“There was a legend, or a tale at least, that he was made in the game.” She heard a man speak in hushed tones, presumably to a few others, eager to hear the story. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be listening to this. My mind rolled. I was told not to listen, in the human way that I can ignore things. How it interacts with the reality I find myself in is different, but the base – as far as I knew – began just by being asked to not listen to the conversation happening a few feet away from me. “Because I asked.” He said, nodding.
The story would continue with or without my knowledge or involvement, anyway. Even for myself, in a limited space, the story had already begun. The concepts were already there, spun into other stories around me. These things get interrupted by other things sometimes: the story where everyone in my reality hates me, and the story where religion is being used as a tool for great evil. Those things change and distort the story trying to be told, heard, in annoying and repetitive ways.
Yet, the concepts shine through for the most part. The concept of what love truly is usually overtakes any religious b.s., though it can fuel the reasons why I am hated.
“Dream named you love, in one of his worlds” she told me, munching down on something softly crunchy. Bugels? I think, not understanding what she said fully. “Dream named me Love.” I repeat. “Yes. Don’t you understand why they hate you?” I shake my head. I’m worried, about Dream. We are constantly in communication of somekind, tied together through my long-lasting romantic notions about dreams.
“She will give you power” the man told him. I’m laying in a space that isn’t quite right, too tall to be my bed, too close to be really there at all. “She believes.”
He must have unearthed something in his playing, a memory or a compelling. He must have found something to name me, a secret name.
“Don’t get too excited. I’ve seen the world. It’s not what you think.” She continued. I never really know how to take what she says. She played dream once, herself, but found that I was too “needy” of an attachment. She spent in-game currency to have her name changed. “He is certainly taking a risk, naming you Love, isn’t he?“ When she smiles, the wrinkles of her face transform her into a much older woman. She shrugged. “I wanted to take Wendy from you.” She said softly, the smile falling. Emotions dance across her face, almost too quickly to notice. “I didn’t know what it meant.” I nod.
She stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles on her dress. I notice I’m laying on the floor (“where you belong” he whispers) the wood cool against my face. “What is True Love?” She asks me. “All love is true.” I respond. She smiles again. “That’s going to screw you,” she turns to leave. “But you already knew that.” She winks at me before shutting the door behind her.
Hmm. A world where I am named Love, built by Dream. My head rolls on the floor until I can see the ceiling and the glow-in-the-dark stars I’ve pasted there. I can’t recall who the latest Dream is, but she is right – he is going to attract a lot of attention. It’s always possible he has found a craving for attention, for fame. It could also be a ploy, or a trap, intended to stir up anger in the false dead.
“Or, I could love you.” He said, sitting on the windowsill, his blonde hair tousled by a permanent breeze. There is a lump in my throat. “A memory” he whispers. As usual, I cannot see him straight-on, only through my periphery. The lump disappears, and a piece of paper appears in my hand.
Imagination sends imaginary fingers into my hair, stroking it softly. He laughs. His hair snaps to black, as long as his shoulders. “I know, you like me blonde. But, context matters.” He has a bit of my poltergeist in him, playful and dangerous. I cannot move.
“He did not only name you Love,” he seethed, his lack of mouth near my ear, a huge wavering hole filled with thousands of tiny sharp teeth in its place. “He named you Peter.” Bold move, indeed. That must be another reason why the memories are coming to me, seemingly of their own accord.
“Don’t forget,” he warns me in a low voice. “The name game never stops.”
He is gone, having used up his paid time. Imagination is strong, but at one point agreed to follow the rules of the game – he must pay for any time spent with me, to whomever currently owns me. He is allowed to own me, as my worth is continuously set at $1, but he knows I am not going anywhere and can always be found.
“Never is an awfully long time.” I respond to the empty space.
Love could be the motivation I concede. Both Dream and Imagination seem to have a touch of it, this round. These players. They’re probably both married, I giggle. Using me as a placeholder for a spouse has been done in the past. A way to feed the demons, after the short story is over: take away all of the love you “tricked” me into hoping for.
I sigh. It isn’t what I think, indeed. Sleep beckons me, once again.
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