Work Text:
Golden retriever eyes pity you, looking you up and down.
Bags under your eyes,
Bad habits; the Adderall, the lack of self-care, or even the drinking. The risk of death prominent every day. Deadlines, projects, every day booked and busy.
“Go with him,” Brett says lovingly. I tuck my hair behind my ear and smile.
The lingering shadows creep over, reminding you every second that you are nothing but a puppet.
But you can only feel your ambition gnaw at you. The underlying possibility that you could make the world a better place. A mere chance that maybe, just maybe, you could change things for the better.
I searched and searched this reality simulator database, thoroughly scanning every possible outcome.
Every reality, checked. Every outcome, negative.
I see his simulated self point the memory gun to his temple and I wince. Falling to my knees, my eyes begin to water. It looks like maybe, just maybe, he could make the woman he loves happy now. And maybe he could be happy later.
Shoot, forget, repeat. Shoot, forget, repeat. Shoot, forget, repeat.
“Every fucking timeline!” I practically scream, punching the rock-solid wall and crunching my hand.
Forget. Just forget.
I stand up and drag myself to my office.
He’s...
a keeper. There is nothing left to him that means anything, except you. And he will do anything for you.
Do you take advantage of that?
…
Holding hands, we walk into the small humble house. We set down our things, and hurry to the bedroom. He lays down, smiling at me; knowing that this is our beginning. I kiss him tenderly, knowing that this is our end. “I can’t wait to finally sleep at night” he sighs happily. I load the memory gun with one of its charges.
Shoot.
Forget.
No repeat.
“You’re free now,” I sob.
You can be happy later.
I sit on the porch, rocking myself in the chair to put my mind at ease. I ponder the time we spent together: the broom closet, Italy, and the stupid Halloween party I made up.
…
Appleton.
Appleton: the sheer simplicity of it oozed with normalcy, happiness; a fulfilling, quiet life. Appleton: the rocking chairs on the porch and growing old together didn’t seem too bad. Appleton: a sweet dream that could be a reality. Appleton, a sweetness that would sour into complacency: ambition’s suicide.
Appleton.
I sit at my desk, drugging my over-exhausted self to put my mind to work, to finish those hundreds of deadlines.
Back to where I began.
There is a chance, that maybe, just maybe, you will never be truly happy.
But you will never forget.