Reset

I was fifty years old when I realised the world wasn’t real. There’d been a lurking suspicion all my life, that something wasn’t quite right. Do you ever get the sense that the entire universe revolves around you, that everyone else is just a character in your story, following a script that guides you along the the plot, constantly evolving towards the end?

 

My therapist thinks I’m having delusions, but it’s more of an awakening. The evidence, I tell her, is all around us. When the main character, isn’t observing reality, it ceases to exist. I think the Zen philosophy describes it best: if a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to observe it, does it still make a sound?

 

‘Do you think it makes a sound, John?’ 

 

I close my eyes, and ponder her question, sinking deep into the comfortable leather chair, wondering if she’s still there. Has she ceased to exist due to my lack of observation?  If I open my eyes too soon, before reality has a chance to reset itself, will I witness the cracks in reality? 

 

‘Only if someone real hears it,’ I reply, testing her knowledge of reality. 

 

‘Do you think the universe revolves around you?’ 

 

I smile, unable to contain amusement at the question. ‘No, I think I am the universe.’ 

 

She scribbles something in her book, taps her pencil as she stares at me, regarding me with a frown. I don’t know if she’s confused, or annoyed with my response. ‘I observed you as you closed your eyes, John, and I didn’t cease to exist, and neither did you.’

 

‘You would say that.’ 

 

‘We’re in a simulation, you say, and nothing is real.’

 

She’s not dumb, but I hate how she’s playing with me, testing my comprehension of truth. We’ve spoken at length about the experiment where particles behave differently when not observed, doing their own thing until something watches them. Then they perform how they are supposed to, because they are being observed. Does a falling tree make a sound in a forest when no one is around to observe it? You do the maths. 

 

‘Did you know time travel is possible?’ 

 

She gives a short, sharp laugh. ‘Do you?’ 

 

Ah, the therapist wants to ask all the questions and not answer anything. ‘Those particles performed differently when not observed, then when equipment was switched on halfway through the experiment before they hit their target, something strange happened….’ 

 

‘They went back to an earlier state where they performed as they were expected to.’ 

 

I smile and nod. ‘They travelled back in time in order to fit to observable reality.’ 

 

‘You think you can time travel, too?’ 

 

‘If those running our simulation  can switch their observation onto me halfway through my existence, I could change my state to an earlier time… and change things.’ 

 

‘You’d want to change the day your wife died, wouldn’t you?’ 

 

My emotion swells within, bubbling to the surface, and I fight back the tears, fight to forget. If I could change to an earlier point in the simulation, she wouldn’t have to die. 

 

‘Simulation theory is nothing new,’ I say, annoyed by the circles we are going in, scared of the direction we are moving. ‘Did you know about the shadow creatures?’ 

 

She leans forwards, eyebrows raised as she raises her pencil above her notebook, ready to scribble. ‘Tell me about the shadow creatures, John.’ 

 

My body grows cold as I think upon the subject, hair prickling on my skin as I sense them growing closer. ‘They exist in the corners, in the places where reality isn’t being observed. Sometimes, you can catch them from out of the corner of your eye, lurking in the background, repairing reality where glitches occur.’ 

 

‘Are they here now?’ 

 

My eyes scan the wood panelled room, the crackling fire in the fireplace, the lamp with the green shade. Attention settles on the therapist, watching me with interest, waiting for me to do something. There’s both kindness and coldness in her expression, an oldness and youthfulness. I think you’d call her a paradox. 

 

’They mostly come out at night, when day meets the night when the simulation resets. They call it the witching hour because if you don’t understand reality, it appears to be magic.’ I see a figure in the corner of my eyes, but when I turn my head to look, they are gone. There are glitches all around us, and the shadow creatures are fixing it, ensuring we don’t see through the barrier of the programmed reality. 

 

The therapist writes something in her book, pencil scratching the paper furiously as her thoughts become manifest. ‘You’re aware of Plato’s cave, aren’t you, John? How the chained up prisoners see the shadows cast on the walls from the outside world? 

 

‘They think the shadows are reality, not a reflection of it.’

 

‘So our world is a holographic illusion, according to you, like Plato’s cave.’ 

 

Half my attention is on the corner of the room where a dark shadow lurks. ‘Plato understood the nature of the simulation. But we can’t escape it by stepping out of the cave.’ 

 

‘Why not?’ 

 

‘Light is the limit of the simulation,’ I say, shrugging, closing my eyes, letting the simulation rest as I watch the darkness. ‘Nothing travels faster than light, so we can never escape it. Light is our prison walls.’  

 

‘What’s the point of the simulation?’ 

 

I give a half smile. ‘To understand reality.’ 

 

‘By creating a false reality?’ 

 

‘Based on reality.’ 

 

‘What is real, then?’

 

I take a deep breath. ‘Nothing is real.’

 

‘Except you, I suppose?’

 

There is no smile in response, just a sadness growing within as I ponder the truth. ‘If nothing is real, then I am not real, and neither are you.’ 

 

‘Then what are we?’ 

 

We are getting to near the truth. I know this because the room is swarming with the shadow creatures, jumping out of sight as I turn my attention to each of them. ‘Have you played a computer game where you come across a character who offers you a quest? We call those Non-Playing Characters: NPCs. They think they are real within the limits of the game, waiting to perform their script for the player to respond to.’ 

 

The fire spits and crackles, reflecting in her face as she stares at me. ‘What if we don’t follow the script?’ 

 

Ice hands grab me, hold me down.  I want to scream, but she can’t see the shadows of reality assaulting me. ‘They re-program us,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘In the hour between the day and the night, they come and they correct the glitches.’ 

 

Her eyes turn from me, stares at the clock above the mantlepiece. Without staring at it, I know we’ve reached midnight, the time of the witches, and of the shadow creatures. ‘How did time pass so quickly?’

 

Doctor Harriott Cooper turns her attention from the clock on the mantlepiece and stares at the empty chair in front of her, then at the open note book in her lap. There is one word written on the page, but she doesn’t remember writing it. 

 

‘Reset.’ 

 

She stands, wondering what she had been doing in her study at such an hour, closes her book and pokes at the fire, feeling a coldness deep within. As she warms her hands, she has a strange recollection of a conversation, but it’s fading from her mind. Standing, she turns, sure she saw a shadowy figure in the corner of her eye. 

 

Somewhere, a man named John wakes next to his wife, sweating off a bad dream where she no longer existed in his life.