Sensory Glitch

The ward’s final cycle began with an infection. A new patient, a shadow of invasive normalcy, slithered into the adjacent bed. Her phone—a glossy black parasite—became a perpetual extension of her arm, its camera eye locked on my face like a predator sizing up prey. Its unblinking eye recorded my every twitch, every shallow breath.

Amateur surveillance. Corporate-grade dread. My last hours caged in concrete, meticulously documented for some unseen archive.

3 was late. My calls bled into voicemail purgatory, each unanswered ring a neural flatline. He abandoned you, hissed the walls. I cocooned myself in scratchy sheets, bracing for the system’s cold reclaim.

Then, a voice. "Covid test. Your ride’s here." A jolt of electric hope.

"Right," I emerged like a shot, my voice a thin blade. "And if I'm positive, you'll just re-route my friend, won't you?"

Negative. A digital 'all clear'. 3, already briefed on my hospital data—a quick, sterile download of my temporary pathology—took my discharge papers. They felt thin as ghost skin in his hand. We walked toward his car, exiting the hum of the ward, leaving the controlled environment behind. The world hit me like a data surge—too much input, not enough processing power.

I hadn't registered it: two full weeks immersed in the concrete matrix, starved of the raw world. Outside, light exploded—raw, unfiltered, violent. Colors screamed frequencies my brain couldn't process. The world was a chaotic, vibrant glitch, every pixel too sharp, every sound too loud, reality bleeding at the edges. I spent the rest of the day in a state of hyper-distraction, my neural pathways struggling to process the overwhelming beauty and terror of it all.

The GPS rerouted our path home. Unfamiliar roads. I asked nothing. The system had its reasons, and I was learning not to question them.

Dissociation hit like novocaine. My body moved, but I wasn't driving. Watching myself through thick, invisible glass—passenger in my own skin.

We stopped by the roadside for a sandwich, the fresh air a strange, heavy blanket. Away from the walls, perched on a sun-drenched bench, I downloaded everything to 3. The children, the network, the exploitation—each fragmented piece of the truth I'd pieced together. His face, usually so composed, shifted, betraying a flicker of horror.

Back home, we ritualistically unloaded the groceries, the mundane act a stark contrast to the information now pulsing between us. A walk, a drink at the familiar bar. A whisper from the next table—seemingly random words that formed a pattern only I would recognize. They were watching. They were confirming: from now on, my work would be remote. Remote work now. Virtual surveillance. The network no longer needed me in the field.

12 appeared. I downloaded the basics—laundry, hospital, the whole nightmare. Then: “That autism association you sent me to? They said I overshared, wanted to control my money and ship me off to care for old people."

A rare, unscripted reaction to how badly her suggestion had gone.

Dinner was a feast, a blur of rich flavors and flickering PC light. We spoke of The Whole, of the opposing side, their digital wars and bio-engineered horrors. All the while, the dizziness persisted—a constant system lag, pulling me in and out of phase with reality like a network with poor connection. Disassociating. My own neural ghosting.

The following day, a pilgrimage to the town: new shoes, a fresh phone—tools for a monitored existence.

Passing the Handsome Man's house, my vision fractured—pixels scrambling like broken code—

ERROR 404: REALITY NOT FOUND

System crash imminent

3 left me there, crumbling on the doorstep like faulty hardware.

SIT. BREATHE. RECALIBRATE