The Real World
A short story
As I might have mentioned a few times lately (!), this year marks the 40th anniversary of my becoming a teacher. A few years ago, I had a pastoral role at the college where I taught. Sadly, I came across quite a few troubled souls in this capacity. One in particular stayed with me: a boy who would barely leave his bedroom, preferring to play computer games, which gave him excitement and status, rather than face the reality of a day at college. His parents were in despair. It was a very sad situation and I tried to help as best I could. I wrote this short story as a way of trying to understand the lure of computer games (although all the characters are fictitious). I hope you enjoy it.
The Real World
Panting from exertion, he strains to reach the top of the tower. His fingers scrabble across the smooth stone, desperately seeking a handhold. At last he discovers a small crevice. He digs in his nails and tests his weight. Will it hold? He looks down, then thrusts his fingers in deeper. Only one way to be sure. He pushes off on his right foot while reaching up with his left hand. Overhead is a small tree with a low-hanging branch. He grasps it, pulls again and heaves himself up. As he does, his eyes draw level with a huge stone skull. He recoils in horror. His sweaty hands lose their grip, and he plummets to the forest floor. There is no time to scream.
‘Danny?’ A rap on the door.
‘DANNY!’ Louder this time. A sigh, then a thud as something is slapped down on the floor. ‘I’ll leave it here. Don’t let it get cold.’
The footsteps patter away down the stairs. Dan grabs the controller again. No time to eat now. He has to conquer the woodland tower. Otherwise he’ll never find the mask.
This time he’s ready. He skirts round the back, shins up the smooth rock face, then scales the summit. Now he can approach the skull from behind and avoid the devastating impact of those deadly eyes. He drops to his stomach, writhes commando-style, across the tower-top, picks up the giant skull and hurls it over the edge. A silence, then a satisfying crash from below. He’s done it! The Korok mask is his.
A low growl in his stomach reminds him about the dinner waiting on the landing. He edges open his bedroom door and checks no-one is about before sliding the plate over the ridge in the carpet and into his room. He shuts the door quickly, then surveys the meal in front of him: cold, flabby chips, burgers and a dollop of baked beans. He swallows the bile rising in his throat and holds the plate over the bin, watching his dinner slide down the plastic. The orange, watery bean-juice drips down, but a few more solid pellets cling to the edge of the plate. He grabs his toothbrush, its splayed-out bristles just visible under the sour jumble of tee shirts, socks and boxers, and pushes the rest of the meal into the bin. Then he tosses the toothbrush in after it and deposits the whole lot outside the door.
Sparse snowflakes swirl in the air around him, as he strides across open grassland wearing the Korok mask. Ducking under the stone arch that looms in front of him, he turns towards a flickering glow in the distance. Instantly he’s cloaked in fog, its opaque mass muffling every sound, and dimming the world around him. He walks on, past skeletal trees and whispering grasses, never deviating from the flame’s guidance. When he reaches the fiery pillar the fog disperses, wraith-like, into the darkness. He seizes the torch and thrusts it ahead of him, its rosy bloom illuminating the way ahead.
Another rumble from his belly. Without averting his eyes from the screen, he reaches across the desk, pushing aside half-finished homework, a clutter of pens, and a battered old Physics textbook. A sudden crash diverts his attention: he’s knocked over the photo. Gorgeous Emma Sykes from two doors’ down with her those knowing brown eyes that follow him round the room, like the Mona Lisa’s. He’d taken a screen shot from her snapchat profile and put it in a frame. One he found in the sideboard, of Mum and Peter’s wedding. He’d removed their photo and shoved it down the back of the sofa. They’d never miss it. It wasn’t as if his mum and stepfather ever celebrated their marriage.
He goes to turn the frame upright then changes his mind. Emma’s a distraction he doesn’t need. Especially as she called him an idiot when he tried to ask her out. He goes back to the screen, still feeling his way over the desk with his left hand. A smooth wrapper under his fingers suggests he’d located the Kit-Kat bought the last time he left the house, weeks ago now, and he peels and munches it while still thumbing the controller. Only five minutes left to raise the sword.
It’s essential to build up stamina for the task ahead. He devours the bowl of mighty steamed fruit standing up, the mushy sweetness hardly touching the sides of his mouth. As he eats, he feels a surge in his energy levels, renewing mind, body and spirit. Tossing aside the bowl, he grasps the sword in both hands, wields it high above his head, then charges toward a Korok, whose green skin glows ominously through the filter in his mask. As the sword’s point pierces the creature’s flesh, he’s rocked by an almighty explosion. A remote bomb. He dodges it and skirts round the tree, picking up a woodcutter’s axe en route. Now he has a weapon in both hands.
He ignores the ragged thumping coming from the street for as long as he can. Eventually he limps over to the window on a numb left leg and twitches the curtains. Biggsy is throwing a football against the wall beneath his bedroom window. It’s thrown, caught, thrown, caught, in a dull rhythm.
‘Oi, Dan the Man.’ Biggsy looks up, squinting. ‘Commin’ out for footie?’ Mum must have sent him. She likes Biggsy. Says he’s a nice lad. But she hasn’t heard the playground taunts: ‘Pizza face.’ ‘Dickarse.’ ‘Shrivel-prick.’ Hasn’t seen the punches Biggsy throws at him at breaktime. The bruises he’s kept hidden. The threats he’s buried deep.
‘Nah. I’m in the middle of something.’ And anyway he can score much higher in ‘Breath of the Wild’ than on a lousy football pitch.
Biggsy shrugs, his eyes hollow under the streetlamp and mooches off to the park, still chucking and catching the ball.
He hasn’t realised it’s getting dark outside. In the shadowy room, the curtains drawn against daylight’s glare, it is always dusk. Just the way the Dark Beast likes it.
He’s in Gerudo town now. The final challenge. Suddenly there’s an almighty roar and Ganon himself comes forth in his true form, an ‘ethereal monster of pure hatred and malice.’ The sword and axe are useless against him, but, just as he fears the Dark Beast will overpower him, Zelda appears with a sheaf of arrows made of dazzling light.
‘Take these!’ she cries.
He seizes an arrow, puts the bow to his shoulder. And is about to shoot.
‘Daniel. What on earth do you think you’re doing? Your mother’s in bits downstairs. Switch that bloody thing off and go and talk to her.’ Peter bursts through the door in a rush of alcohol and nicotine.
He turns round.
Peter is holding up the bin; the stench of cold food mingling with the beer and fag odours. ‘If I did this to my dinner, my father would have tanned my bloody hide.’ Peter thumps the bin on the floor and lurches out of the room. ‘Now where’s that belt? If the strap was good enough for me it’s good enough for you.’ Still muttering, Peter stomps off to the bedroom he shares with Mum.
He looks at Zelda, her long golden hair glinting in the moonlight. Her huge blue eyes plead with him. ‘Save me,’ she whispers. He’s so close he can feel her sweet breath. But Ganon is behind her, his mane turned to tongues of fire and his cavernous mouth open, revealing his deadly fangs.
He doesn’t hesitate. Picking up the master sword, which has miraculously appeared before him, he steps into the screen. ‘I’m coming, Zelda. I alone can rescue you.’
And the shadowy bedroom, the stinking clothes, the unfinished homework, the impending beating …. all dissolve.
He’s in the real world now.