Error

The controller felt tiny in her hands, her long, bony fingers wrapping around the back to overlap. This was her third try today to get past this particular bit of The Last of Us.

This game had been a favourite of Charlie’s, as was anything that dealt with a post-apocalypse. Though back then, Charlie had been playing the remake. It must’ve been what, 2026? 2027? She’d repeatedly tried to interest Imogen in it—it’s a masterpiece, it’s so powerful—even offering up her gaming laptop as a loan, one of her prized possessions. And it drove Imogen crazy. All of it. The offer, the lavishing of praise onto a video game, the distraction. We don’t have time for this, she’d shout, and it would spiral into a conversation that an outsider might think was about the game, and was really about everything but. We have to make time for this, Charlie would shout back. Play is important.

Now she stared at this antique PlayStation3: a bulky, ridiculous relic, an oddity of industrial design even when it was new. It rested on a side table in her study, with a nest of wires running into the back of an even older antique television. It was a connection to a past that wasn’t hers, one she’d acquired to right a wrong. She listened to the bloody thing fail: it ticked and clicked and moaned and whirred while fragile plastic spun inside, bombarded by a diode manufactured when Imogen was two years old.

We’re both in our forties, Imogen thought as the device struggled. I think we both work about as well, too.

The screen, and the room, went black as the sounds came to an abrupt stop. Both slowly filled with red as Imogen eased back into her chair. She let the controller fall out of her fingers and onto her lap. A serious error has occurred, said blocky white text over crimson. Contact technical support for assistance.

She manoeuvred her way down the hall in pitch black. Her hand slid along the varnished bannister and her foot soon found the edge of the carpet. She descended onto the first wooden step. Every inch of this house etched into her mind, navigable with nary a flicker, and she strode as nimbly as she could. The dead mustn’t linger and mustn’t bother, she’d think, though she did not recall where she had picked up the phrase. In practical terms it meant she moved in a glide, and made a game of never creaking the stairs. If she failed, it meant returning to the top and starting again. Tonight, she’d reached the bottom without disturbing a splinter.

Once downstairs she would need to close her eyes to keep up the charade, as the house glowed a dull blue at all hours of the night. Toe, heel, toe, heel, she worked her way around the curve in the wall and kept her hands against it. Her fingertips dragged across the texture of the paint. Step, step, step. The lycra of her leggings made the slightest swish noise as she moved, barely audible even to herself. She passed under the archway, the halogen hue sliced by the blinds and strained through a curtain, and entered the kitchen.

“Jesus!” A glass shattered and porcelain crashed into the tile. Imogen retreated to the oblique shadows of the corner. She tilted her head and stared at the man, bald and besuited, probably around her own height, as he scrambled backwards and stopped. “Christ, oh christ.” His hand cradled a holster at his side, and he snapped it shut soon after.

The man gathered the shards of plate and glass from the floor, leaving the ruined sandwich for last. The kitchen was a performance of domestic warmth, the likes made popular by decades of American media: needlessly large, a four-seat island in the middle, polished steel appliances, and a rustic shiplap liberally applied to the cabinetry and walls. Imogen had never lived here, nor had she chosen any of this decor. But its presence made her smile, this museum exhibit of a living space.

A television chef would feel at home here, she thought. If such a thing still existed.