VISUAL // Yoongi

HP +12

<> Y/N<>

I didn't think I would find myself back here again.

Back in a place where the tendrils of my shredded love are coiled in large metal boxes...where blinding, suffocating pixels are chained to their definitive locations, forced to play these sick games for eternity.

An endless time loop, filled with no meaning. What did I see in these greedy characters? Why did I waste my moments living behind these lights?

Why?

"It's been a while since you've visited."

Muscles slow, I graze my hand against the buttons and the joystick. "I suppose I've been taking a break."

"I must be lucky. All four of you decided to visit the arcade this week."

"Four?" My memory peeks through the fog as I pull my hand away from the arcade machine. "Ah...he came, too?"

"Yeah. He was working hard to beat your score on the machine back there," the owner points. My eyes reluctantly follow his hand. The racing game. "I have to sort out some storage in the back, but feel free to play anything. You don't need any coins right now."

Watching the owner disappear behind closed doors, I stare for a while. Simply stare at the dark room...the colorful carpet...the dusty prizes sealed behind glass.

It really has been ages.

I can't seem to process where my feet are taking me. The racing game is my destination, but my road winds in and out of the aisles, exploring every nook and cranny. Occasionally, I pass by a machine where the rankings have been updated. Suga, Jungkookie, then me, and finally one more name struggling to make it up through the charts, hovering just below my records.

Filtering through what has haunted me for so long is somewhat numbing. Raw emotions linger on the back burner, ready at my disposal but simultaneously unreachable. Instead of allowing myself to feel, I stroke the controls and reminisce what was and what could have been.

I halt. The platform to the seat and the wheel abruptly interrupts my road, becoming the solemn wreckage at the end of my journey. Tired eyes flicker up to the screen, asking, begging to understand.

A few names scroll onto the screen. Suga. Jungkookie. Not mine. Then mine.

So he finally beat one of my records?

But the names aren't important, in the end. These numbers are tallies. Tallies for the time we've poured into these metal boxes, all for it to become a listless machine in a closing arcade.

I reach and grasp the wheel.

Now seems like a good day to waste some time. I don't have a job, so what else could I be doing?

Laughing mockingly, the taste in my mouth turns sour.

Sure. I'll play a game.

The start button glows menacingly on the dashboard. Testing its age, I gently press down, waiting for that familiar click.

Those trapped pixels then spiral around on the screen, gearing me up for my race. The leather chair chills my naked skin as it forgets the meaning of summer and heat.

And then I play.

The wheel has grown rickety and loose with repeated use, but it still responds to my beck and call. It glides with my hand, changing the pixels on screen to become bright, beautiful. Then dark, black. Then vibrant and rich, only to become muted once more. A fictional landscape rushes past my car, bleeding onto the screen only to blink out of existence as the camera angle shifts elsewhere.

That black and white checkered line zips under my tires. Confetti and golden text crowd the width of the screen, congratulating me on yet another race...wasted on nothing.

I'm asked to enter my name. Complying, I rotate the wheel and confirm each and every letter.

B. A. N. G. T. A. N. Enter.

As the new rankings scroll by on the screen, I recognize that my heart is pounding in my chest. I remember the thrill of seeing my name above the rest...of proving my skill has come to mean something. But just as vividly, I recall the hours spent in a world that's not my own.

Hours spent in a world where two hands were wrapped around a controller, instead of picking up a menu, or lifting a camera. A world where popcorn evaded our touch and gentle, locked hands were absent in the park, instead geared for CDs and remotes.

Salt trails to my lips. My focus comes away from the screen and instead fixates on my two hands, gripping the wheel. That journey has come to a close.

Now I have to start a new one.

But how ironic. My hands slip from the wheel. How ironic that my next journey is again locked in a tiny box, formulated by bytes of data.

How masochistic I must be.