The alarm goes off, waking me for school. On a typical day, its incessant high pitched screaming is a dagger in my ears. This morning its tones signal salvation, rescuing me from blood-soaked nightmares.

In movies and anime, the hero often takes a shower after traumatic events--a symbolic washing away of horrors. I call bullshit--it does nothing to help me feel better. At least making it cold helps to shock me into consciousness after a long night of gaming.

I step out of the bathroom. The murmur of a TV draws my attention to the closed door of my Mother’s bedroom. She must have fallen asleep with it on. She won’t wake up until I'm past second period at school. Even then, she probably won’t bother getting out of bed.

I crash on my bed and look at the gaming chair.

Why is this bugging me so much? I mean, years of gaming, I've got a virtual body count in the millions.

But none of those were in Danny Brascow's house.

And in those games, there was a purpose. Kill or be killed, kill to save the world, kill for revenge, kill some horrible Orc bard who tortures people's eardrums. Somehow it never seemed so...immoral. But maybe that's because I never felt like I was there--I was sitting in my room, staring at events on a screen that looked cool, but ultimately fake. Revelations puts you into the game. It's as close to reality as any game has ever, maybe ever will, come. I feel like I participated in a senseless murder.

It's just a game. I'm being stupid. It's just a game.

Dressed, I head downstairs for some breakfast. Dirty dishes lay piled in the sink. A check of the fridge shows the leftovers of the frozen meatloaf are gone--I'd planned to use that for lunch. Oh well, at least it means mom ate something.

I improvise lunch from deli meats that pass the sniff test and some hot dog buns that appear mold free.

On my way out I look to the chalkboard we use to leave messages. The one I wrote on Monday--Mom, gone to school, work after. See you at seven.--is still there. It’s Thursday and still true. I don't bother writing it over again. I wonder if she even reads it anymore.

Outside, the sun provides an unseasonably warm and cheerful April. Maybe black jeans and a black t-shirt weren't the best choices--I'm gonna be sweating at lunch.

I appraise the front lawn--it's getting long, probably should mow it this weekend. Mom never got into shrubs or plants, so at least that's one headache I don't need to worry about.

Looking both ways, I cross to the walkway on the opposite side of the street from my house. It's my routine, to make sure I don't have to walk too close to Danny's house.

Just a game. Only a game.

The sun, bright and fresh, does more to burn away the gloom of last night than the shower managed to wash away. By the time I reach Danny’s house, I'm starting to relegate the memories of last night to a distant corner of my brain--just one more gaming death of a million.

Then I look at Danny's house.

My stomach drops so suddenly, I'm not sure whether I'm going to barf or shit myself.

Three police cars are parked in front of the house, which has been roped off with yellow tape. A group of onlookers has formed opposite the house. It's an odd blend of people who stopped while out on a jog and others in their housecoats who probably decided to have their morning coffee while gawking at the misfortune of their neighbors. I don't see any bodies being carried out on stretchers. Actually, there's no ambulance at all.

That's because they would've been here hours ago when you and FuknDemon1 made Danny's dad shoot him.

The thought hammers against me. I can't breathe--my heart is strangling me.

Struggling to swallow my heart back down, I catch sight of the oddest onlooker. He's dressed in a grey suit. Everything about him, his clothes, his body, are clean, crisp angles. While everyone else looks to be just starting their day, he appears to have arrived ready to do business.

He looks toward me and our eyes lock. My initial reaction is to look away, not make it obvious I'm staring. But I can't move--his eyes hold mine.

And then, he smiles.

It's not a pleasant smile or a cruel one. It's worse. It's the kind of smile so loaded with a message I can hear it--Nice job kid.

I run.