When the Room Stops Spinning
by Tony Noland
There are no flies on the window. There is no blood in my coffee cup. The people on the internet are not talking to me, whispering at me, telling me to do things I don't want to do. These are not real.
The computer itself is not angry with me, not muttering in disgust and revulsion at how ugly and fat I have let myself become. Its humming drone is not a voice, but just the cooling fan at the back. It is a machine, nothing more. The computer is real, but it does not think. It does not have feelings. It does not care about me.
No. Wait. That's not right.
The computer is not capable of caring or not caring. It is a machine, nothing more. It connects to the internet because I want it to. I do not serve the computer... the computer serves me. The computer serves me.
The people on the internet do not hate me, do not want me to hurt anyone. Not myself or anyone else. They do not hate me.
Or rather, some might hate me, but most do not. Only a very small percentage of all the people on the internet have ever interacted with me. Only a small percentage of those have any opinion about me at all. And almost all of those who ever thought about me do not care about me anymore. People have opinions, but I must remember, I must remember, I must remember that they do not think about me all the time. I am only a small part of their world. Their whispering is not real. Their hatred is not real.
To them, I am a person on the internet. To them, I am not real. They cannot hear me whispering back at them, fighting against them. I destroyed the microphones they hid in the speakers, gouged them out with my nail clippers and snipped the speaker wires into little bits. There are no sounds on the internet. Not anymore. They cannot hear me. I'm certain of it.
I see the flies and I taste the blood and I hear the whispering but I know they are not real.
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