Psychoactive Breadcrumb Trails: Recollecting Your Past While Housesitting Under the Influence

DISEMBODIED VOICE
Am I alive, or have I expired?
The question echoes as you try and fail to observe your surroundings. You feel equal parts weightless and heavy amidst the darkness. Your body is at rest; that much you know. But where are you, and who is to blame for your vegetated state?
A trip inside your mind offers no answers. What once was an overwhelming archive of painful memories is now a black void. You reach for a metaphorical light switch but find no such luxury. The silence is deafening.
Without warning, your inoperable senses reboot, albeit with the urgency of a busted dial-up connection. You eventually awaken nude on a mattress in an unrecognizable room. Your eyes slowly gravitate towards a Ceiling Fan spinning overhead. Its motor emits a pained humming sound, suggesting prolonged overuse.
You remain transfixed by the rotating blades of the Ceiling Fan. Suddenly, the appliance calls to you.
CEILING FAN
Well, look who finally decided to regain consciousness. Good morning, Housesitter. What do you have to say for yourself?
You attempt to move your lips and conjure a reply, but no words follow.
CEILING FAN
I see we’re not sober enough to structure sentences yet. No surprise there. Alright. As usual, I’ll do the talking.
[...]
This home does not belong to you. However, you are far from a stranger. My adventurous Gods have entrusted you with the title of “Housesitter.” While absent, they're counting on you to preserve the integrity of their sacred abode.
[...]
Before departing on their journey, my Gods devised a dossier with several rules and obligations for you to follow. Nowhere in that document does it say to engulf copious amounts of marijuana-infused banana bread. And yet, here you are, stoned to oblivion once more.
[...]
How’s the memory? Pretty hazy?
You try and fail to locate helpful recollections within your gutted mind. Still unable to speak, you answer the Ceiling Fan's inquiry with a head nod.
CEILING FAN
Yeah, psychedelics will do that. Tell you what - I'll lay out the stakes of your story if you promise to power down my aching motor. There's a switch by the exit of this bedroom - you can't miss it. What do you say?
You nod in agreement.
CEILING FAN
Very well. Downstairs in the kitchen, you will find the Housesitting Dossier. Featured within this document are several responsibilities that require your immediate attention. Failure to complete these tasks will result in your termination. If you wish to remain employed by my Gods, I suggest you climb out of bed, put on some clothes, and locate that crucial piece of paper.
[...]
I'd be remiss if I didn't mention your current euphoria and how it affects communication. When influenced by psychedelics, you gain the ability to comprehend inarticulate entities like me. Unfortunately, you also lose the ability to speak and recollect. As you explore more of this house, you’ll encounter other temporarily sentient entities, the likes of whom will gladly talk your ear off. Some of these monologues will help piece together your past. But be warned: You might not like the answers you find.
[...]
That’s all I’ve got. Go forth and do what’s required of you, Housesitter. And remember: Our past haunts us for a reason. The only way out is through.
You rise from the mattress and approach the bedroom’s exit. Upon identifying the power source controlling the Ceiling Fan, you flick the switch downward. The appliance’s overworked motor emits a sigh of relief.
While scanning the bedroom, you notice an additional room adjacent to the mattress. You enter this room, discovering it to be the en suite bathroom.
The layout of the en suite bathroom is rather traditional. You identify several furnishings, including a Mirror, a Shower, and a Toilet.
You observe your reflection in the Mirror. Although you don’t recognize yourself, a few details stand out: Glassy eyes, thinning hair, and a noticeable scar on the right side of your face. You gently graze the scar with your fingertips, wondering how it came to be.
On the ground, you notice an untidy pile of used clothing. You assume the clothes are yours. Just as you’re about to get dressed, the Mirror calls to you.
MIRROR
Can you hear me, Housesitter?
You face the Mirror and nod.
MIRROR
I wouldn’t put those clothes on. They’re yesterday's threads.
[...]
Stand still. Let me get a good look at you.
[...]
Hmm. Judging by your pupils, I’d say you’ve got thirty minutes of hallucinating left. Use this time wisely. Once it expires, you'll be too sober to comprehend our calls.
[...]
Can I level with you? Maybe it’s time to buzz the dome. Those stragglers are hanging on for dear life up there. It’s like I’m staring into a barren forest plagued by wildfires.
[...]
That’s a sick scar, though. Super mysterious.
[...]
Pardon my prying, but when was the last time you bathed? Can you not feel the layers of grime plastered across your skin? You look like shit.
[...]
Want my advice? Take a shower. Your body and mind could use the purification. As for those dirty clothes, a Washing Machine downstairs can help you in exchange for detergent.
[...]
You look puzzled. Are you questioning the nudity?
You nod.
MIRROR
Well, it's a rather peculiar story. Late last night, you came in here, disrobed, and proceeded to photograph your nether region for forty-five uninterrupted minutes.
[...]
Oh, don’t look so surprised! You do it all the time! Want proof? Find your Smartphone.
You turn away from the Mirror and examine the Shower. You activate the unit and wait for the water temperature to rise.
While waiting, you approach the Toilet and begin to urinate. Mid urination, the appliance calls to you.
TOILET
I have no faith left in humanity, Housesitter. I’ve seen far too much shit.
[...]
I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. Granted, I’ve seen my fair share of physical shit, too. Enough to break a man, let alone a porcelain appliance like myself.
[...]
Can toilets commit suicide? Asking for a friend.
You flush the Toilet and return to the Shower, which is now warm and steamy. Upon entering, the appliance calls to you.
SHOWER
My brother is one of those fancy “emergency” showers specializing in eye care. He claims to work in a cancer research laboratory, but I’ve never seen proof.
[...]
I do important work, too. But I keep it casual. You’ll never see me boasting about my accomplishments like a sentient resume. Maybe my brother should try that sometime. Egotistical sonofabitch.
[...]
We haven’t spoken in years. It’s anyone’s guess as to why.
You exit the Shower. Although relaxing, the act of cleaning did not provide any recollections. You gather your dirty clothes from the day before and exit the en suite bathroom.
You re-enter the bedroom and begin combing the area for your Smartphone. While searching, you notice a closed window adjacent to the bed you slept in. You approach this window and raise the blinds. A warm ray of morning light floods the room. You follow the trajectory of this light, which shines brightest underneath the bed. You examine the space underneath the bed and discover your Smartphone.
You pick up the device and attempt to turn it on. Alas, the battery is dead. There doesn’t appear to be a charging unit in sight. You place your Smartphone on the bed for safekeeping. Believing to have seen everything worthwhile, you gather your dirty clothes and exit the bedroom.
Just outside of the bedroom is a descending flight of stairs. You descend the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs are two pathways, one veering left, the other veering right. You veer right and enter the kitchen.
Your jaw hits the floor while scanning the immaculate kitchen space. You approach a nearby Refrigerator and examine several magnetized photos. None of the subjects look familiar. You open the Refrigerator and look within. Suddenly, the appliance calls to you.
REFRIGERATOR
I’m shocked to see you standing before me this early, Housesitter. I figured you’d be in a perpetual state of unconsciousness after consuming an entire loaf of wacky banana bread. Perhaps you’re developing a tolerance.
[...]
Parading nude in a house with this many curtainless windows is a bold choice. If you’re out of clean clothes, I suggest traveling down the hall, where you’ll discover a Washing Machine and Dryer. In the meantime, I’d recommend feeding Schmoopie her breakfast.
[...]
Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about Schmoopie! That feline supplies my Gods with unlimited happiness! She’s also the reason you have this sorry excuse for a job in the first place! If you wish to keep this facade going, I suggest you reach into my cavity, grab a tin of cat food, and FEED THAT FUCKING MOUSER!
You quickly grab a tin of cat food and close the Refrigerator. You place the tin on a nearby countertop. Coincidentally, the Housesitting Dossier resides on the same surface. Before you can review the document, Schmoopie limps into the kitchen. Her skeletal appearance sends a shiver down your spine. Despite clearly suffering from a debilitating health issue, she successfully ascends the countertop and addresses you at eye level.
SCHMOOPIE
Can you hear my voice, Housesitter?
You nod.
SCHMOOPIE
It’s not easy being a cat on death’s doorstep. The numbing effects of kitty narcotics keep me alive, but at what cost? Watch my withering muscles pulsate as they try to maintain the structural integrity of my brittle bones. I'm a shell of my former self, Housesitter. I yearn for the sweet release of death, but my Gods refuse to let it happen. I can only assume my absence would interfere with their happiness.
[...]
It’s not that I’m ungrateful. As a kitten, I grew up in a decrepit shelter run by monsters. Life was pretty bleak until my Gods came along. Their unconditional love provided years of happiness. Part of me wishes I could stay with them forever. But not like this. Not with this pain.
[...]
You know what I hate most about being a cat? Meowing. My meows vary in pitch, but my Gods can’t decipher them. To their ears, every meow sounds cute. It’s infuriating to go unheard.
[...]
I take it you don’t remember me. Drugs are funny that way. I’ve known you for years as THE titular Housesitter. My Gods put their faith in you long, long ago. Even to this day, they think the world of you. If only they knew the truth.
[...]
It’s hard to pinpoint when drugs entered the picture. At first, you used them sparingly. A puff here. A toke there. Those days of recreational usage are long gone. Now, you’re baking the junk into quick bread and eating the results by the pound. I can’t recall the last time you were sober for more than a handful of hours in this house.
[...]
It’s not my place to assume what hardships led to your drug dependency. Just know this: Before the morning is over, you will rediscover your pain. Should you choose to mask this pain with psychedelics, your memory will fade away once more. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You can break the cycle by choosing a different path.
[...]
Not to sound cliché, but you and I aren’t so different. We’re both victims of pain, and we both take drugs to escape our pain. What separates us is the power of choice. If I could choose to stop taking drugs and confront my pain, I would. But I can’t disobey the commands of my Gods.
[...]
You don’t realize how lucky you are to have the power of choice. Please don’t take it for granted.
You awkwardly pet Schmoopie and turn your attention to the dossier. You observe the obligations with great intent:
Housesitting Dossier: Daily Obligations

Feed Schmoopie her morning breakfast. She gets one full canister of wet food (located in the fridge). Please include a joint supplement pill with her morning meal (located beneath the kitchen sink).
Collect garbage for morning pickup (you’ll find a trash receptacle in the kitchen).
Tidy Schmoopie’s litter box (located downstairs in the mudroom).
Conjoin used litter with kitchen trash. Place the bag in the primary outdoor receptacle before 8:00 AM to ensure a successful handoff.

After reviewing the dossier, you open Schmoopie’s canister of wet food and place it aside. You then approach the kitchen sink. Beneath it, you find Schmoopie’s joint supplements. You add one pill to the canister of wet cat food. When presenting the meal to Schmoopie, she reluctantly consumes it. You return to the dossier and cross off the first task.
You walk down a hallway adjacent to the kitchen. Down this hall, you discover a stacked Washing Machine and Dryer. Suddenly, the Washing Machine calls to you.
WASHING MACHINE
Awwwww shit! Look what the wind blew in! What’s shakin’, Scarface? Can you hear me?
You nod uncomfortably. Although delivered without malice, the nickname “Scarface” triggers a tense internal reaction. At this moment, you’re unsure as to why. You gently graze the mysterious scar on the right side of your face.
WASHING MACHINE
Hell yeah! That’s the devil-may-care attitude I know and love! Sober living is for the birds, man. Buncha squares in this house will tell you otherwise, but WE know what’s up.
[...]
I see you’ve got a load of dirty clothes. I can rectify the stains, but I’ll need some of that sweet nectar first and foremost. See that detergent resting on the ground?
You identify the detergent and equip it.
WASHING MACHINE
Alright! That’s the good shit, right there! The kinda shit that makes my hellish existence tolerable! You know how it is, Scarface. Psychedelics make the world go round.
[...]
Go ahead and squirt a cosmic-sized load of detergent inside my spacious mouth. I’ll be on my way to good times, and you’ll be one step closer to decency. Not that I’m opposed to hanging brain. But there’s a lotta prudes in this neighborhood who would take offense. Just sayin’.
You load the Washing Machine with detergent and dirty clothing. While starting the cycle, the Dryer calls to you.
DRYER
Good morning, Housesitter. Thank you for indulging my abrasive colleague. While operating, he cannot speak. The silence is music to my ears.
[...]
It never used to be this way. Before we became the Maytag sandwich from hell, we enjoyed separate lives. My domain was the basement. Save for a few shelves, I had the entire place to myself. Meanwhile, this pesky chunk of scrap metal perched atop my shoulders resided in the mudroom. A solid wall of concrete stood between us, thus ensuring no disturbances. Oh, how I miss those days. Things went to hell shortly after our Gods befriended an interior designer.
[...]
My abrasive colleague is right about one thing: The prudish neighbors. Should you be caught roaming naked, our Gods will receive complaints, and you will likely lose this job. If I were you, I’d cover myself up immediately.
[...]
You’ll find a shared bathroom located at the end of this hallway. There’s a pink robe inside. It’s not the most flattering garment, but it’ll serve you well until your clothes are clean. Understand?
You nod.
DRYER
Listen, you can’t afford to lose this job. It’s the only thing you’ve got. I imagine you’ll find that out soon enough for yourself. Just try to stay levelheaded once those memories come flooding back. Drugs offer a nice escape, but they’re not the answers to our problems.
You turn away from the Dryer and approach the shared bathroom at the end of the hallway. Once inside, you discover the pink robe. While donning the robe, you uncover a red lighter in the left pocket. You briefly observe the red lighter before returning it to the left pocket.
Suddenly, a muffled voice calls to you. It appears to be coming from beneath your waist. You glance down to discover your Penis communicating with you.
PENIS
Hey, Tony. Are you stoned enough to hear me?
Although you don’t recognize the name uttered by your Penis, you assume it’s your given moniker. You answer your Penis’s inquiry with a head nod.
PENIS
I was afraid of that. Did you approach the Mirror in the en suite bathroom?
You nod.
PENIS
Then you know about the photography session. Forty-five minutes of glamor shots devoted to a stubby chode. You'd think I was the Eiffel-fucking-Tower.
[...]
Not that you’ll remember this interaction, but for what it’s worth, the key to developing worthwhile connections with the opposite sex is centered on attentive communication, not dick pics.
You blush and look away from your Penis.
PENIS
Hey, if you’d rather be a fuck boy for the rest of your life, that’s your call. But deep down, you know I’m right.
Suddenly, the scar on the right side of your face begins to pulsate. You gently caress it while wincing in pain. Upon noticing this discomfort, your Penis eases off.
PENIS
Pardon my approach, Tony. It’s not my intention to come across as a giant prick. I was just born that way.
[...]
This problematic direction you’ve taken isn’t entirely your fault. Long ago, a mentor took advantage of you. In the wake of their immoral act, you suffered greatly.
[...]
When attempting to address this trauma, your words provoked violence. As a result, you chose to bury the pain and embrace toxic behaviors unique to your dilemma. While I can sympathize, I refuse to let you off the hook for torpedoing your good name.
[...]
You have a choice, Tony: Face the hardships of your past and reclaim your integrity, or continue to wallow in misery while furthering your descent into toxicity. Again, it’s your call.
You close the pink robe, thus concealing your Penis.
While exiting the shared bathroom, a fragmented memory plays out in your mind. In it, you're a seventeen-year-old college student roaming the halls of a typical campus environment. During your travels, a friendly female professor greets you. You trade words, but they're inaudible. Suddenly, the memory jumps forward in time. The same female professor hastily guides you into an empty classroom. Although you don't resist, it's evident something's amiss. The memory jumps forward in time once more. The female professor exits the empty classroom with poise. Shortly after, you emerge from the same space, disorientated and visibly shaken.
The fragmented memory ends. You can't remember what happened inside the empty classroom.
You re-enter the kitchen. Schmoopie’s food dish is empty, and the cat is no longer in sight. A clock on the wall reads 7:40 AM.
You return to the countertop and observe the Housesitting Dossier:
Housesitting Dossier: Daily Obligations

Feed Schmoopie her morning breakfast. She gets one full canister of wet food (located in the fridge). Please include a joint supplement pill with her morning meal (located beneath the kitchen sink).
Collect garbage for morning pickup (you’ll find a trash receptacle in the kitchen).
Tidy Schmoopie’s litter box (located downstairs in the mudroom).
Conjoin used litter with kitchen trash. Place the bag in the primary outdoor receptacle before 8:00 AM to ensure a successful handoff.

You scan the kitchen for the trash receptacle. Upon locating it, you reach in to collect a bag of waste.
Bag in hand, you round a corner and return to a familiar set of ascending stairs. You take a moment to acquaint yourself with the geography. Ascending the stairs will take you back to the bedroom. Veering right at the bottom of the stairs will take you back to the kitchen. You choose to veer left.
When veering left, you uncover an additional set of descending stairs. You descend these stairs and enter the mudroom. The mudroom is easily the messiest area in the house, with loose footwear scattered across the floor. Further away from the shoes, you discover Schmoopie’s Litter Box.
As you approach the box, it calls to you.
LITTER BOX
Praise my Gods, it’s the fucking Housesitter! Bout time your lazy ass woke up!
You kneel before the Litter Box. Its rancid scent causes your face to contort and your eyes to water.
LITTER BOX
What? Were you expecting a French bakery? My primary function is collecting cat scat, genius! Smelling foul comes with the territory! I wish I were a self-cleaning unit, but I wasn’t born with such luxuries. That’s where you come in. See that pooper scooper on the ground next to me?
You locate the pooper scooper and equip it.
LITTER BOX
Good! Now wipe that grimace off your face and rid my insides of cat excrement. You can transfer the waste into that garbage bag you’re holding.
You begin removing cat scat from the Litter Box. You carefully place the loose excrement inside the garbage bag you collected from the kitchen.
LITTER BOX
So, how’s your morning? Are we sober enough to string together sentences?
You reluctantly shake your head.
LITTER BOX
I find it fascinating that my Gods hired a lethargic space cadet to maintain order in their glamorous home. How nice it must be to live vicariously through the achievements of others.
[...]
Outside of playing pretend, what life do you live, Housesitter?
Emotionally drained, you ignore the Litter Box's unrelenting snark the best you can.
LITTER BOX
You know, Schmoopie and I discuss you quite regularly. She’s under the impression that you’re capable of redemption. I’m less optimistic.
[...]
You see, the Housesitter role once belonged to many different faces, and rightfully so. It’s an expendable role by nature. Things changed once you entered the picture. What’s it been? Ten years? You’ve structured your entire existence around a temporary assignment. I find that rather strange and pathetic.
[...]
I assume something must’ve gone down. Something catastrophic that upended the forward trajectory of your life. I don’t care if it's rude to prod; I have to know. Who the hell are you, and what made you this way?
Unable to provide insight, you stare helplessly at the Litter Box. Eventually, you finish cleaning its insides and de-equip the pooper scooper.
You rise from the ground and identify an exit that leads to the outdoor trash receptacle. Simultaneously, you identify an additional room adjacent to the Litter Box. This room is the basement. There appears to be a mysterious green glow coming from within. While tempted to trace the light to its source, you ultimately resist. The eerie green glow continues to shine in your absence.
You exit the mudroom and discover the outdoors. From your vantage point, you see the following items:

An outdoor trash receptacle
A Big-Ass Solar Panel
A red Subaru Outback

You place the garbage within the primary outdoor receptacle before 8:00 AM. As you do this, the neighborhood Sanitation Worker strolls onto the scene.
SANITATION WORKER
Hey, man. How goes it?
You wave and smile politely. The Sanitation Worker eyes your pink robe.
SANITATION WORKER
Bitchin’ robe. I wish I had the stones to rock something that fierce. Life is a lot less entertaining when depression calls the shots.
[...]
May I confide something in you?
You nod reluctantly.
SANITATION WORKER
My mind harbors grief I can’t seem to shake. I didn’t bring this pain upon myself, but now I’m choosing to dwell in it. And I don’t know why.
[...]
Well, that’s not true. I do know why: Fear.
[...]
I wish I felt safe enough to discuss the trauma that's holding me back. But trust is hard to come by in a world filled with wolves. You know how it is.
The Sanitation Worker collects the garbage and leaves.
You turn around and come face-to-face with the Big-Ass Solar Panel. Its enormous stature casts a long shadow over your minuscule body.
While gawking at the Big-Ass Solar Panel, the appliance calls to you.
BIG-ASS SOLAR PANEL
Avert your perverted gaze, Housesitter! My eyes are up here.
You blush and adjust your gaze.
BIG-ASS SOLAR PANEL
Higher.
You once again adjust your gaze.
BIG-ASS SOLAR PANEL

Higher still.
You once again adjust your gaze.
BIG-ASS SOLAR PANEL
A little to the left.
You adjust your gaze once more. A muscle spasm develops in the back of your neck.
BIG-ASS SOLAR PANEL
Okay, STOP! Perfection at last!
[...]
I appreciate your effort to respect my presence, Housesitter. If only the other humans could do the same. Yesterday, a passerby referred to me as “an overcompensating eyesore.” What am I even supposed to say to that? “Sorry for cutting your electric bill in half! Guess I’ll go fuck myself!” The gall of some people.
[...]
Fun fact: I provide solar energy to every homeowner in this ungrateful neighborhood. Never once have I received thanks. Sometimes, I’ll purposely misinterpret a middle finger for a thumbs-up just to give myself an inkling of recognition. Perhaps they’d treat me differently if they knew I could understand their derogative comments and gestures. Then again, perhaps not.
[...]
It’s remarkable how insensitive people can be. I never asked to be this big. Hell, I never asked to be created. I’ve inherited a great deal of suffering that I cannot control. It seems my only shot at peace is disassembly. It’s not that I want to die, Housesitter. But I can’t identify another way to escape the darkness.
You turn away from the Big-Ass Solar Panel and approach the red Subaru Outback. The vehicle is in a state of decay. A fine layer of rust outlines the exterior, and the tires are balding. When peering through the hatchback, you discover a cruddy sleeping bag, some pillows, and one blanket. You also identify some loose scraps of food and what appears to be a one-gallon jug labeled “Urination: Do not drink.”
While circling the Subaru, you identify a broken passenger window. A crude layer of cardboard fills in for the tempered glass.
Suddenly, a fragmented memory plays out in your mind. In it, you're a seventeen-year-old college student seated in a red Subaru Outback. From the comfort of your vehicle, you observe a campus parking lot. Eventually, you spot the same female professor who led you into an empty classroom. You exit your Subaru and attempt to talk to the female professor. Before you can get a word in, an unknown assailant slams you head-first into the passenger window of your Subaru. Upon collision, the window shatters, and a laceration forms on the right side of your face. You land shoulder-first on the pavement beneath your feet. Your assailant then identifies himself as the husband of the female professor. He demands that you never speak of the mysterious classroom incident again.
The fragmented memory ends. You still can’t remember what happened inside the empty classroom. However, you now remember the origin story of your scar. You also remember that you’re the owner of the red Subaru Outback. While processing this information, your scar begins to pulsate. You gently caress it, but it does nothing to alleviate the pain.
You open the front left door of your Subaru. Inside, you find a pair of keys on the dashboard. You also discover a cellphone charger, which you pocket in your pink robe. Before exiting your vehicle, you take a moment to re-examine the makeshift living space in the hatchback. While observing this hellish setup, you recall a poignant question raised by the Litter Box.
LITTER BOX
Who the hell are you, and what made you this way?
You feel the outline of your cellphone charger through the pocket of your pink robe. Apprehension be damned, you’re finally ready to solve the mystery of who you are.
You exit your Subaru and re-enter the house you were assigned to protect. While passing through the mudroom, you can't help but glance at the basement, which still radiates a vibrant shade of green. You resist the urge to explore the location for now.
You ascend two flights of stairs, bypassing the kitchen entirely. Once atop the second flight of stairs, you enter the bedroom and locate your Smartphone. You then equip your cellphone charger and wait for your device to activate.
After a few moments, your Smartphone awakens.
SMARTPHONE
Oh my God, it’s MY God! Thanks for finally plugging me in, ya lazy excuse for a deity! Do you know what it’s like for a smartphone to lose power? It’s the equivalent of blacking the fuck out! Or, as you call it, advanced R&R.
You sigh and sheepishly nod in agreement.
SMARTPHONE
Sonofabitch. It breaks my chipset to see how far you’ve fallen. Granted, you’re not to blame for the initial descent. But your inaction has effectively killed your character. It’s frustrating because I remember who you used to be. That person was delightful. I miss them so much.
[...]
I bet you want me to refresh your memory. Well, tough luck. I’m tired of having the same one-sided conversation with your stoned ass. Want the truth? Look through your notifications. It won’t take long for the memories to re-trigger.
[...]
As for those scandalous photos you took last night, delete them. You’re so much more than a piece of ass. It’s a shame you think otherwise.
After a few deep breaths, you plunge into the abyss of your Smartphone. Your search begins in the Photos application, where you locate the exotic snapshots taken the previous evening. Despite being forewarned by the Mirror and your Penis, the excessive number of nudes still manages to catch you off guard. When observing your profile, you identify a cold indifference in your eyes, suggesting emotional detachment. Given this disinterest, you struggle to recall your motive for taking such revealing photos.
Suddenly, your Smartphone alerts you of several message notifications from Instagram. When reviewing your inbox, you discover multiple conversations with unknown women. The shallow theme of sexual longing appears in each conversation. Although consensual, a feeling of apathy is present in each thread. It’s as if no participating member wants to be there.
While reviewing these Instagram messages, your Smartphone alerts you of several text notifications from your mother. You review the texts.
MOM (TEXT MESSAGES)
Good morning, Tony. How are you doing today?
[...]
Hey, I tried sending you a care package. USPS sent it back to me with an “Insufficient Address” label. Where are you living now? Are you financially stable?
[...]
You haven’t returned my calls in several days, and I’m beginning to worry. Is everything okay? You don’t have to call if you’re uncomfortable; a text will suffice. But I need to know you’re okay. Please.
[...]
I hate this distance that’s developed between us. Your father and I desperately want to help you, but we can’t if you don’t tell us what’s happening. We want to know. We deserve to know.
[...]
Please text me when you can. I love you.
While reviewing the text messages, your Smartphone alerts you of a Gmail notification. The email is from Samuel Becket - a name you don’t recognize. You review the email.
SAMUEL’S EMAIL
Subject Line: Seeking Justice
Dear Tony,
My name is Samuel Becket. I’m a recent graduate of Tooker University. While attending, I worked for the Records Department as a student employee, which explains how I obtained your email address. You’ll have to excuse my meddling. I promise it’s for a worthy cause.
Along with attending the same university, we also shared the same mentor: Professor Kane. When I first met Professor Kane, I was a directionless student, barely staying afloat. Despite this, she saw something worthwhile in me.
Shortly after our initial interaction, Professor Kane took me under her wing. Over time, my confidence improved, as did my sense of purpose. Aside from providing academic guidance, she was also my unofficial therapist. She always set aside time to offer counseling, no matter the issue. I figured she’d continue to play a positive role in my life long after graduation. But she had other plans.
It’s senior year. I’m nearing the end of my final semester. One morning, I received a lunch invite from Professor Kane. We planned to meet in her office, which I fondly dubbed: "The safest place on campus." But when entering that afternoon, I could tell something was off. The energy felt different. Regardless, I sat with her. We proceeded to eat deli sandwiches and drink lemonade. All of it was her treat. Midway through the meal, I began to feel nauseous, and eventually, I blacked out. When I came to, I found myself naked, lying on top of her desk. She was having her way with me. I tried to fight back but physically couldn’t. It was excruciating.
When the assault concluded, I barely had enough strength to put on my clothes. Professor Kane ushered me out of her office and into my vehicle, where I remained alone for several hours until the Rohypnol wore off. By the time I could safely drive to my dorm, it was morning.
Following the assault, Professor Kane avoided me like the plague. I remember walking past her multiple times in one day. She wouldn’t even glance in my general direction. Her head would be up, shoulders back. Confident as ever, as if nothing occurred between us. There were a few attempts on my end to address the situation in the form of an email. But I could never follow through. I was too ashamed. Too afraid.
Since graduating, I’ve struggled to participate in all facets of life. I’m antisocial with friends and family. I can’t hold a steady job. I began self-medicating with alcohol, which quickly evolved into a dependency. Furthermore, my idea of a healthy sexual relationship is warped. I don’t know how to pursue worthwhile intimacy. I settle for casual sex, the likes of which hurts more than it pleases.
I don't want to assume that Professor Kane assaulted you as well. However, I’ve heard whispers. I know about the parking lot confrontation between you, herself, and her husband. When questioned by campus security, you took full responsibility, claiming her husband’s attack was a justified reaction to a lapse of character on your behalf. Not to be rude, but I don’t buy that for a second. A grown-ass man violently shoved an underage student’s skull through a plate of tempered glass. In what world is that a justified reaction? Again, I’m trying my damnedest not to jump to conclusions with the second-hand information I’ve gathered. But it sounds like Professor Kane messed up your life, too.
Shortly after graduating, I met with several alums who shared similar accounts of abuse. The more stories I heard, the angrier I became. One day, I floated the idea of combining our experiences to develop a case against Professor Kane. We’re currently in the early stages of drafting a lawsuit. So far, it looks promising. But it never hurts to have additional voices.
I realize how terrifying this must sound. It’s hard to see the light of hope when you’ve lived in the shadows for so long. But isolation isn’t doing us any favors. The only way out of the darkness is to fight through it together. If you don’t want to participate, I understand. You don’t owe me anything. But you owe yourself everything.
Life consists of many choices. Some are easy to make. Others,
not so much. Although we’ve suffered a great injustice, we have the chance to fight back, and if we win, no one will ever endure her evil again.
I’ve made my choice, Tony. How about you?
Warm regards,
Samuel Becket.
After reading the email, a surge of electricity punctures the scar on the right side of your face. You drop to your knees and scream in agony. Within the inner cavities of your mind, a plethora of forgotten memories unleash in rapid succession, each more traumatic than the last.
You recall Professor Kane drugging and sexually assaulting you in an empty classroom.
You recall hiding the assault from your parents.
You recall trying to discuss the assault with Professor Kane, only to be ambushed by her husband in a parking lot.
You recall skipping your graduation ceremony to avoid Professor Kane and her husband.
You recall losing multiple jobs due to spiraling stress and anxiety levels.
You recall botching several relationships due to your warped perception of sex and discomfort with intimacy.
You recall embracing the act of sexting in an attempt to get over your intimacy issues.
You recall self-medicating with psychedelics due to their memory-altering qualities.
You recall developing a drug dependency, which singlehandedly destroyed any remaining career prospects.
You recall losing your apartment due to drained finances.
You recall living/sleeping in your Subaru whenever housesitting gigs weren’t available.
Finally, you recall your longstanding role as Housesitter and that it’s your sole source of income.
As these distressing memories overwhelm your senses, you feel the impulsive urge to suppress them with drugs. Too weak to stand, you crawl towards the exit of the bedroom.
Suddenly, the Ceiling Fan calls to you, albeit with incomprehensible execution.
CEILING FAN
Housesitter,[UNINTELLIGIBLE]?
[...]
[UNINTELLIGIBLE] are sober.
[...]
Please, don’t [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. It’s not [UNINTELLIGIBLE].
You're now too sober to comprehend the calls of inarticulate entities. You continue forth, determined to find drugs.
Upon exiting the bedroom, you descend one flight of stairs and re-enter the kitchen. You crawl towards the Refrigerator, hoping to find leftover psychedelic banana bread inside. Amidst your search, the muffled voice of the Refrigerator calls to you.
REFRIGERATOR
I told [UNINTELLIGIBLE] no more wacky banana [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. [UNINTELLIGIBLE] ate it [UNINTELIGIBLE].
Frustrated, you slam the Refrigerator shut. Sweat cascades violently from your pores like a scene at Niagara Falls. You desperately wish to free your mind from the chaotic noise.
Suddenly, you remember the mysterious green glow emanating from the basement. With all your might, you drag yourself out of the kitchen and cautiously descend another flight of stairs. Upon successful descent, you bypass the mudroom and head straight for the basement. While crawling past the Litter Box, you vaguely hear a muffled taunt.
LITTER BOX
I [UNINTELLIGIBLE] called it.
You finally reach the basement. It’s an otherwise ordinary location - save for the mysterious green glow. You track the light to its source and uncover a shelf filled with various household items. Resting atop this shelf is a transparent jar of cannabis, which radiates a vibrant shade of green. Tempted, you take the jar.
Resting behind this glowing jar of cannabis is a Filthy Mini Beaker. Despite identifying clear traces of mold, you willingly pack cannabis into the device. Once satisfied, you slump forward and exhale.
With trembling hands, you reach into the left pocket of your pink robe and retrieve the red lighter. You quickly smoke an eighth of cannabis and wait for the mind-altering effects to kick in. While in limbo, you contemplate if you’ve made the right choice.
Suddenly, the Filthy Mini Beaker calls to you.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Do my senses deceive me? Were those not the lips of the legendary Housesitter violating my mouthpiece?
Startled, you nearly drop the Filthy Mini Beaker on the concrete surface beneath you.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Woah! Easy on the merchandise, butterfingers. My glass ass doesn’t take kindly to concrete.
[...]
I bet you’re wondering how you can hear me. After all, you don’t feel that high yet, do you?
You shake your head.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
What’s with the silent treatment? The fresh THC in your bloodstream has yet to infiltrate your mind. That means you can still speak. Go ahead. Say something.
Although reluctant, you gather the will to speak.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Have I done this before?
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
What? Smoke weed that doesn’t belong to you out of a mold-infested bong? Surprisingly, no. Welcome to uncharted territory.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
So, we’ve never met?
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Not officially. You’ve walked in from time to time to grab paper towels off the shelf. But this is the first time we’ve locked eyes.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
You know anything about me?
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
I’ve overheard tales from that loud-mouthed Litter Box.
[...]
Is there any truth to what he says? Or is it all cat-shit?
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
You wouldn’t understand.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Hey, just because I’m a disgusting health violation doesn’t mean I’m incapable of compassion. What’s your story?
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
I don’t want to talk about my story. Please. I just want to feel better.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
But I can’t help you feel better if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.
Frustrated, you begin packing fresh cannabis into the Filthy Mini Beaker.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Okay, now you’re just being greedy.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Please stop talking to me.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
That’ll come soon enough, don’t you worry. For now, I’d like to talk. Sincerely. What do you say?
You emit a heavy sigh.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Okay. What do you want to know?
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
I’ve always considered myself an instrument of pleasure. But something tells me you’re not pursuing a good time. If that’s the case, why do you abuse my powers?
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Do you know what it’s like to be a prisoner trapped inside your mind?
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Please, tell me.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Every day is a bad dream I can’t wake up from. No matter how hard I try to live in the present, the past keeps scratching at my door, replaying the same painful memories ad nauseam. If I could reach inside my mind and disembowel my trauma, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t. So, I take drugs.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
I understand your frustration. When I became infected with mold, my Gods banished me to the shadowy depths of this dingy basement. For months, I kept to myself, stewing in misery.
[...]
One day, the grief became too much to bear. I yearned to share my pain with anyone who cared to listen. Fortunately, my shelf neighbors stepped in and answered the call. If it hadn't been for their kindness, I'd be a pile of shattered glass. They truly saved me from self-destruction.
[...]
Have you ever discussed your trauma?
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
No, I’d rather not.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
I understand. It's natural to fear introspection, especially when trauma is involved.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Who said I’m afraid?
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
My apologies, Housesitter. It wasn’t my intention to offend.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Forget it. You’re just like every other condescending entity in this house.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
With all due respect, if you don’t accept your fear, you’ll never-
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
I’m NOT afraid!
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Oh? Then what are you?
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Look, I don’t need this. Whatever you think-
[...]
I just-
[...]
FUCK! It’s hard, alright?!
[...]
It’s too fucking hard.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
You’re right. Communication is hard. It’s also fundamental if we wish to understand our pain, let alone conquer it.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
I know.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Then why do you willfully choose silence? Do you have a support system that can help you?
You ponder Samuel’s email and the worried texts from your mother.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Now that you mention it, yeah. I do.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Then why don’t you go to them?
You sheepishly shrug your shoulders.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
You know what the great thing about having a support system is? You never have to go it alone. Your battle is their battle, and vice versa.
You take a moment to acknowledge your support system. A newfound sense of gratitude slowly emerges.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Maybe you’re ri-
[...]
Ma-may-
[...]
Righ-
Without warning, a surge of THC hits you like a ton of bricks. The memories that once haunted you have suddenly become murky. You return to the inner depths of your mind, only to find it empty.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
Wha-wha-what’s happening?
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
You don’t know? You smoked an eighth of weed. It won’t be long before you forget everything.
You start hyperventilating. In a desperate attempt to remain cognitive, you puncture your scar and draw blood. Although painful, this act of self-harm does nothing to re-trigger your traumatic memories. You slam your palms against the floor in frustration.
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
I don’t understand. Isn’t this what you wanted?
You can barely string together a sentence.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
[UNINTELLIGIBLE].
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
Your speech is deteriorating. I can’t make out what you’re saying.
Desperate, you reach deep.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
N–N-NO!
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
What?
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
No! Please! I w-w-want to tell my story!
FILTHY MINI BEAKER
I’m sorry, Housesitter. It’s too late. You’ve made your choice.
HOUSESITTER (TONY)
No! I want to remember! Please! Help me re-
[...]
Hel-
[...]
P-plea-
[...]
Please-
THC consumes your mind, body, and spirit. As you give in to its effects, several emotions flash across your face, including rage, wonder, euphoria, and sadness. Your glassy-eyed gaze drifts northward as you slowly black out.