Simulation Terminated

c h a p t e r o n e

Running. Always running.

Terrified. Confused. Alone. 

The dim hallway seemed to stretch on forever as I scuffled across the creaking wooden floor. I felt my weight shift from underneath me as something grasped onto the back of my collar, yanking me backward. A scream escaped my lips as I was pulled, down, further than I believed possible, into the cold emptiness of the abyss.

. . .

5:30 am.

Monday morning.

January 17th, 2019.,

Music began blaring through my radio speakers, loud enough to wake the dead.

Just another nightmare.

My eyes snapped open with restlessness, my heartbeat quickening with every incoming breath. Still recovering from the wild fantasies from the night before, I was reluctant to cope with the dull nature of reality, especially this early in the morning. I sighed dramatically with disdain, flipping onto my back, making eye contact with my ceiling. 

Reaching my arm across my body, my fingers traced the grooves of my snooze button that was so alluring to press. Instead, I decided to be responsible for once and shut it off. 

I let out a ghastly morning groan which was answered by a stern shouting and two solid knocks from the other side of my bedroom wall. 

I didn't realize my foster parents were asleep, though if I had I would've tried to get a better resonation. The trick is to aim your voice towards an area that doesn't absorb sound waves, such as a metal surface or a thick wall, and then just let your vocal cords go to town. I learned that one from my friends back at the orphanage.  

I smiled at the thought of the orphanage. I was glad to be free, but part of me missed the comfort in the consistency of life during my time there. I wondered how all the others were getting along. 

I rolled out of bed, throwing the covers aside and bracing for the chilled air that enveloped my body. I shivered, running my hands through my pale blonde hair and patting my cheeks in attempts to give myself some extra energy. Peering across the room into the mirror, I realized I looked like the Grudge from the movie The Grudge. I chuckled to myself at the chilling resemblance. 

Margaret, or as I call her, foster mother #5, yelled something inaudible to me which probably meant that I needed to hurry up. 

I broke free of my morning trance as I culled through layers of clothing that were scattered across my floor for something clean and preferably odorless. I stumbled upon a baggy gray sweatshirt with a dried coffee stain on it that was barely visible and some old fleece leggings that I coined at the thrift store the day before. The sweatshirt was baggy enough to hide the rip that I discovered right across the buttcheek of my pants after I had purchased them; it was about as close to presentable I was going to get.

I wrung a hair tie around my wrist as I pulled my hair back into a braid, latching it on tightly.

Another glance at the clock.

6:30.

I must have zoned out somewhere along the way but at this point, it hardly mattered. I was always getting lost in my own thoughts it seemed.

Pulling my hood up to conceal the mess of loose curls that had already fallen from my braid, I exited my bedroom with caution and dashed down the staircase. 

"What the hell were you doing in there?"

I stopped dead in my tracks, every muscle in my body frozen.