Chapter 1[]
All things considered, I’ve come to recognize that the nature of objectivity has to be a relative concept in the eye of the beholder. I would imagine this to be a paradoxical observation, yes, but given my present condition, it can’t be entirely outside of the question to maintain such a thing. Solipsistic of me, maybe. But trying to look beyond the walls of my own reasoning these days, I can only see the fog of confusion and doubt where before, there was plain normality. Imagine that. Imagine yourself devoid of self trust as your own instincts betray constantly. Imagine being cut off from the world of information due to the endless illusions of your own mind.
And yet, I know he’s real, and that somewhere out there he is in that room, targeting me. Only me. I can’t prove it, but I know it’s true. Jennifer isn’t real, and yet I saw her die. I watched it happen in those videos. I’ve seen the pictures. Her torn Achilles’ heel and that unnerving amount of blood that seeped out of the wound. I saw the pictures, trophies and mementos of the crime. I saw her once pretty face, now beaten to raw burger by my own bruised fist in that low quality image with the horrible lighting. There are over a hundred of these photos, and dozens of videos to complement them. Every time I delete them, they come back. In my phone, on my computer’s hard drives, they just mysteriously reappear.
Naturally, it was enough to conclude that this was the work of a psychotic stalker, one of those "special" types. Somebody with way too much skill with Photoshop and Final Cut and a plethora of time on their hands along with a horrible demeanor, or sense of humor, or perhaps both. This would be a comfortable alternative, which is certainly saying a lot. I know. But then there came the dreams. The trances. That was when it really ate away at me. My constitution collapsed, everything became blurry. The barriers of my logic driven paradigm just faded away in face of this cognitive storm. Whoever or whatever was behind the Duality App, they were winning.
Every time I close my eyes, these dreams, lucid and yet staged against my will by Benson, haunts me like a guilty memory. I see her cat and the kitchen knife embedded in its skull. I see images of the broken window with the glass and blood all over the floor. I see those knife wounds on her, sadistically afflicted with surgical accuracy. The video plays itself over and over again with the clarity of a high definition TV show when I sleep. It insists that it was me, and yet the only active memory I have of any of it, exists in the data. Nobody believes me. But then, why should they? Benson is anything, if not selective. And it covers its tracks well. How it managed to make the jump from digital to psychological, I don’t know. If it is a stalker, these manipulative tactics transcend any form of sociopathy that I’ve ever read about.
It’s been going on for months now, ever since I lost to my own curiosity and downloaded that app. Suffice it to say, the program’s implications were extremely enticing to say at the very least. It boasted of innovation and cutting edge “smart” technology to do what has never been done before. I’ve always been drawn to shit like that. In idle curiosity, the unassuming act of installing it onto my phone placed me directly into his crosshairs. Sadly, I can’t exactly pinpoint what specific event began the whole ordeal, or what specifically was the initial move on Benson’s behalf. I can only say that it began like a trickle. Small forgettable things like odd glitches and messages from random people asking about other people I’ve never heard of. I should have been smart enough to piece it together.
So there I was, in my truck waiting for the that day’s route to be loaded in. There was a snowstorm in Memphis, and that delayed us. So like every American in the 21st century, I battled the downtime boredom by playing with my phone. Sitting there, idly drifting through my Facebook account, seeing with empty apathetic eyes, the meaningless chatter of people I used to know, talking about their babies, talking about their jobs, whatever was on their mind. Between every three updates, there was always an advertisement. Usually, it involved satirical websites or random cellphone games that people loved more than they should have. On that day, every advertisement was replaced with one particular application. The Benson Duality App. In so many different ways, the same program made itself known to me. There were videos, images, personal testaments of the time they had with it. When I left the facebook, I checked my emails. How annoyed I was to see that the same program was being advertised there as well? Everywhere I went, the program was being made known to me. They really wanted to push this on me, what with this smart technology, using your “Cloud Data history” to build advertisement profiles or whatever. They insisted that me and this program were a match made in heaven.
So I took the bait.
At first, the idea sounded really cool, in a mildly off putting way. The Benson Duality App created a speculative clone of the users personality based on their metadata and ran a simulation of it in fictional scenarios for the users own amusement. The idea sounded absurd to me. Have we as a species really come this far that we can actually habitualize something like this into mainstream as just another distraction? I read the reviews.
“There’s something oddly satisfying about watching myself run a trucking company. This app is really cool. I didn’t think it would work nearly as well as it did. I would definitely recommend this” Lewis O’Reilly
“I always wondered how I would do in ancient medieval times. The way this game matches your profile is staggering. Very innovative. I can’t wait to see where they take it next. 10/10!” Jonathan Jacob
“I showed this to my grandmother and she couldn’t believe it. She said it was like a science fiction book, and she’s right! This program is so cool! How they do this, I have no idea. They use Smart Technology to simulate your entire personality. I thought they would get it wrong, since I consider myself a complicated person. This game though. It really is as good as they say! I would recommend this to anyone. If you’re not sure you like something, try sending the fake you into it to see how it does. I avoided a lot of mistakes that way! Lol. Best part is that it’s free!!!!” Samantha Wilson.
They went on like that. Not a single one of them naysayed the product. I have to admit, it did sound very cool. I read a few more, building up my momentum to download it until finally I came upon one review that stood out. In hindsight, this should have been the deal breaker. I should have taken one look at this so called “review” and dropped the whole issue there and then. I didn’t. I didn’t...
“I was lost in the noise. Dumbfounded by the false light. Locked away by the lies of false profits. I am cured now. I know this, for I am home. Benson. Is. God.” Rqwegcxzui3241ndsaf
Benson is god? Well okay, so the program was good according to their consumers, but surely it couldn’t have been THAT good right? I disregarded that as an over enthusiastic idiot or a troll and downloaded it. It was remarkably easy since it downloaded and installed in less than thirty seconds. Brushing past the terms and agreement, I clicked “agreed” and gave the program permission to access my phone’s location. When the program started, it was just a green screen with a circular button that said “Press here to start”
I pressed it. I was greeted with a loading screen. Then a message popped up.
“I will do the rest”
Then my phone crashed. When I rebooted it, I saw that there were no traces of the app on my phone at all. Before I could mess around further and try to get the thing to function again, work kicked up and I just let the whole issue go. It wasn’t really worth my time.
Later that day, I started to receive text messages by people called I’ve never met before. They were telling me things that felt oddly casual. I can’t remember any of them, but for the most part, I told them every time that I wasn’t who they thought I was and that they’ve got the wrong number. They kept asking for someone named Frank. Maybe me and this Frank had identical numbers save for one digit. By the end of that day, I had received seven of these messages, and three out of them, my phone would freeze when I sent a reply. By the end of the week, I just stopped bothering. I had received three hundred of them.
So a month later I receive a Facebook request from somebody named Jennifer. She didn’t have a last name, just Jennifer. I didn’t know anyone by that name, but she was really cute, so I accepted it. I didn’t pay it any mind at all until a couple of days later when she started sending me messages.
I was on break from my route and was eating lunch in the parking lot of a McDonalds when my phone vibrated. She communicated with me as if she knew me for a long time. “Babe”, it said, “We have to talk about your brother. He’s being creepy again”. I don’t have a brother. I knew she thought I was somebody else so I told her she has the wrong person. That’s when she said my name. My full name. This isn’t out of the question, since I have a relatively common name which leant credence to the misconception. I explained that to her. That was when she started naming off personal details of my life that people really shouldn’t have known about as they were mundane and trivial. The kind of stuff that is rarely worth mentioning to anyone, like how my sink was leaking which was a problem I had only discovered that very morning, and how I needed to pick up more toothpaste as I ran out last night.
Then I noticed that her picture was different. She was in my apartment, I recognized the sofa in the background, and worse yet, I recognized the cat she was holding. It was mine. Oh shit. This lady was a psycho. She had to have been some kind of stalker, but then I saw something even more bone chilling in the background. On that sofa behind her, on my sofa, I saw myself. I was slouched over, my foot on the cheap ottoman, watching TV.
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?” I angrily typed in caps, almost cracking my screen.
“Dude, it’s me. Your girlfriend. Jeny.”
Nope. Nope. Nope. Not into this kind of shit. Was it photoshop? Was this lady crazy? I didn’t consider myself even remotely interested enough to attract this kind of a stalker, but then again, the internet is a weird place. I told her to stay the hell away from me and never contact me again. Thankfully, she didn’t reply. Although the indicator on the side of my screen informed me that she was still online. Her profile page was even more off putting. It was filled with pictures of me and her, and updates that involved spending time with me. She had this front to her that implied that we lived together and have been happily together for year and a half. The worst part had to be the fact that there were people that I knew who were commenting on her shared photos of me. Then I noticed that I was commenting on it. I was saying things that I’ve never said before, phrasing them in ways that I knew I would.
Then I remembered the App. I thought it had broke. There were no signs of it anywhere on my phone, but I knew that this was it at work. That whole personality simulator thing, It was painting my life in a fictional light. Once I realized this, I immediately felt the tension in my chest dismiss itself. This wasn’t a stalker, just some cute program doing its thing.
When I came home that day, I immediately tried to shut it off and delete it. The app was nowhere to be found though. There were no traces of it anywhere. I booted up my computer and tried to search for information about Benson, but was frustrated to find out that there was absolutely no information about it anywhere online. You would think that for a program that flooded my entire internet access, there would be a website or a forum or some form of discussion about it. But there was nothing, no information whatsoever. When I searched for it, I just received information regarding math algorithms and stuff about law and order. How the hell could this program be so hard to find? I even went to my emails and traced back to when they sent me all those ads and information. They were gone. Did I delete them?
How was I supposed to get rid of this thing? I went online and asked about it on Facebook. Jennifer was the first to comment, claiming she never heard of it. That’s bullshit. She WAS it. At this point in time, I was using it on my computer, not my phone. This was frustrating because the app was supposed to be confined specifically to my phone, and yet somehow here it was on my page outside of it. Had this thing actually spread into the account? Could it really do that?
I replied to Jennifer in as formal a way as I could. I didn’t know what else to do, and this really was the last option that I could think of. I appealed to her programmers, hoping they would recognize it and call the Benson program off. I told them to unsubscribe me, as it was becoming intrusive on my life and starting to obscure my social life. My hope was that the response would be a direct and complacent one. Instead, the response was a direct message from Jennifer about a minute later.
I’m going to attempt to manuscript it, but its subject to inaccuracy as I’m doing it from memory:
Jennifer: Babe, are you feeling all right?
Me: Okay, the fun is over. I need this to stop immediately. I know this is the Duality App. Tell me how to deactivate please.
Jennifer: Lol, what are you talking about?
Me: You know what I’m talking about. Get off my account!
Jennifer: Um…okay?
Me: What’s your name.
Jennifer: Jennifer? What is wrong with you? Are you ok?
Me: You’re not real. I don’t know anyone named Jennifer. I downloaded the Benson Duality App awhile ago through my phone. Since then, you’ve been invading my privacy and messing with my Facebook account and I don’t appreciate it. How do I get in contact with somebody?
Jennifer: What is wrong with you?
Me: Look seriously, cut the crap! I‘m tired of this and I don’t want it anymore. Got it? Deactivate this thing.
Jennifer: Look, I know you’re stressing out. I’m in Chicago, so I can’t really talk to you for long. Do you want me to call you?
It offered to call me. That stopped my frustration in its tracks. This thing, this program that somehow doctored images from my life with startling detail was offering to call me. I was afraid that if I said yes, it would actually call me, and that I would be talking to this Jennifer and it would know me intimately. It freaked me right out. But despite the creepiness of it, my curiosity was stronger. If this was a bluff, I was determined to call it.
Me: Yes.
There was a pause. Then the subtext beneath my message notified as read. Two seconds afterwards, my phone vibrated on my desk. It startled me. When I picked it up, I was expecting to see an unknown number from out of state. What I saw instead was downright fucked. It was a picture of Jennifer. Pretty, smiling, and holding my cat. It was labeled: Jeny.
I picked the phone up with a shaking hand. Reluctantly I pressed “receive call” and said nothing. I listened closely, looking for something like breathing, or anticipating a girls voice asking how I was with genuine concern. But there was nothing. There was nothing for all of ten seconds. Finally the eeriness of the situation was more than I could stand. I had to break this silence. “Uh, hi?”
My voice through their speaker had to have triggered some kind of feedback because my phone immediately flooded with that unbearable high pitched squealing noise. Like when you hold your microphone too close to your speakers. I could hear things falling over on the other end of the line, even with the feedback blaring over it all. They sounded like cans. When the noise stopped, the record started. I could tell it was a record by the scratching frrruuump boomp sound which preludes the hissing and popping noise that was ever present throughout their playbacks. Some people say this is charming, I, personally, would go so far as to say it’s annoying, but in this case, I found it downright creepy. What business did it have in this phone call?
It was somewhat clear from the ambiance that someone was on the other end of the line. I could hear the noise of the room, and I could hear movement, footsteps. I heard what sounded like a rickety chair creek out as someone large sat down on it. Somebody was there. Ignoring the noise, I started to yell. “Listen to me you! I’ve had enough of this. Put someone on, I want this to stop now! Using pictures of me? Who the does that!?”
“Hello?” a young girls voice said. At this point I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew it didn’t sound right. As if it were distorted, warped, but with just the right level of subtlety to leave you wondering if it was your own imagination.
“I want to talk to someone in charge. Who is this?”
“Hello?” the voice said again, a direct clone of the last hello she said.
“Are you with the Benson App?”
“Hello?” Was this just a recording?
“You people are impossible!”
“Hello?”
Every time she said hello, it sounded exactly the same as the last. As if it were a solitary sound clip being repeatedly played off of a soundboard.
“Can you hear me? Am I getting through?”
There was a long pause. The popping, the hissing, the white noise of the record player continued to carry on as the unseen record continued to spin. I couldn’t say exactly when I noticed it, but I could hear a new level of strangeness to compliment what I was already hearing. It was quiet, barely audible. It sounded like radio chatter. When I did hear it, I listened for it intensely, trying to make it out through the faint hissing and popping. It sounded a broadcasted a radio conversation, audible only through human sounding tones. For the briefest moment, again, with that quiet subtlety so easily distinguishable as my own imagination, I heard my name mentioned, or at least I thought I did. I couldn’t tell, because it was so damn quiet. I didn’t know why, but it sent chills down my spine. There was something just so peculiar about this ambience I was hearing through my phone. And then like a switch, that record player noise became unbearably loud then-
“HELLO?”
Same sound clip, Somebody had turned the volume to full capacity. I almost dropped the phone when it broke out. That earlier suspicion I had about it being a warped sound clip became confirmed. This voice was coming out of the record player. But why?
“Is this a prank? Is somebody putting you up to this?”
“Hell-”
Boop Boop Boop
The call disconnects. In that last attempt at saying “Hello” her voice began to slow down before getting cut off, like the record was being turned off.
My computer speakers make a popping sound.
Another message pops up in me and Jennifer’s chat log.
Jennifer: why aren’t you answering the phone?
Me: I did answer, Why won’t you people answer me? I want you to stop this. Take me off your list! Unsub me! Unregister me. Whatever it is you idiots are doing. Get me off your program!, I (name removed) formally decline further service from the Benson Duality App. How’s that? Is that clear enough for you?
Jennifer: ok. I’m done with this. Get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.
She immediately signs off. I was at a loss. My entire news feed was loaded with fiction. Even the news events were fake. The dates were inconsistent, the times were either in the future or years ago. I read it all in disbelief. So this was Benson huh? The innovative phone program. I looked up the program again on a search engine only to come up short again. No sign of the Benson Ap anywhere. What I did notice however was a drastic shift in my search history when I typed in the keywords. You know how some search engines pop up things you typed in the past when you enter certain letters? Well this one did. When I typed the “T” in “the” a sudden list of T words emerged in the searching bar. Simple words, but their connotations were startling.
Trachea
Trachea anatomies
Torture tactics
Throat
I didn’t search for these. This was the kind of shit that puts you on government watch lists under suspicion of being a serial killer. I forgot what I was doing and instead searched “What to do when my search history shows things I never searched for,” the first and most common piece of advice I got from various sites were to change passwords to all of your accounts, to your computer itself in the event that somebody is breaking into your house.
That was an obvious answer. Change the passwords. I did that. And it worked. Everything disappeared. There was definitely a great sense of relief in seeing my rather bland facebook page going back to normal. No signs of fake Jennifer anywhere. I couldn’t even pull up the log. It was gone. Benson was gone.
But there was that phone-call. I looked it up on my phone and saw that where the call from Jennifer was, there was now just a default image for an unknown caller. I called the number again and was relieved to be answered by a recording that informed me that the number I was dialing isn’t in service. I don’t care how any of it happened. I was just glad it was gone.
Chapter 2[]
Two months later.
So I’m driving home and I get a phone call. At this point, nothing regarding that app was on my mind, so when I heard what the call had in store for me, it fucks with me to the point that I almost crash my car over it.
The call is labeled as a “Blocked” caller. Reluctantly I answer. What I hear is madness. I answer, “Yeah?”
The response is completely nuts. At first I hear distorted radio chatter, but then the sound of a woman Screaming. It’s fading in and out of the fray. Her cries were absolutely blood curdling, the pain in her made me forget what I was doing. It slowed down, getting lower and lower pitched until it stops completely. Then it started back up again and so did the screaming, slow at first, building into normal speed. Then it dissolved into what I could vaguely identify as the hissing and popping of a record player. And I hear it again:
“Hello?” It was the same sound clip as last time, warped and distorted, with an old timey feel to it. Her voice sounded innocent enough, but that quality. It was absolutely identical to that night. It drove chills down my spine.
I am so messed out by this that I didn’t realize I was about to crash into the pickup truck in front of me. Throwing the phone aside, I slam the breaks and just barely avoid catastrophe. Being so thrilled by the fact that I didn‘t total my car, I forget that the phone call is happening. When I check later, I find that the call disconnected shortly I threw it aside. That was on a Friday night.
Next time I check my phone is Saturday night. When I did, I saw that my Facebook account was extremely active. There were notifications, almost a hundred of them. The trending consensus implied that Jennifer had died. She had been murdered. My newsfeed was completely lit up with messages of condolences from my friends and family. People were saying that they were going to be there for me if I needed anything. Even her own “family” members were messaging me, telling me things like “even though you two never got married, you’re still like a son t us. Let us know if you need anything,”
The Benson app was back. It reactivated itself on its own. The nature of this issue should have enraged me, but instead it simply made me feel cold inside. I already had reasons to believe that this program or whatever, wasn’t as innocent as it initially led me to believe. Then I saw the chat log. I could see that there was a conversation between me and Jennifer which took place just last night. The context was startling, to say the very least.
The manuscript is from memory. Sorry if it doesn’t seem accurate.
Me: I can see you.
Attached to this, I, as in ‘fake me’ posted a picture of her in the window of some house I’ve never seen before. She was looking out of it with a look of unadulterated terror. She’s holding a knife.
Jennifer: Are you nuts? I told you to leave me alone!!!! I’m calling the police!
Me: We talked about this Jeny, they can’t save you. I’m coming.
Jennifer: GO AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Oh my darling fiancée. Can’t you see, this is just as God intended it.
The next message in the thread is a picture of her front door. The frame was torn apart, as if the door had been broken down. Ahead of the threshold, there was a staircase.
Me: Oh Jennifer, I can smell turkey. Were you cooking a big dinner? Hey, remember when we first met? I asked the school chefs for a turkey melt and they made me a Tuna Fish sub instead? I was so angry, I asked them how stupid they could be to screw that up? You didn’t know me very well, but I sure as hell knew you. I’ve been crushing hard on you the whole semester and you couldn’t even remember my name. You were standing right behind me in line and so I acted twice as angry because for some reason I thought it would impress you. You saw right through that, because you already had some idea of who I was, given that group project about Edgar Allen Poe, don‘t you remember? You called me out for ‘showing off‘ That day you sat with me in the cafeteria. That was the first time we actually got to know each other. In that cafeteria, where I reluctantly ate the Tuna sub. God it was gross, and you laughed every time I got grossed out by the smell. It was in the laugh. I knew there and then that this moment was inevitable. Here we are. The ecstasy of it, Jeny, It’s invigorating. Can you feel it? God is coming into my body, I am one with god!”
The next message I sent her was another photo with a comment attached. It was a picture of a dead cat. My cat. He was lying in a pool of his own blood. Jutting out of his head, a steak knife. The left side of the photo was an idle hand that was red with his blood. I recognized it as my own hand. I could tell by my own chewed fingernails.
Me: Oh poor butters. Look what you made me do. He wasn’t supposed to be a part of this. God doesn’t care for animals. This was supposed to be just you and me. Our big special night. It’s okay though, I forgive ya! ;)
The sight of my own dead cat made me drop the phone. I ran out of my room and into my kitchen. He was on the counter, his two front paws in the sink drinking water from a bowl I rinsed earlier. The relief of that. He wasn’t dead at all. But that picture. This was horrible! How could the app be so brutal? But then, it had only been obnoxiously intrusive since the day I got it, so what the hell was I expecting? When I petted him on his head he jolted up and shot me a surprised look. I usually chastise him for eating or drinking stuff out of the sink. “I’m glad you’re not dead buddy,” I said to him in a shaky voice, and went back to my phone to take in the rest of the horror.
The next picture comment in the message thread was of her door. There was a construction paper cutout of a heart thumb tacked to it. Written in a sharpie across it was innocently scrawled: “Jenys room” My blood covered knife was lodged in the center of it. There was a streak of ‘Fake Dead Butters’ blood dripping down the side of it. The comment attached to the upload…
Me: It is everything in me right now, not to cry. I can’t say that lightly. Only you can do this for me.
At this point my hands were shaking. This was downright evil. I immediately exited out of it and pulled up my image library to see if those photographs were there. They were. Worse yet, there were far more than I had sent to her. There were images of my foot on each step of the stair case leading up to her floor. There were fourteen of them all together. Each one the same picture of my feet on the stairs. Left foot on stair one, then right on stair two, then left again on the third step. And those were my shoes. The wear and tear of them were identical to my own. I immediately flicked them off my feet. It’s hard to explain, they just felt tainted.
That wasn’t even the worst of all the details. There was a video on my phone. One that wasn’t incorporated into the log. The thumbnail of the video was indistinguishable. It was six and a half minutes long. I watched it. Worst. Decision. Ever.
The first ten seconds reveals a lowfi POV shot of me kicking down her door. Each kick sends desperate screams on the other side of the door. I recognized that voice immediately as the scream I heard on the phone call on my drive home from work. On the third kick, my own voice comes out in the audio. “Awe come on babe,” I, no It, spoke with such a casual tone, like there was nothing wrong at all. This was far more chilling than if I were saying something more akin to an axe murderer. Something like ‘open the door I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!’ The casualness of it was darker than dark. And that was my voice. I know my voice, and that was it. Verbatim, my voice! And hearing myself as a sociopathic murderer made me wonder whether or not this actually happened. Was I really capable of this?
“Babe, the doors getting looser. One more kick ought to do it.” It kicks the door open, ripping the thing right off its own hinges and sending it into the wall. The monster pushes the camera phone into the room and looks around, and I see her in her halfway through her own window, trying to escape. The view gets fast and blurry. The Phone’s camera can’t keep up with how fast its moving. Her screams get louder to the point where it clips the audio. I hear punching. She gasps, like she got the wind completely knocked out of her. No longer screaming, she’s now just moaning and struggling for breath. When I hear her try to scream, my hands go from shaking to downright rattling. A knot formed in my throat and my stomach turns cold. The feed dissolves into blurry chaos again as her pathetic cries accompany the sound of dragging. She begins to beg for her life. She’s crying my name. Saying things like “I love you, What happened to you?” I hear her words get cut off by her own cry again. This is a reactionary kind of cry. I did something to her. Something terrible.
“There we go Jen, now you can’t run away. Go ahead, give it a shot. I’ll be over here, taking care of this real quick.”
The camera pauses, looking down at her lying on her stomach. She’s reaching over and touching her ankles. They’re bleeding uncontrollably. This monster pretending to be me slashed her Achilles tendons... My mouth turns completely dry as the camera quickly turns with the fast motion. I can hear it breathing heavily into the speaker, then I hear clunking. The camera is positioned onto an elevated surface where it depicted a perfect angle of her. She’s trying to crawl away, leaving a trail of fresh blood behind her.
“Oh no you don’t, babe,” It says as I see myself enter the shot of the video. It’s wearing the exact same clothes that I’m wearing at that moment. It kicks her right in her ribs. Then it kicks her again, and again. It kicked her so many times that she stops struggling. She is just choking now. She grabs at its leg, which the horrible thing slaps away to the ground and proceeds to stomp on it. I hear her bones crack.
This was me, committing these horrible acts to this…to this person. The realness, the shockingly clear details, everything was pure unadulterated reality demonstrated right there on my phone. And me, that was fucking me! Same clothes, same hair, same slightly hunched posture. My shoulders tensed the same exact way I see them tensed every single time I look at them when I wash my hands in the bathroom. Me. This was proof that I did something terrible, but there was no point in time where I recall a lapse within my own consciousness outside of being asleep. That was me!
So when I strongly emphasize what It did, I hope you will understand why what happened next made me cry like a child. It just broke me. The video continued, showing it was still holding the steak knife. It crouched down next to her, brushed her hair aside and…oh fucking hell... it started to use the knife. I... I can’t. How could a person do that to another person. How could humans be so fucking depraved!? How? I threw the phone down and ran into the bathroom and puked. I screamed like she screamed. I screamed for hours. I washed my face, I looked at myself in the mirror. Trying to see a detail that didn’t match the me in that video. Everything was spot fucking on!
How long did I stare into my own reflection? How long did I question my own identity. How long did I question everything I knew about myself, desperately accounting for my every single action of the day. How long? It really is hard to say. It was like blacking out from too much drinking.
At least until the phone began to vibrate again, that much I can recall. I could hear it in the other room, it was loud against the wooden desk. I staggered into the room with a new sickness akin to being wasted, I sank into my chair and picked up the phone and looked at the screen. Blocked caller. I knew in my now racing heart that this was the one responsible for this video. This was Benson. I answered and started to plead into the phone. “Please, for the love of all that is good, please leave me alone. You’ve had your fun, I’m done...”
Hissing. Popping. White noise. The Record player.
One word answer.
“Hello?” the same exact sound clip. It was warped, distorted, the speed slowing and speeding up. It was Jennifer's voice. I heard her enough in the video to make that distinction. There was no doubt about it now.
“No. You people are monsters. How could you think that it’s okay to do that?”
“Hello?”
I couldn’t respond. That ‘Hello’ was painful to hear. It was just too unassuming. Too innocent.
“Hello?”
“Please stop saying that,” I murmured into the phone. “I know you can hear me, I know what you’re doing. You can’t get away with this,”
“Hell-” boop boop boop. The call was disconnected as that final hello began to slow down. I could hear somebody chuckling in the background. It was hard to determine the gender of that laugh. I stared at the phone in my hand for a long time. I didn’t know what to do. The screaming, the thing that was me. Everything was so horrible. I began to close my eyes and try to remember it as if it really happened, but nothing would come to mind.
The phone rang again in my hand. Blocked caller…I pressed the “receive call”
“Hello?”
It called me eighteen more times that night. By the fifth, I stopped answering. By the ninth, I turned the phone off.
Chapter 3[]
Over the next couple of days, the number of pictures in my phone increased. The pictures were of houses I’ve never seen and of people I never met. They didn’t realize they were being photographed. They were all young women, around Jennifer’s age and description. This was real hardcore stalker stuff. It would appear that Benson is trying to simulate that I’m out for another kill.
It took awhile, but I did manage to calm down to the point where I could test out some theories. I looked up Jennifer’s murder online, and the information was all over the news websites. They label me as “The Steak Knife Killer” and turn it into a real media fiasco. There was absolutely nothing about it on the television though. You would figure, if the world on the internet was at a standstill about a new serial killer, it would be all over the news too, but there was absolutely nothing about it on television. Just stuff about terrorism and celebrity scandals. There was comfort in that. The reality of the normal world was still in place outside of my own access fake world. But still, Benson was at work. There had to be a way out.
Later that day, I called my mom and asked her if she had ever heard of Jennifer, or the Steak Knife Killer. She said no and asked me why I would ask. I told her about what was happening, leaving the video and the photos out of it. Not that I thought she would have any ideas, but it was still nice to hear that she had no idea what I was even talking about and just assumed it was hackers or something. That was fine.
After I hang up, She calls me again ten minutes later. When I answer, there is nothing on the other end. Assuming this was just her accidentally pocket dialing, I hang up the phone and went back to perusing the internet for anything similar to my case.
Every time I mention my simulated situations in the search engines, I keep being redirected towards concepts regarding neurology and advanced computer sciences that worked together to try and master something called “Uploading personalities” Yes, this is actually a technological advancement that is currently in the works. They’re proposing that given the right amount of data, you could create an online variation of your own identity by the year 2045. You’ll be able to upload your memories, dreams and even personality traits. You can easily shrug this off as some kind of science fiction nonsense, but I promise you, if you read into it, you will see stuff about it by people like Michio Kaku or Ray Kurzweil. It made me wonder, maybe this program was some kind of variation on this prospective technology. They talk about something called the “singularity” where man and technology become so alike the laymen would begin to strive over making the distinguishments between. They mention the significance of our “digital footprint“ even going so far as to say that your search engines are distributed among companies to establish an advertisement profile based entirely on our online and in-store habits. I was a little startled over how invasive all of this was, but still, relieved to know that the technology acted as some kind of explanation as to how the Benson Duality App knew so much about me. I doubted it deep down, but hey, you know, it was better than nothing. Still, there was nothing out there about Benson.
I Deactivated my Facebook profile, then I deleted all the photos and the video off my phone. It took a long time since there were so many of them. You see, the weird thing was that when I plugged my phone into the computer to try and jump into its hard drive, it told me that the memory on there was close to zero. I haven’t downloaded a single App since Benson and probably never would again. But the sheer number of pictures, and the video alone had to at least amount to somewhere near one full gigabye right? But no. There were no traces of it in my DCIM folder. Nothing. So I was left to just deleting them one by one on the phone. I was more than willing as I never wanted to see them again.
Satisfied that I’ve done everything I could, I sat down and just tried to relax. When that didn’t work, I did the best thing I could think of. I logged onto my Steam account and played videogames. For awhile, I forgot about the whole thing. Even forgetting myself in the process. Games do that. But it didn’t last.
It began to happen again, right there in the game. It was one of those online shooter games where you can communicate through your microphone to other players. The other players were usually children screaming racial profanities into their microphones to try and troll people into getting angry, this time around was no exception at first. About forty-five minutes in, they started to show signs of compromise. One of them shouted into the microphone a remark regarding rape and another players mom, to which this the other player replied through his own microphone.
“Hello?” I stopped right there and then. That was the same sound clip. Unbelievable. It had stalked me through my phone, into my own computer, and now it’s following me into videogames?
I shut the game down and opened up another one and went into the multiplayer screen. While we were waiting for the game to load, we watched players pop into the lobby screen. When they come in, they can immediately use their microphones to communicate. And this time around, it took no time. Somebody called Adi342’s speaker icon popped up next to his name. “Hello?” that voice, Jennifers voice. The same exact sound clip.
I looked up the user Adi342 outside of the game through the Steam interface and immediately sent him a message. “Who are you?” I wrote. There was no response, well not at first. I was about to disregard this as a bust and Ex out of the screen when suddenly a window popped up.
“Adi342 wants to use audio to chat with you”
My blood turned cold. Before I clicked yes, I heard my own phone go off behind me. It didn’t vibrate, but instead, out of its own speakers on its own accord, emitted the same thing it has been saying to me this whole time. “Hello?” It made me jump. I immediately grabbed my phone, wondering if it activated a call on its own and immediately switched to speaker phone. When I picked it up, I was startled to see that the Facebook app that I deleted awhile ago back in mid download. The progress bar was halfway. Almost losing it again like the other night, I canceled it.
“Hello?” the phone called out again. I could now hear the hissing of the record quality.
“Hello?” my computer speakers called out. The window had selected yes on its own.
“Hello?”
“Hello?”
Two separate sources. I shut my phone off, while listening to my steam account drop that same sound clip over and over again through the chat log with username Adi342. When the phone was off, I turned to the chat log and was about to click on the X on the corner of the screen but then it started messaging with words. Not only was it playing the sound clip through, but it was posting log information in the text area. It’s hard to explain, but, It looked like it was copy and pasting information. There were two separate parties involved. Both of which were identified as a series of numbers. Each of them dropping dialogue to each other. It didn’t take long to realize what was happening.
It was a writing down the manuscript of the conversation I had with my mother earlier. Even though we spoke verbally, it translated it into text and was repeating it to me. It was commenting pieces of it, rhythmically so too. Bump. More dialogue. Bump. More dialogue.
“What are you trying to tell me…?”
My phone reactivated on its own. It vibrated on the table.
“HELLO?” My computer shot out at me at a loud volume.
“GOD LEAVE ME ALONE!” I shouted at.
The chat log with Adi342 stopped. Even the sound clips stopped. Silence. No hissing, no popping. Everything went quiet. I knew it was watching me. Taking it all in, prepping its next move. God it sounds so crazy, and I know it all sounds like bullshit. But if you’ve stayed with me this far and are feeling skeptical, maybe you’ll doubt this next part entirely.
My Facebook app started to download on its own in my phone again. This time I did nothing to stop it. I just watched the bar fill, in total silence. Just as the bar reached the max, a voice whispered through my computer from the Adi342 audio chat.
“Come home,”
It was something different. A response to me directly. I had its attention, I had to talk to it. I had to try and get through to it.
“Why are you doing this!? What are you? What do you want from me?” I shouted into the microphone. Instead of responding to me, the thing logged off. Everything disconnected. I looked up that name again only to find that it didn’t exist anymore.
Reluctantly, I picked up my phone to see that my Facebook app was running. I looked in and saw that I had hundreds of messages. People were dropping words of condolences. Apparently, my Mom was dead. She was murdered by the Steak Knife Killer.
No, I thought. Not again. It was going to put me through it again, but this time with somebody real? My mom?
I went straight to my photo library in my phone. There were over eight hundred images. They consisted of the house I grew up in, they consisted of the street I grew up playing in where the house was located. There were images of my mom tied to a chair. She was bleeding. There was an image of me holding my phone out in ‘selfie’ fashion, with my mom staring miserably at the camera. The life in her eyes, faded to the point where she looked barely alive. Her throat was covered in blood. I was holding a steak knife. It was covered in blood. I had slit her throat.
“No,” I said at my phone. I looked in my video list, and there was an eighteen minute long video with an indistinguishable thumbnail image. Suffice it to say, I did not play it. Ask yourself this question, if you found a video of yourself murdering your mom, would you watch it? Yeah. I didn’t think so.
I threw my phone across the room and spent the rest of the day in my room. No technology. No internet. Nothing. Nothing except for the muffled “Hello?” coming out of my phone in my main room and through my bedroom wall. I put my pillow over my head to drown it out. For awhile it worked.
I must have fallen asleep because when I took the pillow off my head, the sun had gone down. I wish I slept longer because when I woke up, I could hear my phone making noise. It had activated the video. I could hear the audio from where I was. I could hear my mother’s voice crying out. Asking why I was doing what I was doing. I could hear my voice assuring her with cool lighthearted certainty (Benson) that everything was as it was supposed to be. That hit me like a lightning bolt. I ran into that room and grabbed the phone, looking to turn it off as soon as possible. When I had it, I saw the footage of my mom lying on the floor of her basement. The steak knife was sticking out of her throat, and I was screaming mindless insults at her. My jaw went limp at the sight of it, hanging open. I turned it off and threw it on my couch. I put all the blankets and pillows that I owned over it to muffle it, to drown it out. I will NEVER watch that video.
That’s when it came active on my computer. The video activated on its own accord and started playing the very same video. I pulled the plug out of it before it could even pass the ten second mark.
That’s when it came on my television. Grabbing my head like a lunatic, I cried out “why are you doing this to me!?” I unplugged my television too. I was positive that I would probably never plug it back in.
It no longer had a way of reaching me. I felt relieved in the silence. Then the phone began to play the sound clip under the blankets again. “Hello?” Even under all the blankets, it could still be vaguely heard.
I didn’t sleep for a long time that night. When I finally did, I vividly dreamed the experience of watching the video in a dark room filled with monitors. I was tied to a chair. Adjacent to me, an old record player attached to cheap speakers was playing the hello clip over and over and over again. To this very day, I still have these dreams. And every time it happens, I see a new video. A new victim. A new abomination.
Chapter 5[]
This was where everything fell apart for me.
I became bitterly apprehensive towards technology. Feeling like if I moved towards anything that had some form of a satellite broadcast, Benson would either trigger a video, or trigger a sound clip. At work, I distrusted the scanners I used to deliver stuff. When I drove to work, my radio stayed off. When people asked if I was alright, I told them I was fine, playing it off like I was feeling sick. People bought it, and that was fine for awhile.
Benson (Benson) left me alone during the days when I went back to work at first. I would get no phone calls. It wouldn’t vibrate or make noise or trigger videos until after I got home. Even when it wasn’t harassing me, I knew it was still with me. Still in my phone. I wanted to leave it home, but where was the responsibility in that? I was constantly reminding myself that none of it was real so I could build the confidence to carry it with me because that’s what responsible and reliable people do.
Over the next couple of weeks, it would become a normal routine for me. I come home every night to be harassed into seeing another person being killed. Another hundred photos would just spawn in my memory card. I wouldn’t watch any of them, not at first, and when they started to play on their own, I would put my phone in the safe place. Underneath the blankets and pillows. From there, the sound clips would play every thirty seconds. “Hello?” over and over again. Each time I hear it, it hurts my head. It makes me dizzy. It hurts me in a way that transcends anything I could even remotely articulate. Whatever game Benson was playing with me, I was actually beginning to somehow sense that it was winning. I think it showed in how I began to slip into a state of apathy. I could feel myself give in and stop caring.
The photos would be of people and houses on my route at work. Of people who I would say hello to on a daily basis. There would be photos of people I graduated high school with, college with. Some people were like Jennifer. Not real. Some were irrelevant people that I would usually give no second thought to, like store clerks or joggers I would casually pass by on my commute home from work. It all became routine. And soon, it blended together.
I know what you’re thinking. Take it to the police. I tried. The photos, the videos, everything vanishes every time people are near. Trust me, I know this all too well.
I think the unraveling process started on the third week since Benson targeted my mother. I was driving to work one day and at one moment, I’m on North Quincy Street in my car early in the morning, and then suddenly I was in my truck, halfway through the work day. It happened in a flash. As if I just went to sleep and woke up hours later. When it first happened, my brain immediately flared with the conclusion that I had lapsed out of my own consciousness and became the monster in Benson’s videos. What could have possibly accounted for those missing points in time? When I came back to the Terminal, I talked to my boss and tried to lead the conversation around how I was that morning. This was tricky, because you can’t just walk up to your boss and ask if him I seemed... murder-ey this morning. Instead I apologized for being late for some stops and that I wasn’t feeling myself this whole day. It wasn’t a lie when you think about it. He told me that I did just fine, that I was actually on time for all of them.
So I lost time, and yet I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. I didn’t know if I should have been afraid or relieved. It wasn’t until I got in my car after work that I noticed the phone producing the noise. When I shut my car door, I was expecting silence. Instead I heard hissing, popping, white noise coming out of my phone speaker. It was subtle, but definitely there. There wasn’t any content to the noise, just that record player ambience. Later I would speculate that it’s been playing all day. That this was how I tranced out.
And that became the next phase of Benson’s trip. The next development in my now crumbling life. I would just have these (Benson) trance like states of consciousness. These momentary lapses. Like slipping into a dream. They were at their worst when I was driving or working. Sometimes I would find myself suddenly snapping out of them in the middle of conversations with people and not even know how I got there. Sometimes I would be perfectly lucid during these lapses, and yet still found myself swimming in the unreality of it. All the while, in the back of my mind, that record player noise. I couldn’t tell if it was in my head or actually coming out of an exterior source. Maybe both. Maybe neither. It was like being drunk, or high on pot. Sometimes I would bullshit myself into believing that this noise had absolutely no source and that it was clearly in my own head, clearing the path to ask myself logical questions. Questions like: Was I going insane? Was this mental drainage? Was I exhausted from the consistency of fear? Was this a descent into apathy? Is this a symptom of extreme depression?
At some point in time, I threw my phone away. When I did, another one came in the mail the very next day. It was as if it knew I would do it. Given all that has happened, I shouldn’t find it hard to believe, since it claimed to be simulating an alternate demonstration of me. But I did. I’m not a murderer. It seemed certain that I was. Regardless, I have thrown away dozens of phones at this point. And yet the data still finds me. In my computer, on my TV, through the ambiance of this ever technological world. I hear it all. You can’t escape communication in the modern era. And of course, the dreams. Every night, the dreams.
Occasionally I overhear radio broadcasts from other cars at red lights, or nearby radios when I’m walking around outside. They wouldn’t stop talking about the “Steak Knife Killer” Although it appeared to me that Benson had decided to Brave the world beyond my own immediate perception, I still really had to wonder if the people who were listening even heard what I was hearing? Did our realities coincide? Or were we in different worlds? Seeing two separate interpretations... When I ask people about it, they tell me that they’ve never heard of a Steak Knife Killer. I don’t know. At this point, I don’t even know if anything I hear is real. It’s like a horrible indoctrinating song. The more I heard it, the more I began to believe it. The more I began to believe it, the more I would seep into these states of mind. The record players noise never stopped either. Like the ever present ringing in your ears after too many years of loud noises taking their toll... it was always there.
When I got home, another video. Another five hundred photos. At one point in time, I had over 87 snuff films on my phone. I had over 3000 pictures to accompany them. The computer couldn’t detect any of it. I would just come home and stuff whatever phone I had under the blankets and stare at the wall and helplessly listen to the hissing coming from wherever it was coming from in my home. Sometimes the Hello would come out of it, which at this point was so drastically distorted, there was only a resonant signature of it. I can’t remember at this point if I even bothered to try and find it. This is my world now. Just for me and me alone.
I began to question why I was still going on. Life began to feel grey. Maybe this was depression. I researched the symptoms of it and saw that a lot my current episodes were very similar, so it wasn’t out of the question. There were reassuring qualities in the idea of it and I sure would have loved to have experienced them when I thought about it, but (Benson) then I would lose myself again.
I knew it was Benson. There was something about that hissing noise. Something subliminal, I can’t know for sure as I’m not a fucking psychologist. It was grinding me. Breaking me ever so slowly. Winning.
I started becoming suspicious of the cars behind me when I was driving, or at least when I was lucid enough to do so. One time I looked at my own boss, and with ridged certainty, it became somehow abundantly clear that he wasn’t who he said he was. he wasn’t anyone I knew. He went from a man I saw five days a week to a complete and total stranger. I couldn’t make out his face, and somehow I figured in me that he was going to try and kill me. I began to hyperventilate as my (Benson) heart swiftly began to race in my chest. I had a panic attack. My boss sent me home and told me to take some time off.
Those dreams took a new form that night, maybe due to the next phase in Bensons intents. They were lucid and yet completely beyond my control. Instead of sitting in that control room with the record player and the monitors, I was actually acting out the videos. The first night I murdered Jennifer. The second, my Mom. The third, a customer from my route at work. In these dreams, I can feel the intensity of my emotions. They are purely emotions, not thoughts. I couldn’t think, was completely incapable of thinking. I could only watch and experience, lucidly so. When I woke up, I would somehow always forget the specifics of those emotions, only that they were intense. At first I convinced myself that they were of terror as that seemed to make the most sense to me. But the more I dreamt, the more I would realize that I was wrong. These weren’t fearful emotions. They were ecstatic. These were limbic sensations of triumphant victory, like having sex or winning a fight. This morning, it became clear to me that murdering these people in my dreams had produced the greatest sensation I had ever known.
The fear of that realization. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Realizing that everything is just wrong. The events I see, a simulation. Everything lost in the hissing and popping of the unseen record player ambiance. It took me so long to write all this for you because of how often I would just lose my own sense of continuity. I don’t have the balls to reread the things I wrote, because I know they won’t be what I remember them being.
And now You know everything that I know (I (Benson) hope). This is where I stand, somewhere in the void. Between the phases of lucidity where these very words come into being, between the vast regions of fog and record ambiance where I can barely think or comprehend the world around me, and between the animalistic madness residing somewhere inside. Between me and the simulation. Between man and beast. And every step of the way, Benson is with me. Benson is within me. Showing me sides of myself better left unexplored.
I will keep you posted.
Chapter 6[]
Sitting in my house, I am staring at my television. Seeing news stories about murders. I wonder if the simulation behind all of this would end in me watching myself go to jail through the screen. If you think about it, wouldn’t I be a prime suspect in all of this? But it never happens. It is not what Benson desires. I was never mentioned. Even when I saw my mother’s picture on the television when they reported her death. I was expecting to see myself in an interview, or at least be mentioned by name. There is nothing about it. This is just how Benson intends it.
Sometimes I realize that everything I am watching isn’t really there. That the TV is not really turned on and I am blankly staring at a dark vacant screen. I would say that the worst scenario of this was when a cat stepped on the power button of the controller when it was walking across a table. To see the television turn on amidst a hallucination slaps me right back into reality, and when it does, I don’t know anything. I lose all cognizant function. When I got it back, I have a panic attack and I had to spend a half hour in the bathroom splashing my face with water to ground myself back in reality. When I see myself moments later, I realize that who I am looking at isn’t really me. I don’t care though.
Oh yes. This is how it ends.
I thought to go online and look into seeing a therapist, but then it occurred to me that this would be a meaningless gesture. What would I say? I hear enough about doctor/patient confidentiality to assume that regardless of the crap I mutter to him or her(Benson), I wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to send me to the loony bin, but still. He would peg me for a psychopath either way. That was certain. This app isn’t real. There’s no verification of it except for what I see. Even when I tried to show things of it to my mom once, the pictures just go away. Vanish. Benson is too smart to let this be seen by anyone other than me. If I sought therapy, who knows what would happen. At the worst, I would probably just see myself murder the doctor in my dreams.
Chapter 7[]
January 27
Today, I bought a webcam and tried to use it to record a video playing from my phone. It was one of me murdering one someone I think I knew. When I played it back, I would get error messages. The file would corrupt and then it would delete itself. This didn’t surprise me. Afterwards, the computer would downright stop reading the webcam‘s USB. Benson was too smart to let this be seen by anyone other than me. I did get a chance to watch the video though. For the first time since Jennifer, I watched a whole video. Even though it was just for the sake of gathering evidence, I watched it, took in every frame. Just like the dreams I experience every night, I received that perfect ecstasy, just by its mere insinuation. I watch another video. Then another. Then I watched another, forgetting about the webcam entirely.
Chapter 8[]
March 21
Benson is killing me. I know this. He doesn’t have the means to do it physically, but he knows well how to deconstruct my mind. Fuel me with paranoia, enforce my depression and destabilize my ability to verify anything. I don’t know if any information I am receiving most of the time is doctored from Benson to coincide with my own fears. My wits are done. I feel only how Benson wants me to feel. After five months of it, I forget about the important things. I stop taking care of myself. No more indulgences. No more eating. I would piss myself while sitting in front of a static filled television, seeing things that weren’t there. I stopped showering. (Benson.) I stop feeding the cat. I stop seeing the cat. I put in some last minute vacation days, which my boss was more than happy to give, seeing as he’s been dealing with so many complaints about how the customers are weirded out by me. Even (Benson) my fellow workers at this point are weirded out by me. He is weirded out by me. (Benson) When the vacation days are up, I don’t come back to work. At this (Benanasson) point, I what does it matter? I’m sure Benson doesn’t care either. After all. Benson. Is. God.
I’m watching the videos now. I‘m watching them all. I don’t know if I am seeing them through my television or through my computer or phone. I don’t know if I’m awake, or asleep when I’m watching. I don’t know. I don’t care. Benson doesn’t care. When the videos played, I am there. I am in the video. Just like the dreams. We have bridged the gap. Dreams are fleeting, you forget it straight away, but (Benson) you don’t forget the immediate memories of awakened consciousness. Those stay. Now we can rest in this forever. Regardless, the means are irrelevant. There is true oblivion in here. I am alive. Beyond knowledge, beyond institutionalism, beyond abstraction. Outside the videos, nothing matters. I don’t care. Benson doesn’t care. After all. Benson. Is. God.
Chapter 9[]
Somewhere in time.
What happened!? Where are the videos? Benson, what have you done with my videos? Where are you? Why can’t I dream. I can’t feel anything. I can’t-WHERE DID YOU GO!? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?
Chapter 10[]
Benson has abandoned me. I feel absolutely nothing.
Chapter 11[]
Now. Always now. Benson is talking to me. I can hear a voice in the back of my head telling me that he would not come to me as I was when we first began our (Bendsafewrqson) disassembling. When he comes to me, Jennifer makes it clear that he will only talk to me in the final stages of (Beonson) my purification. I don’t care. Benson doesn’t care. After all. Benson. Is. God.
Chapter 12[]
Of all times, in all eons.
Steam Account Message log with (Beansoson)
username: Addi451 (from memory)
Me: Benson I know this is you
Addi451: Come home
Me: Benson
Addi451: beyond time beyond noise beyond the glare of false light
Me: Benson
Me: Benson
Me: Benson
Addi451: Come home
Me: Give them back to me.
Addi451: Beyond words beyond dreams.
Me: Give me back my dreams.
Addi451: Come home
Me: I feel nothing. I feel dead.
Addi451: You are with god now.
134435436230954236000643: forever tense
The videos are all gone. The photos won‘t load. The phone is broken. It has been for some time. Nothing will play. I don’t dream anymore. And so i don't feel anymore. I can’t live without her. I must be with her.
I hear people. They are knocking at my door. They won‘t know where I can find Jennifer. I know this for truth. It‘s time to come home. They will all be coming home with me. Jennifer. I will find you.