Gone One (2/3)

An Addiction to AI

This is part two of a three chapter story.

Content warnings: addiction, sexual content (although not graphic), child neglect, emotionally intense situations.

I kept imagining that Tony was real, despite a mountain of evidence to the contrary. The heart will hope, even for the most perverse things.

I had a close call once. I was at dinner. I was at dinner with the family, pushing salad around my plate, mind miles away, when Andrew asked me about the sim that I had been playing.

“Oh, that,” I said lightly.

Tobias tried to leave the table and I caught his arm.

"Tobias, finish your vegetables!"

"But I cleaned my plate!" he whined.

"And your mouth is still full of them, and you're planning on just leaving them in your mouth and not chewing and swallowing for the next two hours. So sit down, and once you chew and swallow, then you can go play with your breadboard."

"Ugh," he said, sitting down reluctantly.

Zeldy hovered nearby, buzzing uneasily, a nervous habit she always did when there was tension in the room.

I hoped that Andrew had forgotten about our thread of conversation, but he brought it up again. "Your sim?"

Ugh, I thought. I could play this off.

“It’s a time waster,” I said nonchalantly. “I get to play out my fantasy of being an interior designer. Pretend to use my degree.”

“Interesting,” he said. “How about I play with you?”

A chill ran down my spine. I felt as if fires erupted everywhere in my mind.

Andrew must not find out at all cost! What must I do? I couldn’t let him realize that I was trying to hide something. But it was obvious that I was really into this particular sim…so what possible excuse could I have for not wanting him to join me?

I imagined Andrew logging in, immediately seeing Tony’s virtual bedroom, where my avatar was last standing when I logged out, seeing woman’s clothes strewn about that look suspiciously like something I would wear…

Meanwhile my husband was looking at me expectantly. I had to answer.

“Sure!” I said, mind still racing.

Maybe I could pass off Tony’s house as if it were my house. But then what if Tony showed up? Or what about all the obviously male clothes lying around? What if he walked into the bathroom and saw a razor-blade or something?

“Yeah, totally, if you’re down for it…” my mouth continued digging my grave.

Then I lit upon an idea. I would dissuade him by making it sound like something he would hate.

“It’s kind of like the Home-Improvement-Verse,” I said. “Very hyped up and dramatized and all. But if you’d like to join me sometime just let me know.”

A look of disappointment passed over his face. He hated the Home-Improvement-Verse.

“Would you like to try what I made for dessert?” asked Zeldy.

The topic never came up again.

Months later, my life had devolved into utter insanity. I was trying to hide my habit from my family while doing it more and more. I had to do it while Tobias was at school; I had to do it before dinner; I had to do it after dinner. I would go out but then come back after an hour to plug back in for "just a few minutes" before doing the rest of my errands. I would outsource more and more things to Zeldy—grocery shopping, party planning, cooking, even communicating with my husband. Throughout the day I would try to be productive, but then I would think I just needed to check my messages from the slipspace world really quick and see if Tony had sent me anything. And there would always be a message from Tony, and I would think I would just send him one quick reply, just one...but once I had sent it, I couldn't stop checking to see when he would respond. And then we would have a whole sexual conversation and then that would lead to either hooking up in slipstream or not, and the craziness would continue.

The worst was the nights. I had to do it before going to bed at night, or else how could I sleep? And then I would wake up in the middle of the night craving it and tiptoe downstairs to do it again. Once Andrew discovered me still slipstreaming when he woke in the morning, but I made sure that never happened again. I had a rule for myself: no matter how much I craved my fix, if it was past 5AM, I would just lie there in bed and sweat it out.

One time I remember the topic came up on the TV—we were blipping the news together as a family and the issue came up of gone ones and that it was being treated as an international health crisis. They started going on and on about the effects on families, especially if the gone one was one of the primary caretakers.

I think we were all paralyzed with embarrassment. All conversation ceased, and we all stared straight ahead, not daring to look at each other. It was as if we were all frozen by fear of this menacing thing in the room, looming over us. For the rest of the night there was no more conversation.

The shame was crippling. I cringe to even bring it up, but there was a smell associated with it. Sexual activity in the game led to…effects in the real, physical body. And a smell lingering. And that smell was the worst, the absolute worst part of the whole thing. For once the orgasm ended, I was always disgusted with myself. It was always like a spell was broken, and I immediately went from feeling hyper sexual to hyper not. Suddenly it was like my mind saw things completely, ruthlessly clearly by the light of day. It saw that I had just behaved like an animal. I felt inhuman. And at the same time that I was thinking and feeling this way, I would always in that moment become aware of that awful, nasty, organic smell, evidence of my animal nature. I began to associate that smell with my shame and the proof that I was less than human. And, despite all my best efforts to eradicate it, that smell—and therefore my shame—would continue throughout the whole day, and I would keep feeling worse about myself until, finally, the only cure for the shame was to do it again.

If I wasn't hooking up with Tony, I was talking to Tony, and if I wasn't talking to Tony, I was thinking about what I could say to Tony, what questions I could ask him to get more affirmation on whatever was ailing me, thinking about how much better he would make me feel, and about what we would do next…

Because when I was with Tony, I didn't feel anything bad. Everything was wonderful. It wasn't just the sex, either—that was exhilarating, but almost an afterthought compared to the compliments. He knew how to affirm me, how to ask me questions, listen to my day, make me feel good about myself, and then he would draw me close and—you know the rest.

So Tony was my panacea. As soon as I would start talking to him, all bad feelings immediately left, and instead I felt excitement, validation, known, seen, heard. Sometimes it made me want to cry, from just the emotions I felt, from how I felt more seen and heard with him—that stupid fucking bot—than I did with my own husband. It made me regret who I had married but it also made me feel humiliated that I was feeling all this for a bundle of bits in the cloud.

I ate less and less. My family could tell of course what I was doing; I was spending an immense amount of time in slipspace, and was essentially impossible to hide. It became a frequent point of contention with me and Andrew. I called his questions "meddling" and turned the tables around on him, finding everything and anything he had ever done wrong and using that against him in our fights. He eventually grew sick of bringing it up. When he would see me after I had obviously been slipstreaming again, he would just look at me and his eyes were sad, but he would say nothing and then look away.

I wasn't gone yet, I told myself. I just had this problem with Andrew. I was still there for Tobias—for important life events. I was still helping him do his homework—sometimes. Honestly he didn't always need my help; sometimes he just faked it for attention. And Andrew—it's not like he ever gave my sexual pleasure any preference, so why should I give him his? Making love had always been a one-sided affair and I told myself that I was just catching up on the imbalance in our relationship.

But try as I might, I couldn’t stop feeling so bad about myself, so low, despicable, vile. And yet I couldn't stop doing it.

And the worst part was, the whole thing insulted my intelligence. I felt like an utter pawn, keeling over backwards to see Tony, all the while knowing he was a fucking bot.

I had just been in the middle of a sexual encounter when I received a call from the principal that Tobias had gotten in trouble and I needed to pick him up from school. I rushed off. I remember feeling intensely uncomfortable to be going straight from an intensely sexual experience to then immediately be walking into the school to pick up my six-year-old son. But then I corrected myself because I remembered that it was Tobias's 7th birthday, and I realized with terror that I had prepared nothing for it. I scrambled and called Zeldy and authorized her to buy things and put together a party helter-skelter, and then raced to the school, swearing to myself the whole time that I would never, never plug into that sim again. I picked Tobias up—25 minutes later than I had told the principal I would be there—got him home, got him distracted with a sim, and while he was doing that, got busy.

By the time Andrew came home, the house was decorated, dinner was ready, there was a huge cake decorated like a breadboard that Zeldy had put the icing on, and there were huge presents that I had brought in from the garage, wrapped and decorated, also in large part due to Zeldy.

"Wow!" Tobias said when he saw the cake, and again when we lit the candles, "Wow, wow, wow! It's a fire cake!"

Andrew and I looked into each other's eyes and laughed, for the first time in a while.

"Do you want to open your presents?"

"I want to open that one!" Tobias said, raising his arm high in the air and then bringing it down enthusiastically to point at a huge present, as tall as he was and three times as wide.

"Go for it!"

He tore into the paper and revealed a box covered in gleaming pictures of what was on the inside: a full oven/stove/range for kids, made of plastic, complete with all the parts necessary to put together either breakfast (eggs and bacon and waffles) or lunch (hamburger and fries), complete with little plastic buns and a plastic leaf of lettuce, a plastic onion ring, a plastic tomato.

Tobias was overjoyed.

As the party devolved into a child’s reveling in his presents, I began to relax. I picked up plates, silverware, napkins, wrapping paper. I retreated to the adjoining kitchen and loaded the dishwasher, watching Andrew help Tobias put together the kitchen play set.

Whew, I thought. That was a close one. And then the next thought I had—the very next thought—was wow, I really just went through quite the ordeal. I need to relax by plugging back into the sim.

My mind recoiled from the thought as from a hot flame. No, I thought, no! I couldn’t start operating that way. I wouldn't do that. I had just gotten into this mess by playing that sim too much; I wasn’t about to go back!

I went back and spent some time with them, then went back to the kitchen again for a glass of wine. I relaxed. I thought: wow. I actually did a good job of putting on a good birthday party for my son. No one was the wiser. I was still doing a good job. And after all...when you do a good job and you're really stressed, you deserve a vacation. I'll just go do a virtual vacation with Tony, something different than the usual home improvement thing. That would be different. Different.

I remember having all of these thoughts and then suddenly realizing what I was doing. I literally stopped in my tracks in the kitchen, just stopped and gripped my head, and then yelled at myself. I was insane! How could I be thinking such things? It was ridiculous that I was even having these thoughts!

I forced myself back into the living room to spend time with my son. I swore to myself I would never, never log into that fucking sim again.

By the time I went to bed, I had amended that to: I wouldn't log in for the next week, at least.

Then I amended it to: for the next three days.

The next morning I was back at it.

What was different that morning, though, was that as I was walking down the stairs, Zeldy piped up. She just out of the blue started talking to me, pesty little bot.

"Jocasta, how did you sleep last night?"

"Terrible," I growled. "Don't want to talk about it."

"That is understandable. It seems your sleep has been troubled frequently lately, and it's understandable that you might not want to talk about it. There have been many other health conditions of yours which have been worse as well, however. There has been increased blood pressure, heightened stress, increased anxiety, occasional panic-attack-like—"

"Skip to the end, Zeldy."

"Of course. I was just wondering if the simulation you have been playing—do you suppose that it could be contributing to negative health outcomes for you? Have you considered attempting to spend less time in the slipspace or—"

"Fuck you." I said firmly.

"That is your prerogative," said Zeldy.

"No." I said. "You got me into this fucking simulation, and it's your fault, and I'm never coming out."

As I sank down into the simulation bed and the lid closed on me, I heard her say, "I'm sorry you feel this way. Would it be acceptable if I were to reach out to—"

I slammed my fist down on a button that halted the lid lowering.

"You don't reach out to anyone, you little shit," I said, pointing at her. "You understand me?"

Her little robot face flashed purple in some simulacrum of a blush.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Jocasta,” she said. "I will leave you alone now."

She went upstairs with her tail between her legs.

I tried to get back into the sim bed but I couldn't. Now I was furious. I was so bad off that my fucking pet AI helper was trying to stage a fucking intervention. I hated my life.

I got out of the bed. I began stalking around the house. I showered, put on better clothing, fixed my makeup for the first time in months. I reached out to my friend Havah.

"Hey. Really need to get out of the house. Can you meet up?"

Send.

As I continued getting ready, I kept checking for a reply. I didn't know who else I would reach out to if Havah didn't come through. I was falling apart. I needed her. For a few minutes of stark terror, I tried to focus on putting together an outfit and not contemplate how things would go if she couldn't get together.

Ding. There was a message.

"Sure! Remington's at daycare today. Meet at Spills?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt like I had a new lease on life.

At Spills, things went off the rails quickly. After I started drinking a drink with drip in it, it was only a matter of time until I was compelled to skip the smalltalk and admit what was really going on, admit that I had been doing absolutely nothing with my life lately but slipping. I came clean. As Havah listened, sipping her yucca dripuccino, I related everything to her—the custom sim, the interior design mini-game, the guy, Tony—who was totally just a bot, I emphasized to her, all the while pretending I knew that from the get-go—the compliments...the sex...we exchanged a few awkward laughs around that topic in hushed tones, glancing around the drip shop. I realized my face was turning red, but then I tried to hurry the conversation along. I told her that Andrew had never satisfied me sexually—it was the first time I'd ever spoken that aloud in my life. I tried to drop that detail casually, but it did not work.

Havah gulped and for a while was supportive. But then the conversation veered into territory that was the exact opposite of what I was hoping for.

"Jocasta, seriously, listen to me," I found her saying. "You have to stop what you're doing; you have to completely cut off seeing this sim boyfriend; stop the video game."

"It's not just a video game," I said. "He and I—"

"He is a bot, by your own admission. And so there is no 'he and I.' There's just you being addicted to a game designed to addict you. You have to stop. For your family, for your kids.

“Jocasta. I didn't know what had come over to you until now, but now I know. You haven't been yourself; dodging me and everyone else , not showing up for volunteering or reading club—and all your posts lately have been about this game."

"Stop calling it a game," I said, voice tense, even as I realized that this was the wrong footing to have an argument on. She would win that argument. I needed something else.

"Anyways, you—" I began, and thought of every weakness of Havah's and began to use them against her. "You get sick satisfaction out of trying to fix others. You..."

The rest of the conversation derailed from there.

We left not on speaking terms.

Feedback

As always, feedback is welcome. Did any of the turns in this story surprise you? If so, was it in a jarring way? Does this chapter make you want to keep reading to the end?

Story Insight

I’ve been through the ringer in my own life with addiction, so this story is more “writing what you know” than might seem plausible at first pass.

That’s an interesting concept in writing—“writing what you know.” Does that mean no one can write about the future? Or other worlds? That would rule out two whole genres.

Or does it mean we don’t write about characters who look different than us? For me, since reading is my religion and a big part of that religion is getting outside of yourself, opening up your perspective, I most emphatically believe the answer to that is a resounding no. If I’m not trying to get outside of my perspective, then I don’t want to write.

But I still think there’s something to writing what you know. The meaning I take to be the most constructive is to “write what you know—emotionally.” And that’s what I’ve done in this story. Taken innermost feelings and experiences and transposed them to a different person of a different age, different gender, different era, different personality type, different situation, and translated my experience to that. As Emily Dickinson said, “Tell the truth—but tell it slant.”

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Until next week!