for retaliation from her end.
Instead, she yells and topples away.
I follow. My wet clothes slap at my body as I trudge across the room. My hands reach out like a mummy. My feet move me quick enough to catch up to Marie, her sundress feels tattered within my grip. I hold onto her left shoulder and shout, grunting as I bring my right palm across her head, begging her in incoherent phrases to bring my suffering to an end.
She attempts to fight me off even more.
Knowing this is her life at stake, my rage pounds at the rear end of my lonely eye. My right hand reaches back once again, swinging my fist forward, connecting with some part of her skull.
Tears burn at my empty socket, realizing what I’m doing. Marie’s drop-dead gorgeous, smeared makeup and all. It hurts, wanting to see her face one more time. But this darkness does not allow it. Instead, I’m swinging at her beautiful face. I know she has the sword in hand, but she’s a kind—hearted person, and right now, I need her to be ruthless. I need her to live.
Marie fights to get away from my grip, but I grab both her shoulders and push, attempting to bring out some form of malevolent act so she can survive.
As she leaves my grip, the Japanese shouting ceases. Over my heavy panting, I hear Marie’s body slap the wet floor. A sound is released like she’d been punched in her gut, knocking out her air. Then, gurgling, like spurts of boiling water. Something’s wrong.
Our host shouts like an announcer at the FIFA World Cup. This shout is universal. But his shout isn’t as much about a goal, but victory.
I fall to the ground in a panicked rage, clawing the floor underneath me. That’s when I feel her wet toes within her sandals. Grabbing at the bottom of her damp feet, I notice her heels are facing downward. Her legs are bare, her dress knotted above her waist. My palms trace her body from her feet up to her shoulder blades, that’s when my right hand drags against the blade of the samurai sword protruding from her back.
The speakers crackle at the weight of the host’s shouting. He’s excited.
I’m in shock.
Marie’s back heaved sporadically with shallow breaths. Immediately, I grasp her shoulder and turn her onto her side, as that’s as far as the blade exiting her back allowed.
“Mgheee!”
Even if she wasn’t in pain, she wouldn’t have understood me. She couldn’t have sensed my own pain. She believed I sought her death, when the truth is I wanted her to live. I wanted her to kill me.
The heaving in her chest ends with one last gargle.
The host shouts.
Marie dies, I win.
Iron bangs together, and streaks of light raid my blood puddled room. The light tickles at Marie’s feet, caressing her calves and crawling up her thighs. My one eye watches my right hand pull Marie’s dress back down before the light streaming in from the opening door reaches her exposed waist. The pacing neon-lights wrap around her shoulders and I see the handle of the samurai sword underneath her sternum. Protruding from her back like a surrender flag, the blade shines in blue and green hues.
Tears are impossible anymore, dehydration running its course aside from losing so much blood. It’s amazing I’m still here at Marie’s side.
The speakers screech as the host blares, “You win! You free! You go, now!”
Some electric static follows his voice, then they both cut out completely.
The doorway leads to a staircase, lit up with the colors of a sunrise. At the foot of the stairs is a cube shaped object. My soul aches and my bones pop as I crawl to the exit and out to the lot of the stairway. It was a prize.
The iPhone-X.
I drop it near my knees and peer up at the sky, staring at the neon sunrise. My neon silhouette graces the first step leading away from this Hell. Leading to a neon Heaven.
My mind reels as I attempt to remember the time frame in which we were coaxed into this horrible place. The sun high in the sky as we ate at the hibachi grill; the sky had been streaked with a barrage of
orange and pink hues as the sun set and we caught the subway; when we debarked the subway, the sky had darkened. Moments after, we arrived here. The sultry songs from birds are heard up past the neon lit stairs. An artificial sunrise accompanying their symphonies.
Every day, more and more false idols created. Everyone attempting to stake their claim in the new pseudo-martyrdom. Videos of good deeds and great pranks and horrid fist-fights and deathly shootings. We witness a false meaning of life through our phone screens. The people next to us only visible through the reflections as we show them some random post.
The Die-Fi Experiment is our stake, our deaths.
Right now, people all over the world must be cheering. Reeling at the ultimate death of my wife, Marie. Hash-tagging the deaths of the Italian and his female companion. My guess is she was his wife, maybe. The whole world, itching for another show. Fiending for the next trending failure to share. Hoping to be the one to expose the next person to it. Social media popularity crowns always being competed for.
Pissed off, I grab the iPhone-X box, and with any might I can muster, I toss the box over the stairs and onto the ground above. My jaw cracks and the blood-clots on my tongue break open, flooding my mouth with bitter, metallic blood as I drag myself to Marie’s body. My fingers wrap around the sword’s handle which protrudes from her chest. I press my wet foot against her chest and pull at the sword embedded in her. My head swims dizzily as I am finally able to jerk it out from her chest. The handle still warm with a cocktail of blood from Marie and the Italian.
My wife dead, her cheek’s cold against my lips as I give her one last kiss. My knees create a drumroll as I get into position of seppuku, a samurai ritual; Marie also taught me this fact. Instead of leaving this hell for the social media hell outside, I choose to die in honor beside my beloved Marie. The cloth wrapped handle exudes a malicious authority in my sweaty grip.