Playthrough: Dystopian Fiction

XI. Tears for Getting Tired

Way back years ago, somewhere in the Philippines, a middle-aged guy named Stan began to work on his contribution.

Stan was inside his small office, alone, which used to be his bedroom. It used to be a place where his wife and daughter lived for years, happily contented. In this small space of squared room, with one foamed bed, one television, two duraboxes, and one electric fan--- before, those were enough for the little family to build home. At least, it used to be.

The room had turned into small office, almost completely.

The only things that remained were one durabox and the electric fan. Others were vanished; taken away. Gone to another household with his own runaway family, in truth. Instead of the said appliances, piles of programming books took its place on one corner, bondpapers on another, and a computer in the middle. After the misunderstanding with his wife, Stan became all alone in this very room. For years it felt cold, though bearable because of his tons of workload.

At 12 midnight, Stan was highly-focused on facing his computer. He was typing on the keyboard, but his eyes seemed to be closing already.

"Uhhh," he groaned. "Sleep, sleep, no..."

He slapped himself by then, by his cheeks. He wanted to keep himself awake; wanted to finish his contribution, as soon as possible. But one slap didn't work to prevent sleep either. After a minute, the drowsiness just got heavier. So again, he slapped himself harder.

Once.

Twice.

And then, thrice.

"Sleep... why this body..."

Half an unproductive hour had passed. Still, nothing.

"Hell, I have to finish what I'm doing, but this is so limiting..." Stan kept muttering. "But sleep... guess, I need to sleep..."

Stan turned off the computer, stretched his chair---turning it into a bed---and then laid his whole body on it. It was a foldable bed, his chair. And so, by then he closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing else. He tried to start getting peaceful in a dream, but still, something seemed to be haunting him. Calling him... That by it, his sleep was being disturbed.

It was the turned off computer that was calling him by name. Stan... it said.

No mouth and eyes; it had no human senses, alright. But he felt as though it was calling and watching him from not so afar. Even if he wanted to sleep, because of its undeniable whisper he could not.

Instead, Stan stood.

He poured water in a heater, plugged the appliance to a socket, and after that made an instant coffee. While drinking the coffee, he turned on the computer again. For a few minutes he stared blankly at the loading screen. Then, when fully opened, he returned continuing his contribution. Typing.

For another three months he'd been like this: drinking two to three cups of coffee per day; taking a nap for at least an hour; sketching and noting his sub-ideas on blank bondpapers; typing letters and numbers on the keyboard, and having himself haunted by the computer. Day through the night.

In most general, aside from getting out to buy groceries twice a month, Stan never left his small office. Alone he kept working in there. By himself. For all the things he thought he needed was there. If his co-workers would want something retyped, fixed and updated--- they'd just email him and he'd received it without any problem. And afterwards, he'd do the work without any question.

Until one midnight, Stan dared to defy the system technicalities. His co-workers wished for something average, but he came across an alternative idea. More specifically, he came to form an abstract question, that even himself couldn't answer. Yet.