Chapter 16: The Weight of Waking
Third Person – Narrative View
Morning light filtered in through the cheap blinds of Oliver's room, casting thin stripes across the dusty floor. The scent of something faintly burnt—probably toast—wafted in from the kitchen.
Oliver lay still, sprawled sideways on a futon mattress that had long since given up on support.
Empty chip bags crinkled under his arm. His phone was jammed beneath his back again.
The Minecraft victory from last night felt distant.
It always did the next day.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I killed the Ender Dragon.
Slayed the biggest thing in the game.
And now I can barely get out of bed.
The gravity's worse in the morning.
Or maybe it's not gravity—it's just me.
Almost 300 pounds now.
Everything feels like it's pushing down, even the air.
I hear Mom in the kitchen. She's making the same breakfast she always does.
Soft eggs. Overcooked toast. Quiet humming, like she's trying to hold the world together one meal at a time.
Dad's probably on the couch again.
He sleeps there more than the bed now.
They're both in their 60s, and somehow still have more structure in their lives than me.
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver eventually sat up, groaning under the effort. His hand instinctively reached for his phone—but he didn't unlock it.
Not yet.
He glanced toward the hallway, then toward the ceiling, half-hoping it would collapse just to give him something new to deal with.
His room looked the same as always:
A cracked mirror on the door.
A dusty Xbox on the shelf.
Piles of laundry that hadn't even tried to become a system anymore.
There was no job to go to.
No rent to pay—because there was no place to rent.
No goals, no schedule.
Just… this.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I'm still here.
Same house. Same room.
28 and nothing to show for it.
No apartment.
No job.
No income outside of the occasional "just checking in" twenty-dollar bill from some uncle I haven't seen in five years.
Is this it?
Some days I think I'm waiting.
Waiting for something to change.
But change doesn't show up at your door.
Not unless it's bills.
Third Person – Narrative View
His mother shuffled gently in the kitchen, humming a tune Oliver didn't recognize. His father, halfway under a faded blanket, snored softly from the living room couch.
The house was quiet.
Not peaceful—just silent in a tired, stretched-thin kind of way.
Oliver stood up slowly. His knees popped. He took a breath.
There was no Ender Dragon today.
No enchanted sword.
Just gravity, hunger, and the smell of burnt toast.
And still, somehow, the day began.
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Chapter 17: The Paradox
First Person – Oliver Reed
I don't know what I want.
Not really.
I mean—I know I can't live here forever.
I know I can't just rot in my childhood bedroom playing Minecraft and microwaving the same damn Hot Pockets.
But…
The thought of getting a job?
Waking up early, squeezing into old khakis, slapping on a fake smile just to stand behind a register or answer emails that don't matter?
That sounds like death too.
It's a trap either way.
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver sat at the edge of his bed. The floor creaked beneath his weight, but he didn't move. He just stared at the far corner of the room—where a stack of unopened mail was starting to lean like a broken tower.
The house was quiet again.
Not peaceful. Just... empty.
First Person – Oliver Reed
It's like some kind of paradox.
No job? I feel useless.
Get a job? I feel like a prisoner.
Try to care about a future? I feel like I'm lying to myself.
Try to forget about the future? I feel like I'm wasting what little time I have.
Unemployment = depression.
Having a job = depression.
Trying = depression.
Not trying = depression.
No matter what path I think about taking, it just loops right back to the same pit.
And I'm tired. So damn tired.
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands dangling. He wasn't crying. He wasn't angry.
He was just... blank.
That heavy, numb kind of blank that wraps around you like fog, convincing you nothing matters and nothing ever will.
Outside, the sun was shining over Florida's humid streets.
Inside, Oliver sat in a quiet standoff—with himself.
With a world that said "just do something,"
and a soul that whispered, why bother?
There were no answers that morning.
No plans.
No spark.
Just the weight of a paradox
and a man trying to breathe through it.
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Chapter 18: Static and Signals
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver lay on his back, half-buried under a thin blanket that smelled faintly of sweat and cheap detergent. The blinds were crooked, letting narrow slits of sunlight stripe across his face. He didn't move. His body felt like lead. His phone, propped up awkwardly on his chest, continued to blast noise into the room.
TikTok.
Swipe.
"🚨Something BIG is going to happen in July! Are you ready? Watch this!!!🚨"
Swipe.
"Was there an explosion near Washington D.C.? Why aren't the news channels covering it?"
Swipe.
"BREAKING: Trump just imposed a 32% tariff on Canadian goods after Canada passed a bill increasing costs for U.S. tech companies. Things are HEATING UP."
Oliver didn't react. He barely blinked.
First Person – Oliver Reed
It's like the world's on fire.
Or at least pretending to be.
Every time I open this app, there's some new emergency.
Some "leak," some "source," some blurry footage of smoke, followed by someone's dead-eyed stare and a voice saying, "Stay safe out there, guys."
What does that even mean anymore?
I'm already inside.
I don't go anywhere.
I don't even leave the damn house. Am I not already "safe"?
Safe and completely hollow.
Third Person – Narrative View
The screen glowed, the battery dipped below 20%. Notifications stacked in the corner—none of them important. The only message Oliver had was from a food app reminding him he hadn't ordered in a while.
He stared at the ceiling.
A crack in the drywall looked like a jagged little river. He focused on it, trying to pretend it led somewhere.
The world was in turmoil.
Governments fighting.
Economies shifting.
People online screaming into the void, and others clapping back harder.
But in this room?
It was just him.
Unemployed.
Unshowered.
Unmoved.
First Person – Oliver Reed
Everyone online thinks something huge is coming.
A war. A collapse. A total reset.
And part of me?
Part of me hopes they're right.
Not because I want destruction or chaos or the end of everything.
But because maybe… then something would finally make sense.
Or matter.
Right now?
Nothing does.
Third Person – Narrative View
Outside, Florida's brutal July heat simmered against the windows. The fan in the corner rotated with a dull hum, pushing around warm air that felt stale by the time it reached him.
Another TikTok loaded.
"Wake up, people. Things are changing fast."
Oliver closed the app.
Not because he disagreed.
But because he was too tired to care.
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Chapter 19: RESET
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver sat hunched in his desk chair, the faint glow of the monitor lighting up his tired face in the dim room. His belly pressed slightly into the desk, half a bag of gummy worms lay open beside the keyboard. The hum of his aging PC fan filled the silence.
On screen: Undertale.
Neutral route.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I don't know why I started playing this again.
Maybe nostalgia.
Maybe boredom.
Maybe I just wanted to feel something.
It's weird.
This game—so simple-looking, all pixel art and goofy fonts—but it knows how to mess with you. It knows.
I got to the point where the characters started acting like they remembered me.
Like they knew I'd played before.
Judging me for the choices I made.
Or didn't make.
I didn't even go full Genocide.
Just played it straight. Made mistakes. Killed a few monsters I didn't mean to. Tried to spare some.
Tried to care.
But somewhere in Hotland…
I stopped.
Third Person – Narrative View
The screen sat still on the SAVE point.
Oliver's hand hovered over the keyboard, fingers limp.
He hadn't moved in minutes.
The music played softly—haunting but catchy, like most of Undertale's soundtrack.
It didn't hype you up.
It asked you to feel.
And that was the problem.
Oliver couldn't finish it.
Not because it was hard. Not because he didn't know how.
He just didn't want to go forward anymore.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I know how it ends.
You save the world, or you destroy it, or you do something in between and pretend that counts as closure.
But in real life?
There's no save point.
No reset button.
No Flowey popping up to remind me I can try again.
If I quit now… nothing changes.
If I finish the game… nothing changes.
It's not like Sans is going to high-five me for figuring it out.
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver pressed ESC.
The game paused.
Then he clicked QUIT.
The screen faded to black, and he was left with his desktop wallpaper—a picture of a foggy mountain he'd saved years ago, back when he thought hiking might be his thing.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence settle.
Another unfinished game.
Another paused storyline.
Undertale's message of mercy, friendship, and hope…
It couldn't reach him today.
Not through the noise.
Not through the weight.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I'll try again some other time.
Maybe.
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Chapter 20: Randy Rogers Arrives
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver was half-asleep again, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling when he heard it—his mom's voice cutting through the air like a school bell.
"Oliver! Come downstairs!"
He groaned.
Blanket tangled around one leg, his back sticking slightly to the futon from the humid air. He didn't want to move.
"Oliver, now! It's about a job!"
That got his attention—but not the way she probably hoped.
First Person – Oliver Reed
A job?
No.
No, no, no.
This can't be good.
I dragged myself up, gravity doing its usual thing—like my bones were made of lead. I stomped down the stairs slowly, each one creaking under me. Halfway down, I could already hear voices.
Then I saw him.
Randy Rogers.
My cousin.
Buzz cut, tight polo shirt, confident handshake guy.
Looked like he just stepped off a LinkedIn motivational video.
Of course he was here.
Dialogue – Living Room
Mom: "There he is! Look who came to see you."
Randy: "Ollie! Man, you've gotten… taller. Or wider. Eh—life, right?" (laughs loudly)
"Anyway, your mom told me you've been having a rough time lately. I figured I'd come help. Got a few connections—places hiring."
Oliver: (monotone) "Cool."
Randy: "Come on, man. Let's shake off the rust! We'll polish that résumé, maybe trim up the beard, maybe lose... I mean, change a few things." (smiles awkwardly)
"Think of me like your personal job coach."
Oliver (internally):
No thanks.
I'd rather be hit by a Wither Skeleton again.
Mom: "Oliver, be polite. Randy's taking time out of his day to help you."
Randy: "Exactly! We're family, bro. And I've already set up a meeting with a friend at a logistics company downtown. You don't even need a degree—just need to show up looking alive."
Oliver: "What kind of job?"
Randy: "Warehouse entry-level. Temp-to-hire. Basic inventory and scanning. You just need to not fall asleep on the floor."
Oliver (internally):
Sounds like hell.
But... I don't exactly have better options.
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver nodded slowly. Not in agreement—more like surrender.
The room felt smaller with Randy in it. Like the air was trying to push him toward the front door and out into the real world.
He hated it.
But he hated being stuck even more.
So he said the only thing he could say:
Oliver: "Yeah… sure. I'll go."
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Chapter 21: The Shower
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver stood in the bathroom, staring at the mirror.
His reflection stared back—unkempt brown hair pushed to the side, half a beard growing uneven, and bags under his eyes heavy enough to carry his whole week. The cheap yellow light above flickered once, like even the ceiling was unsure about this.
He sighed and peeled off his red T-shirt, then the beige pants, both crumpled and sagging from days of wear. His stomach pushed out over the waistband—skin pale, stretched, soft from inactivity.
First Person – Oliver Reed
This is always the hardest part.
Not the job stuff. Not the awkward family pep talks.
Just… this.
Getting ready.
Peeling myself off the floor of my own habits.
The mirror doesn't lie.
It doesn't flatter.
It just shows.
I've let myself go. But I already knew that.
I step into the tub.
Turn the water on.
And there it is—the blast of cold. Pipes too old to warm up fast enough.
I flinch. Every time.
Eventually it turns warm.
Third Person – Narrative View
Water rolled down Oliver's body in heavy streams, pooling around his feet before gurgling down the drain. He stood motionless at first, letting the warmth loosen the pressure in his joints.
The soap barely foamed in his hand—like even it wasn't sure how to clean off the fog building inside him.
He scrubbed slowly.
Neck.
Arms.
Stomach.
Feet.
Each motion a little harder than it should be. Not because of pain—but because of weight.
Not just physical.
First Person – Oliver Reed
Why does a shower feel like a whole day's effort?
I don't know if I'm cleaning myself or just trying to rinse off all this numbness.
But here I am.
Water.
Soap.
Silence.
And maybe, just maybe, if I can do this—
I can walk into that interview.
Even if I don't believe in the future right now…
Maybe I can fake it long enough for someone else to.
-------
Chapter 22: The Drive
Third Person – Narrative View
The sun was already burning down by mid-morning, making the Florida pavement shimmer like a mirage. Oliver tugged at the collar of a polo shirt that hadn't seen daylight in months. It felt tight around his chest—either it shrunk in the wash, or he'd just grown past it.
Randy's car—a spotless white SUV with a tacky American flag bumper sticker and a pine-scented air freshener—waited in the driveway.
Oliver climbed in, the passenger seat creaking slightly under his weight. The AC was blasting. Randy wore aviator sunglasses and a clean, confident grin.
Randy: "Alright, champ. Let's get that job."
Oliver said nothing. Just buckled in, staring straight ahead.
The engine purred and the car rolled out of the driveway, Florida's suburban sprawl passing by in long, beige blurs.
---
First Person – Oliver Reed
I hate how cheerful he is.
Like he's on some TV show where hard work always pays off and everyone claps at the end.
Meanwhile I'm sitting here in a shirt that smells faintly like storage, sweating through deodorant I forgot to reapply.
Randy: "So the place we're going—R&J Logistics. Basic warehouse stuff. But it's solid. Pay's okay, they do benefits after six months. You just gotta show up, man."
Oliver: (murmuring) "Yeah."
Randy: "You got your résumé printed?"
Oliver: "Yeah. Mom printed it."
Randy: (chuckling) "Hey, whatever works. Just don't tell them your only experience lately is Minecraft cave exploring."
Oliver (internally):
He thinks he's funny.
He thinks this is all just a phase I'll snap out of.
---
Third Person – Narrative View
They passed a strip mall. A few empty storefronts. A Chick-fil-A. A payday loan place.
Oliver looked out the window, face blank.
Randy: "You nervous?"
Oliver: (softly) "I don't know what I am."
The silence returned. Even the radio was off.
---
First Person – Oliver Reed
I don't even know if I want this job.
I don't know if I want any job.
But I'm still in this car.
Still pretending I'm going somewhere.
Maybe that's something.
Maybe it's not.
---------
Chapter 23: On Hold
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver had never expected the interview to go well. But it did.
The manager at R&J Logistics, a stocky, balding guy named Mr. Harris, seemed impressed—if not by Oliver's résumé, then at least by his punctuality and his quiet, polite demeanor.
"You seem like a solid guy, Oliver," Harris had said, glancing at the résumé without much care. "We've been hiring like crazy. Burnout's real in this line of work, y'know?"
Oliver just nodded.
He didn't even fake a smile. He didn't have to. Mr. Harris seemed to like the quiet types.
"We'll be in touch," Harris said, shaking his hand. "Orientation's pretty straightforward. Safety stuff, barcode scanning, basic lifting. Nothing crazy. Might take a day or two to get things lined up."
Oliver walked out of the warehouse office thinking, Maybe this is happening. Maybe I got lucky for once.
---
The Next Day
First Person – Oliver Reed
Randy dropped me off again.
He was playing some obnoxious podcast about self-improvement. I tuned it out. I was already imagining the uniform. The break room. Clocking in.
Maybe I'd just work here for a year. Save money. Get out of the house. Live small. Be anonymous.
I stepped inside.
Harris wasn't there—but a younger assistant manager was. She looked up from her tablet, smiled awkwardly.
Assistant Manager: "Oh, hey. Uh, Oliver Reed?"
Me: "Yeah."
Her: "So… actually, we've had more guys show up than expected. There was kind of a rush. A few referrals came in all at once yesterday."
Me: "...So?"
Her: (hesitant) "Well… we're technically full right now. But Harris said he wants to keep you on standby. Like, next in line. We usually have turnover within a week or two. Warehouse work, people come and go."
I just stood there. Staring.
Her: "Sorry. You weren't forgotten or anything, it's just... weird timing."
---
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver turned around and walked out the door.
The Florida sun hit his face like a slap. It was hotter than yesterday. Or maybe it just felt that way.
Randy hadn't even driven away yet—he sat in the car with the AC on, sunglasses up on his forehead, sipping from a large gas station soda.
Oliver climbed in without a word.
Randy: "That was quick. What happened?"
Oliver: (flatly) "Too many people showed up. I have to wait until someone quits."
Randy: "Huh. Well… that's something, right? They didn't reject you."
Oliver didn't respond. He just stared out the window as Randy put the car in drive and pulled away from the warehouse.
---
First Person – Oliver Reed
Of course.
Of course this happened.
Almost felt like the universe gave me a little sip of hope—then snatched the glass away before I could finish.
"Wait your turn," it said.
Just like always.