And I am greeted by the whirr which greets me every dawn. Reluctantly, I widen my eyes to the fake room I sleep in: fake posters of product placements, fake gifts from fake strangers; none of it real. A sour taste floods my mouth as reality yet again greets me, the same reality that greets me every dawn. They start in the chat. I have been told They are my friends, They make my living, but I don’t know Them. Words I never say shout back at Them in a tone I never speak, They respond with primal joy. For once, I move away from the camera that greets me every dawn, and a shiver of freedom, which I have never before felt, makes me stop, but for no more than a second. They don’t care anyway. The camera follows me, and escape is futile.
Bored, I further interact with Them. The chat accelerates. Thousands of Them, likely more, all craving for the attention I provide. I never understand. Yet I have developed a lust for it, the sense of power it provides is like a drug to me. It reminds me of a zoo: They are animals in a world where I rule over them, I provide and they wait. It is this belief that keeps me going. Otherwise, I would be one of Them. The thought greets me every dawn.
Sometimes, They write messages begging me to help Them. It reassures me that, at any moment, I could change Their lives. I am Their last hope. I play with lives that for some are precious, and I salivate.
I look in the chat for these messages. I search almost frantically, desperate for the short spike it gives to my adrenaline. I notice a different message. ‘Are you for real?’. It made me stop, the same shiver of freedom which dawned on me before was back. The question seemed absurd, yet it drilled into my conscience. I felt real, yet I was trapped in a room with no exit, a camera following me and They were always watching. I yearn for a past I don’t remember, a life where even a raindrop would bless me with sensation. Again I look at the room around me- and the question rattles through my deteriorating conscience. Am I for real? I grope at the walls, begging for something to open, for real attention just like what They want. I tear down meaningless posters of fake products, smash fake gifts from fake strangers. The camera still whirrs. I look straight at the dazzling lens. The chat intensifies into blurs of fake messages. They watch in astonishment. I kick the camera down, smash the monitor where They cry and beg and laugh. Touch in my fingers regress as I collapse onto my dull carpet . The whirring of the camera fades away and,for the first time, I hear my heartbeat. My fake room slowly fades away. All that surrounds me is finally real.