I woke today to find my avatar in my bed with me. It lay there under the duvet waiting for me, contented in the certainty that I would wake. It looks exactly like me, my eyes, my face, the mole on my thigh, the scar on my foot from a childhood misadventure with a broken bottle on a sandy beach; it sounds like me as well, my accent and the unusual pronunciation of ‘repeat’ where I emphasis the first syllable and make my wife laugh. My avatar looks like me in every way but its wretched thing; a thing of hate and desperate days. You see, beneath the facsimile of me it is hollow, a bleak emptiness that saps my strength and consumes my soul .
I slip the avatar on and go about my day.
My avatar fits me like a glove but better, more like a second skin but its limbs are heavy. They make every movement an effort of will, like a deep sea diver’s lead boots holding me down as I trudge across the ocean floor. And though it looks like me the face is sadder, haunted by some memory of an unhappiness nearly forgotten. I use its mouth to talk, the words coming slowly through unfamiliar lips. They leak out contaminated with venom and bile. I look out of its eye sockets to a monochrome world drained of colour and if I concentrate I can see their edge; dark rings that make that encircle my vision the limits to my world. I use its ears but they filter out the good news, the praise, the bird song, the laughter of children. All I hear is criticism, traffic noise and screaming mewing brats. And over it all a voice commentates on my life, a monologue of failures and doubts, each decision dissected and examined, judged and found wanting. A sneering voice, that is my own, pouring poison into my mind.
I eat my breakfast. Spooning down the cereal without relish, every mouthful tasteless pap. My coffee tastes of bitter tears. My wife looks down at me, her sadness matching mine; she has long since learnt to recognise my avatar.
“Have you taken your pills?” She asks her voice patient from years of asking. I haven’t, I think but I need to. My avatar speaks for me.
“I don’t need to. Why should I? I’m okay.” It snaps and another part of my dignity is eaten by my ravenous body double. My wife just smiles and places the yellow and red capsule in front of me. With ill grace I swallow it down and inside my avatar roars its impotent rage, a caged beast whose days are numbered. My avatar stays for several days. Dark hate filled days. That saps my strength and corrodes my soul.
I woke this morning in the golden sunshine of another day. I kiss my wife and she strokes my cheek. I swear undying love and she kisses me and welcomes me home.
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