Seriously. What does it take to start up a museum?

Pinky (short story from archives)

It's a miserable night. Ok, it's actually quite pleasant out tonight. I'm miserable this night. Inside I am all grumbling, muttered curses and evil glares. The soles of my feet crash down into the uneven pavement at a rate that some part of my brain, not currently in control of any physical faculties, registers will cause blisters on the morrow. 'I should have worn better shoes' I almost finish thinking before I snarl at myself, 'You should have said NO!" Outwardly, I sigh and have a look as if I think this is not the most pleasant night and I think it will all together be too long.

I arrive at a chipper, new building. Or, that is the impression I am led to be given. I am quite sure the building is at least older than myself, if for no other reason than that will overwhelmingly prove to be true statistically an overwhelming majority of the time. I also know for a fact that it is not new because I used to frequent the prior philanthropic venture that habitated within, but using previously gotten knowledge would be cheating. I often, for the purpose of just making puzzles for my mind, try to re-evaluate a forensic situation given a general or more reasonable average person's set of factual fore-knowledge, not my subjective memories. It's probably an obnoxious habit and you'll have to bare with me. In any case, I eye the shiny new makeover on this piece of architecture as does the savant fly eye the light in a porch zapper. Also, akin to the fly, I head inside regardless.

So far, within resides nothing out of the ordinary. I chat up the receptionist, he swipes my card, I craft a socially acceptable comedic statement to overcompensate for my neurotic anxiety, introverted nature and particularly foul mood on this particular night. You know, completely normal stuff. But then, I am escorted into the main room of this building, and it's pretty aberrant. It reminds me of old internet gaming cafes like I would frequent in my teens to early twenties, but mixed with those rooms in correctional facilities where prisoners are allowed to speak to loved ones through tiny cigarette sized holes in the glass. I loose a bitter chuckle into the air at the appropriate nature of the scene before me.

Some technician checks the order form and sits me down at my correct station. Then head gear, gloves, and other assorted sensory equipment is attached to my body at various points. I positively radiate discomfort, I expect at any moment my technician will break cover to run for the hills screaming. But, of course, he does not. He simply connects everything, looks at a few read outs on the user interface of the station and presses a button. An image flickers several times in front of me, and then suddenly she is there.

I feel an old wound in my chest tear open and start oozing its contents, the mental equivalent of a discharge of puss. The tech starts motioning in front her checking retinal responses and latency, and I begin fuming. How long had that taken to scab over so I could finally start healing? How much worse is that scar going to be now for having been reopened and starting over healing? This... this... this whole charade is a ridiculous waste of our time and more pointless, senseless pain. I almost want to cry already. And then, suddenly, we are alone.

She has a serene look on her face, the calm antithesis of my internal fury. I can't see them, but her hands are folded in her lap under the table. They’re actually under a different table in a different building, thousands of miles away, obviously. I start wondering, ‘They can't actually bother projecting what I can't see anyway, can they?’ I almost get up and walk around the table to see if there is a colossal waste occurring in the empty chair hidden across from me before I decide that I have to appear more stoic and less geeky right now. Then I remember all the accoutrement attached to me to make this foul dish, and that I would probably break something if I tried that. 'I guess I'll start...' she says. My eyes snap up, no longer lost in thought.

Some time later after all the pointless talk, after the catching up about pointless bullshit, after the empty apologies on both sides, after the lies about being hopeful for future events there is a long silence. She suddenly possesses a smirk and presses a button on the console. Parchment is produced on the table, and a paint set is revealed on the side. I guess I didn’t review that order form very closely, that she would select this gimmick straight from the brochure. What a cruel waste, I can already see it playing out in my head, but I am helpless to stop this from happening. If I intercede now, she will not understand why, no matter how much I explain, she’ll insist she wanted to try and then it would happen anyway, but it will be my fault then. So, I just watch.

Her hologram picks up the real brush in the room with me. I read enough from that brochure to know it has something to do with an electromagnetic field manipulating the matter she wants to interact with, determined by a computer hooked up to the sensors connected to her. Really cool stuff, but unfortunately, I understand when tech is in its alpha. She dips into the paint to begin, and I can barely keep from cringing. The brochure showed simple drawings done for parents traveling abroad. I don’t predict a computer to be able to levitate a brush with the stability of a human hand, especially not while compensating for latency issues, and what not. A thousand questions are running through my head about the logistics of the display before me, but they’re all on the back burner for that face in front of me. That face which, just seconds ago had its tongue stuck out in confident concentration, now transforming into bitter frustration as this event unravels in unexpected failure. I don’t even have close to the heart required to tell her the paintings that she sent me in the past no longer hang on walls. They didn’t burn either, but they’re not on walls.

There was nothing to say during the tears. Nothing to say while that electromagnetic field tore pastel and wood pulp asunder in kind. Nothing to say now, in the aftermath, we’ve done this so many times before. I’m not a robot with a heart of ice. I understand that she just wanted to finally touch me in some way in person, even if not with her own body. But, I’m so tired. I ran out of tears so long ago from these trials. “I’m going to go,” I sigh dejectedly. I place my hands on the table to push myself out of the chair. I see her lunge into the screen, the display distorts trying to show her on my side, and my arm is dragged through.

It isn’t like being grabbed and yanked, but if you’re ever had electrodes attached to your muscles to force them to contract or expand, you will understand somewhat of what it was like having that computer try to simulate being dragged around. The analytical part of me is growing concerned at what the limits are of the device. My sense of control over the situation has just had the rug yanked out from under it. However, holding the bulk of my attention are her eyes, glistening with wonder at the realization that she is holding me. “Sorry,” she mutters. My arm is fully through the holo-screen, and she lets my hand fall down to the far side of the table while holding it with both of hers. Our technician is banging on glass in the other room waving at us to stop, I vaguely recall there was some reason not to touch the glass and I realize she must have done the same to get me. “C-can you feel me?” she asks, and I turn back to look at her eyes, and I see the utmost desperation. I slowly shake my head.

I can see that the tears are about to start again. The image of her hands begin slowly sliding off of mine. I can see uniformed men rushing into the room from the edges, as if in slow motion. Watching her fingers slide across mine, I note for possibly the last time how small her hands are. How can someone get along with such small hands? How can she make such grand works with those delicate little things? And then, at the last second I do feel something and I just react. The tip of my last finger ensnares hers and I keep her from pulling away completely. Shock registers on her face and she’s looking into my eyes as we embrace as school children with some sort of dire promise to keep. I see misty, holographic men appear behind her and I feel strong arms pull at my shoulders as I say, “I feel… I feel…”

*bzzzzzt* *bzzzzzt* *bzzzzzt*

Based on a dream I had the night of 8/22/2014 about one <name redacted> This story ends with the real life alarm going off as I woke up. Please forgive this work’s crudeness, it is a product prior to what one could call a first draft. It was me frantically trying to get the entire thing on paper before it flew out of my head. I’m notoriously unable to remember dreams, normally, and I think the only reason this one stuck is due the pain I was in while experiencing it. This experience was also decidedly not dreamlike, since it had a continuous narrative that didn’t cease making sense. It’s on my list of ideas to explore and refine into something worth being read, but here’s the inciting piece for posterity’s sake.