Byte of the Past

Matt sat at his desk, the rhythmic scrape of the pencil sharpener filling the room. As he honed the point, intrusive thoughts barged into his mind like uninvited guests. Disturbing images flashed—fragments of what seemed like a past trauma. Uncertainty gripped him, and he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that these thoughts weren’t mere figments of imagination but buried memories clawing their way to the surface.

“I’d know if something like this happened to me; I’d just know,” Matt muttered, his voice a mix of conviction and self-reassurance. He stood and walked to the bathroom. Desperate to dispel the disconcerting thoughts, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, splashing cold water on his face in a futile attempt to shake off the haunting images. Matt felt he had no choice but to delve into the maze of his past.

The search for answers became the daily refrain of his existence. Each day turned into a relentless pursuit, with hours spent probing memories. Every gleaned detail he knew for sure was meticulously documented in what he soon came to call his memory journal.

Still, he needed tangible proof. He couldn't rely on his mind alone. If the haunting images were genuine memories, the elusive evidence may lie within the recesses of his long-lost childhood computer—a device he believed he had carried with him when he left his parents’ house at 18. He couldn't shake the feeling that there, on the computer, lurked a snapshot capturing the whole messed-up scene. But damn, he had to find out for sure. The prospect of proof fueled a newfound determination.

Matt's obsession with finding his childhood computer had consumed him. His wife, sensing the growing distance it caused between them, repeatedly offered assistance. "Come step into the light of my help," she'd joke, a playful remark with a hint of earnest concern.

No, this was a journey Matt had to embark on alone. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone witnessing what might be unveiled on the computer. The revelations, whatever they were, were meant for him and him alone.

It would be half a decade and the poignant passing of his mother before Matt would finally get the answers he’s been looking for. As he overheard his wife talking on the phone, she mentioned, "Crossing over to the other side shouldn't be this difficult for him." Matt was puzzled. Did she say "him"? He quickly moved on and chalked it up to her misspeaking while talking about his mother. Swiftly putting on his shoes, he signaled to his wife that he'd be waiting in the car. The time had come to go over and clear out his mother's place.

Arriving at the house, the scent of damp rug and carpet-fresh flooded his nostrils, triggering a wave of nostalgia and a longing for his mom. Despite the emotional pang attempting to halt him in his tracks, he pushed the feeling aside and headed upstairs to begin.

As Matt and his family sifted through her belongings, memories both bitter and sweet echoed in each box opened and drawer explored. Among the cherished mementos and forgotten artifacts, there it was—the long-lost computer, tucked away like a relic from another era.

Matt glanced around the room, but his family had vanished—probably downstairs. He was so deep into his mission that he hadn't even noticed them slipping away. It was like they were never there at all. The room, once filled with the warmth of family and familiar faces, now felt eerily empty. As he stood there, scanning the room, a sense of isolation crept over him. The only sound was the distant hum of the old ceiling fan.

Amazed by how effortlessly he could push the idea aside, Matt connected the computer. The Windows logo flashed on the screen, revealing a vacant space waiting for login details.

The discovery sent shivers down Matt’s spine. The dusty, weathered computer emanated a musty aroma—a nostalgic blend of aged electronics and memories trapped in time. Matt’s fingers danced across the bulky keyboard, effortlessly entering his familiar username and password—unchanged since those childhood days. With a smooth glide, the mouse navigated to the documents folder and clicked on the file labeled “pic.”

“This is it,” he murmured, a sense of anticipation hanging in the air. He wiped sweat from his brow, took a deep breath, and braced himself for the revelation that awaited.

On the screen, Matt’s breath caught—a picture of his tombstone with today’s date etched on it. Overwhelmed with panic, he clutched his chest as memories came flooding back.

He recalled the ill-fated evening vividly, the memory stamped in the corridors of his mind like a haunting echo. It was an attempt to mend his son's gaming computer, a venture into the intricate web of wiring. In that fateful moment, a subtle but crucial defect within a component went unnoticed, and an unintentional lapse in caution proved to be the catalyst for disaster.

As his fingers danced across the delicate circuitry, his son stood by, his eyes gleaming with excitement. The prospect of having his gaming haven fixed and the anticipated return to Fortnite battles had animated him. However, the joyful atmosphere transformed into a silent horror when a surge of electricity, akin to the wrath of an unforeseen tempest, coursed through Matt's unsuspecting body.

The room, once filled with the hum of technology and the hopeful glow of computer screens, now stood frozen in the aftermath of an inadvertent voyage beyond the realms of the living. His son, once eager for the revival of his gaming sanctuary, now stood over his father's lifeless body, the gleam in his eyes extinguished by the shock of witnessing a catastrophe unfold. The computer, forgotten amidst the tragedy, blinked in a muted acknowledgment of its role in an unintended journey.

Before fully grasping his new reality, a message popped up on the screen: “Want to try again? Yes or no?” Matt hesitated. With fear and trepidation, he uttered, “Please, I’ll do it right this time,” and tapped “Yes.”

The screen faded into darkness. In the quiet void, two words emerged with an ominous glow: “Game Over."