I visited Paul last Friday after work.
I think it’ll be the last time.
Six years since he lost the flesh and bone version of little Ava.
Four, since he got her back.
Three and a half since Lisa left him.
It’s not her. Can’t you see that? It’s demonic. It’s not her Paul!
Of course he knew it wasn’t her.
The point is he didn’t care.
The room was dark and stale.
Discarded food wrappers covered the table.
He’d had to clear a space to put down the goggles.
They were grimy. Well worn.
A faint ring of light still bled from the front.
He hadn’t turned them off.
Hadn’t turned her off.
I could hear the ocean faintly. Muffled. And her.
Daddy look at this one! Daddy!
Jesus Christ how long had he spent on that beach?
We swapped banality, I don’t know for how long.
It was as if I was holding him underwater.
His eyes endlessly returned to the bleeding light.
I mumbled an excuse to leave.
He was back in before I’d even got to the door.
I heard a muffled Lisa call out.
I guess he’d added her too.
The whole family reunited in silicon.
Neurons or transiters? Veins or wires?
Did it matter?
In there, he could hold her in his arms.
In there, he was made whole.
It was already turning dark when I stepped out.
I shivered. It was cool and crisp, and still.
Some of the brighter stars were already out,
flickering as they pushed gently through the dusk.
Like dead pixels on a darkening screen.
