One Continue Remaining

Aberdeen, Washington, had been raining since Addison Kerr came home from the hospital. Not continuously, technically. Sometimes the rain became mist. Sometimes it dwindled to droplets hanging from the gutters and cedar branches before another gray sheet rolled in from the Pacific. But Addison had been home nineteen days, and he could not remember seeing the sun once. He did not particularly mind. There were worse things than rain.

               Pain, for example. Pain was considerably worse.

               The orange prescription bottle stood on the bathroom counter beside his toothbrush. Ten milligrams of oxycodone, four times daily as needed. As needed struck Addison as one of those phrases written by somebody who had never had his abdomen opened. The pain did not wait to be needed. It woke with him, followed him to the toilet, sat beside him while he ate, and climbed into bed with him every night.

               Before the oxycodone there had been Dilaudid. Four days of it. Four days in an Aberdeen hospital where every few hours a nurse would appear, inject hydromorphone into his IV, and make the universe pleasantly loosen around its edges. The pain retreated almost immediately. Then came the dreams.

               God, the dreams.

               Most survived only as fragments: an impossibly long hospital corridor; thousands of beds arranged inside a room too large to exist; blue lights hovering above sleeping patients; a sound like the menu chime from an old role-playing game. And a man with no face.

               Addison blamed the Dilaudid. Everyone blamed the Dilaudid. By the third week at home, however, Addison wanted his mind back more than he wanted comfort. Tuesday evening, after swallowing his fourth oxycodone of the day, he closed the bottle and announced that it would be his last. His wife, Destanie, lowered her paperback. “You’re just stopping?”

               “That’s generally what last means.”

               “You could taper.”

               “I could.”

               “But you won’t.”

               Addison smiled. “You’ve known me too long.”

               “Twenty-three years.”

               “And you still married me.”

               “Statute of limitations on that mistake hasn’t expired.” He laughed, which hurt enough that he immediately regretted it. Destanie pointed at him. “Call the surgeon tomorrow.”

               “I will.”

               “You always say that.”

               “I’ll actually call.”

               She watched him for another moment before returning to her book. Addison looked toward the living-room window. Rain crawled down the glass, distorting the houses across the street. For perhaps half a second, pale blue letters appeared in the reflection. Then they were gone.

               He slept 43 minutes. At 1:17am Addison woke drenched in sweat. His legs felt electrically charged. He rolled left, right, onto his back, then left again. Nothing helped. His skin somehow felt hot and cold simultaneously, and deep inside his muscles was a restless pulling sensation that made remaining still unbearable. At 1:46am he surrendered and went to the bathroom. The overhead light seemed offensively bright. He sat on the edge of the tub, breathing through nausea and waiting to see whether he was going to vomit.

               “Great fucking idea, Add.”

               His reflection looked terrible. He had lost eleven pounds since surgery. His beard had grown unevenly. Purple crescents hung beneath his eyes. Withdrawal. He knew what it was. Physical dependence was not addiction. He had taken the medication as prescribed. Three weeks of opioids, though, following four days of IV Dilaudid, was plenty of time for his body to notice their absence.

               He turned on the faucet. Cold water. Hands. Face. He looked up. Words hovered across the mirror.

               RESTORATION POINT CREATED

               Addison stared. The letters glowed pale blue. He blinked. They remained. “No.” He stepped backward. The letters vanished. For several seconds he stood motionless. Withdrawal. Exhaustion. Dream. Some lingering neurological souvenir from three weeks of narcotics. Anything except what he had seen. Then nausea surged violently. He turned and vomited into the toilet. The contraction pulled against healing abdominal muscles, sending pain through him so intense that his vision flashed white. Addison cried out, reached for the counter, missed it, and fell. His head struck the tile.

               Darkness.

               Then…

               Cold water ran over his hands. Addison opened his eyes. He was standing at the sink. He jerked backward. The faucet was running. His face was wet. The digital clock read 1:46am. “What the fuck?” He touched the back of his head. Nothing. He looked at the toilet. Clean. His shoulder did not hurt. The mirror shimmered.

               RESTORATION POINT CREATED

               “No.” Addison slapped off the faucet and stumbled into the hallway. Destanie emerged from the bedroom.

               “You okay?”

               “What time is it?”

               “What?”

               “What time?”

               She glanced toward the clock. “1:46.”

               Addison stared at her. “You already asked me that.”

               Destanie frowned. “Asked you what?”

               “If I was okay.”

               “I just got out of bed.”

               “No. Before.”

               “Addison, I was asleep.”

               He looked back toward the bathroom. Nothing. “Go back to bed.”

               “You sure?”

               “Yes.”

               “Do you need an oxy?”

               “No.”

               The answer came too quickly. Destanie noticed. “So you do.”

               “I said no.”

               She studied him before returning to the bedroom. Addison remained in the hallway listening to the rain. Normal. Everything was normal. He went downstairs.

               At 2:13am he vomited into the kitchen sink.

               At 2:19am his abdominal pain became unbearable.

               He collapsed beside the refrigerator. At 1:46am he opened his eyes in the bathroom. Cold water. Running faucet.

               RESTORATION POINT CREATED

               This time Addison screamed.

               By three in the morning, he had tested it. The first experiment was stupid but harmless. He took a coffee mug from the cabinet and deliberately dropped it. Ceramic exploded across the kitchen floor. He waited. Nothing. He swept it up. The second experiment was stupider. He nicked the tip of his index finger with a paring knife. Blood appeared. He washed it. Nothing happened. So, time was not repeating. Not exactly.

               At 3:27am the pain returned. It began beneath the incision, then spread through his abdomen until he doubled over beside the couch. His vision narrowed. He hit the floor.

               Then…

               Cold water. Bathroom. 1:46am.

               RESTORATION POINT CREATED

               The cut was gone. The mug was back in the cabinet. Addison began shaking. He opened the medicine cabinet. The oxycodone bottle sat inside. Seven tablets. He counted twice. Seven. He carried the bottle downstairs and buried it beneath coffee grounds, paper towels, and leftover spaghetti. Then he sat at the kitchen table until sunrise.

               At 6:08 Destanie entered. “You look like hell.”

               “I feel worse.”

               “You’re calling the doctor.”

               “I know.”

               She opened the refrigerator, removed orange juice, closed the door, took down a glass. Then stopped. For perhaps half a second, Destanie did not move. Not stood still. Did not move. Her hair froze against her shoulder. The juice stopped halfway between bottle and glass. Beyond the window, rain hung motionless in the air. Then everything continued. Destanie poured the juice. Addison shot to his feet.

               “What?”

               “You froze.”

               “What?”

               “You froze.”

               “I was standing here.”

               “No.”

               “Addison.”

               “No. You were…” He stopped.

               Destanie stared at him. “Call the surgeon.”

               Addison nodded. He did not call. Instead, he went to the trash. The bottle was gone. He ran upstairs. It stood inside the medicine cabinet. Six tablets. Addison stopped breathing. The label looked normal except for a line of tiny blue letters beneath the dosage instructions.

               OXYCODONE × 6

               He dropped it. One tablet bounced across the counter. Above it appeared:

               USE ITEM?

               Addison backed away. “No.” The letters vanished.

               He remembered enough about opioid withdrawal to distrust everything his senses told him. That became his lifeline. His brain was exhausted. His body was furious. He had slept less than an hour. He was sweating, nauseated, restless, hurting, and frightened. Brains did strange things under stress. That was science. Glowing inventory counters were not.

               By noon Destanie had had enough. “Take one.”

               They stood in the kitchen. “I’m fine.”

               “You look like you’re dying.”

               “I’m withdrawing.”

               “Which is why stopping cold was stupid.”

               “I’m aware.”

               “Take one and call the surgeon.”

               Addison looked toward the stairs. “What?”

               “Take a pill.”

               His stomach twisted. Something inside him wanted it. No. Wanted was the wrong word.

               Demanded.

               That frightened him almost as much as the glowing text. He had never taken more than prescribed. Never chased a high. Most of the time the pills did not make him feel good; they simply made him hurt less. But his body did not care about moral distinctions. His body knew only that something was missing. “I threw them away.”

               Destanie stared. “All of them?”

               “I thought I did.”

               “What does that mean?”

               Addison went upstairs. The bottle waited on the counter. Six tablets. He picked one up.

               USE ITEM?

               “Yes,” he whispered. He swallowed it. Thirty-five minutes later, reality became ordinary. Completely ordinary. The hallway was the correct length. Rain fell properly. Destanie did not freeze. The blue lettering disappeared. His muscles loosened. His stomach settled. The pain receded. Addison sat on the couch and breathed.

               Destanie joined him. “Better?”

               “Yes.”

               “You see why tapering might have been smarter?”

               “Maybe.”

               “Maybe?”

               “Fine. Definitely.”

               She leaned against him. Addison watched rain strike the windows. Withdrawal. That was all. Withdrawal plus exhaustion. His mind was translating physical distress into imagery it understood. He had spent hundreds of hours playing RPGs since childhood. Save points. Inventory counters. Continue screens.

               It was almost elegant.

               He smiled. Then Destanie went upstairs. Addison opened the bottle. Five tablets. Correct. Six minus one. Five. Except there had originally been seven. One had disappeared before he swallowed anything. His smile faded.

               That night he dreamed of the hospital. Not the real hospital. The other one. Addison stood barefoot in an enormous black room. Rows of beds stretched farther than he could see. Thousands. Perhaps millions. Each contained a person. Some slept. Some twitched. Some whispered. Above every bed floated a small blue light. Addison walked between them. At the far end of the aisle stood a man. Tall. Thin. White shirt. Dark slacks. Clipboard. He resembled a hospital administrator except that his face contained nothing.

               No eyes.

               No nose.

               No mouth.

               The man checked his clipboard. Then turned toward Addison. “You have already continued once.”

               Addison woke screaming. Destanie grabbed him. “Add!” He swung before recognizing her. Bedroom. Darkness. Rain. 3:12am. “What happened?”

               “Dream.”

               “You’re soaked.”

               His shirt clung to him. His legs churned beneath the blankets. Then he saw it. Blue light beneath the bathroom door. Addison stood. “Stay here.”

               “What?”

               “Just stay here.” He entered the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was open. The bottle stood inside. Four tablets.

               OXYCODONE × 4

               “No.” Another line appeared.

               TEMPORARY STABILITY: 03:41:12

               The numbers decreased.

               03:41:11.

               03:41:10.

               Addison backed away. The mirror darkened. His reflection disappeared. Beyond the glass was a hospital room. His hospital room. He saw himself lying in bed. IV. Oxygen. Monitors. Two nurses moving quickly. A physician at the foot of the bed. Destanie against the wall with both hands over her mouth. Then the image vanished. Addison vomited into the sink. Destanie rushed inside. “What happened?”

               He turned. “Did something happen to me in the hospital?”

               “What?”

               “After surgery.”

               “You were in pain.”

               “No. Something serious.” Her expression changed. Only slightly. Enough. “What happened?”

               “Your blood pressure dropped once.”

               “How bad?”

               “They fixed it.”

               “How bad?”

               “I don’t know.”

               “You know something.”

               “They called me.”

               “When?”

               “The second night.”

               Addison felt the room narrowing. “What did they say?”

               “That there was a complication. Your pressure crashed. They thought you might be bleeding.”

               “Did my heart stop?”

               “No.”

               The hesitation destroyed the answer. “Destanie.”

               “They said you lost consciousness.”

               “For how long?”

               “I don’t know.”

               “How long?”

               “Three or four minutes.”

               Addison closed his eyes. The dream returned. Thousands of beds. Blue lights. The faceless administrator.

               You have already continued once.

               He opened his eyes. The bathroom was wider. Destanie stood farther away. The door behind her was 30 feet distant. “Addison?” Her voice came from somewhere down a tunnel. He grabbed the bottle. Three tablets. He had not taken another.

               “No.”

               “What?”

               “It took one.”

               “What took one?”

               He looked at her. “The game.” Destanie went pale. Addison heard how insane it sounded. He did not care. “This isn’t withdrawal.”

               “Listen to yourself.”

               “I am.”

               “You need medical help.”

               “Yes.”

               “Then let me take you.”

               Addison looked at the pills. “I don’t think I can leave.”

               “Why?”

               “Because I think these are the only reason I can still see you.”

               Destanie said nothing. Addison swallowed another. The hallway snapped back to its proper length. Destanie stood three feet away. Addison began crying. She wrapped her arms around him. Neither spoke.

               The next afternoon, Aberdeen began disappearing. A coffee shop downtown had no employees. A traffic light cycled red, yellow, green over an empty intersection. Then Addison looked east and saw the road end three blocks away. Not barricaded. Not washed out. End. Buildings stopped. Sidewalk stopped. Sky stopped. Beyond everything was blackness. He blinked. Aberdeen returned. He took another pill. Two remained. By evening there was one. He had not taken the missing tablet.

               OXYCODONE × 1

               Addison sat at the kitchen table holding the bottle. Destanie heated soup. Rain tapped against the windows. Everything looked normal. Above the bottle:

               TEMPORARY STABILITY: 00:18:03

               “Destanie.”

               “Yeah?”

               “If I died in the hospital, would you tell me?”

               She turned. “What kind of question is that?”

               “Answer it.”

               “You’re sitting here.”

               “Answer it.”

               “You didn’t die.”

               “What if I did?”

               “Then you wouldn’t be here.”

               Addison looked at the timer.

               00:17:41.

               “Maybe I’m not.”

               “Add.”

               “What if this is the part after?”

               “The part after what?”

               “The last save point.” She stared at him. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

               “Yes.”

               “Thank you.”

               “You asked.”

               He looked at the remaining pill. “Do you remember our wedding?”

               “Of course.”

               “Where?” Destanie opened her mouth. Stopped. Addison’s heart accelerated. “Where?”

               She frowned. “I…”

               “Destanie.”

               “I don’t know.”

               He stood. “What do you mean?”

               “I know we’re married.”

               “Where did we get married?”

               “I don’t know.”

               “What was our first apartment?”

               Her eyes widened. “I don’t know.”

               “My mother’s name?”

               “Stop.”

               “What was my mother’s name?”

               “Stop!!!”

               Outside, the rain froze. The refrigerator stopped humming. The flame beneath the soup became motionless. Destanie froze. The timer reached zero. Blue letters filled the room.

               NO RESTORATION POINT AVAILABLE

               Addison looked at the final tablet.

               CONTINUE?

               He swallowed it. The world vanished.

               Addison opened his eyes. Machines beeped. A nurse stood beside him. Destanie sat near the window. Morning light filtered through gray Washington rain. He gasped. Destanie jumped from the chair. “Oh my God.”

               Addison touched his abdomen. Fresh bandages. Pain. Real pain. “What happened?”

               “You scared us.”

               “How long?”

               Destanie glanced at the nurse. “Your blood pressure dropped.”

               “When?”

               “Last night.”

               Addison began laughing. Then crying. He could not stop either. The nurse checked his IV. “You’re okay.”

               Addison stared at Destanie. “Wedding.”

               “What?”

               “Where?”

               She looked bewildered. “Portland. Courthouse. You said spending $20,000 on a wedding was financial insanity.”

               Addison sobbed. “My mother.”

               “Linda.”

               “First apartment.”

               “Tacoma. Third floor. Broken heater.”

               He closed his eyes. Real. He had returned. The nurse lifted a medication cup. “Your pain is probably going to pick up. I have oxycodone for you.” Addison opened his eyes. One white tablet sat inside. Above it hovered blue text.

               CONTINUE?

               His breathing stopped. The nurse frowned. “Something wrong?”

               Addison looked toward the window. Rain moved normally. Destanie held his hand. Machines beeped. He looked back. A second line appeared.

               1 REMAINING

               “No.”

               The nurse lowered the cup. “You don’t want it?”

               “No.”

               “You’re sure?”

               Addison nodded. “I want to see what happens.”

               Destanie frowned. “What does that mean?”

               Addison stared at the tablet. “I want to know what happens when there aren’t any continues left.”

               The nurse exchanged a worried glance with Destanie. Addison did not care. He remained awake through afternoon. Then evening. Then night. Pain increased. Sweat came. His legs began to ache. Nausea returned. Human sensations. Painful. Miserable. Beautifully human.

               At 12:43am, the hospital became silent. Not quiet. Silent. The monitor froze. Destanie stopped breathing in the chair. Rain halted against the window. Addison stared into the dark glass. Blue letters appeared.

               SAVE DATA NOT FOUND

               Something moved beyond the window. Three slow knocks sounded against the glass. Addison stared. The room was on the fourth floor. Another knock. Then another. A shape emerged from the darkness. Tall. Thin. White shirt. Dark slacks. Clipboard tucked beneath one arm. No face. It raised one hand. The window opened. Cold Washington rain blew into the room. The figure extended its empty hand toward Addison. A final message appeared.

               NO CONTINUES REMAINING

               Addison looked at Destanie. Then at the figure. Then at the rain falling into a hospital room four stories above Aberdeen. He reached out. And somewhere beyond the last save point, a menu chimed.