“Who used my old phone” I shouted in the house, so loud that all my family member could hear me. They all assembled in the kitchen, none of them seemed to know who used it. We all took a seat and waited until someone admit the mistake.

As I see that no one admit their action, I’m irritated, “no want to declare their mistake huh, well, then I’ll teach you all a lesson” I yelled to their face. I roses from my seat and bellowed, I land a punch on my wife’s face, my kids were terrified by what I have done.

“You two now know what fear is? Don’t worry it’ll be you two next!” I informed to my two children who was about to run.

“Dad, I swear it isn’t us who had used your old phone” my son claims to prevent me to continue my rampage. My wife and daughter agreed with him and begged me for mercy.

“Then who could it be! It must be one of you” I disagree with my son, I don’t trust the words from someone who could be the one who did it.

I eventually calms down, I checked inside the phone of my family to find some clues, but it was in futile. I saw a strange app on my wife’s phone called assassin recruit, before I could query my wife, an anonymous appeared in my sight for a moment.

“Who are you! Reveal yourself!” I screamed to the dark corner of my house. The figure slowly came out of the corner and revealed a gun under his cloak.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m an assassin ordered to kill you” the assassin said, “it seems like you abuse your family, this assassination will be one for justice then” the assassin said to himself.

“Farewell, stranger, also your phone will be mine after this” he said while he shots his bullet into my face, all I can see before death was my blood forming a pool of blood.

“Oh, well would you look at this, my old phone”

opens phone and looks through the photos

“I didn’t take these”

“Dad, what are you doing with that?”

“Just looking through the pictures”

“Why?”

“For old time’s sake”

“…”

“Do you know why there’s nude pictures of our neighbours 14 year old daughter on here?”

“Shit”

“TIMOTHY HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU STOP FINDING SO MANY NUDES OF PEOPLE YOU’RE SEVEN”

“But it’s fun”

“I know it is.”

“Damn dad”

“Language Timothy, your mother can’t know I taught you those words”

“Fucking hell dad chill out”

“TIMOTHY”

“YES DAD”

“TIMOTHY”

“WHY ARE WE YELLING”

“I DONT KNOW”

I hate cleaning and don’t own a cellphone, so found this prompt difficult to write about. After fiddling with a story for weeks with no real progress, I pretty much gave up and just starting rambling.

The way I look at it, writing something is always better than writing nothing. Then again, if I had written nothing it would have avoided the embarrassing admissions below so maybe I need to rethink that philosophy.

When it comes to cleaning my house, there’s not a lot about it that I like. I’m not very good at it and don’t aspire to be. The time that it takes to complete can be better spent doing something else. Anything else, for that matter. As a result of my antipathy towards cleaning, I only do it once each year, or if a visitor refers to my house as a pig sty, whichever comes first.

When my father made a few oinking sounds the last time he stopped by, I knew the time had come to clean the place. I busied myself with all the competency that a half hearted effort was able to muster. I knew the finished result wouldn’t be good but it would be good enough.

Towards the end of the cleaning session, right before vacuuming, I always crawl into both dog cages.

Sorting through them is like a treasure hunt, only without a map. Greyhounds are hoarders by nature so a variety of items are always found stored away. Aside from the traditional items, like tennis balls and plush toys, a few odd things have been found over the years. Once I found my cordless razor. I guess Manny, my first dog, figured his whiskers needed a trim.

I don’t sort through their cages on a regular basis. The way I look at it, that is their personal space, no different from a teenager’s bedroom. I don’t have children other than my dogs, and Charcoal and Propane are eleven and twelve years old respectively. In human years that means I have an eighty four year old child still living at home.

I’m probably not the best person to weigh in on that subject since I lived with my parents until my early thirties. I knew it was time to move out when they sold the house and moved into a one bedroom home. At least they never kept me in a cage, aside from a crib when I was an infant. I don’t think that can be considered child abuse, though. Maybe if I was in my twenties and still confined to a crib, but that never happened.

If I was going to file abuse charges, it would be based upon a dream I once had. In the dream, I was walking along the bottom of the Hudson River and came upon a stickball game. Someone said something to me about visiting the “old neighborhood”. When I woke up, I called my parents and asked if we ever lived on the bottom of the Hudson. They claimed we did not but I’m still not sure. It might just be one of those family secrets that everyone is aware of but no one talks about.

Interesting side note about that dream. I knew it was the Hudson River because after the stickball game ended, I walked over and visited my girlfriend; The Statue Of Liberty. We were the same height and she was quite randy that evening. After we gyrated a bit, I broke up with her. Gotta admit, since then I’ve been a little afraid to visit Liberty Island, NYC. There’s no worse fury than a woman scorned.

"The place is almost done" she chirped like a soft singing bird. her hair, long curly deep red like a forest in the midst of fall, skin pale but glowing with life, freckles slppered on her face, and a large smile. She skipped to the living room and turned to a door. "Only one last place to clean, I wish I did this sooner." she exclaimed. Opening the door she was greeted to a familiar scratching metal noise "oil, that's what I frogot to buy". Old stairs that squeal when stepped on, no time passes to get to the bottom of them. A little string attached to the cleling is pulled illuminating a large, once dark, unfinnished basment. "So many boxes" she sighs and pulls out a dark green scrunch from seemingly nowhere and puts her hair up "time to go to work".

About an hour later she comes across an old phone "I thought I lost this" she said in disbelief. "Oh I wonder how cringy I was back then" she cringed at the thought. She opened the phone and to her suprize it was fully charged, she dosent pay much mind. She immediately goes to her camera roll and scrolls stright down two the bottom without hesitation.

She slowly goes throw the photos with old friends, family, pets, and the really old cringy trends. Then there is a point where she scrolls and its black, then overexposed with a faint person, then it's another one with a person sleeping "yeah, I remember I use to take photos of my friends when they slept to tease them in the morning" she said hesitantly. She scrolls to the next and the next, and their taken in very strange angle's, like their from a hole, a crack, some bars, there hard to make out but there is one photo that was alot more clear, it was a girl with red hair, opening up her new phone. By this point she was not smile and has stopped scrolling "I-I dont.. understand..." she scrolls to the next one, it's her, sleeping, holding someone's hand. Her breath becomes heavy, she starts to frantically scroll. She sees dozens is not millions of photos of her in bed, in the washroom, at work and around her house. She reaches the end the most recent photo beeing not surprisingly her, exept this was taken a coupple of hours ago, she starts to stand up she can barely think. She doesn't know what to do, this person could have been taking photos of her for years, and then it set in "a-are they.. still in here" she freezes. She slowly looks around. The silence is deafening. Without warning a groan from the pipes and vents scare away the silence, in the sheer terror of her situation she screams but everything goes silent, "ha.. this old house really does know how to sc-" she stops and looks, two wide eye's are staring at her from a crawl space coverd by a vent. She sees a small droplet of blood at the base of it. Her mind goes blank, her vision gets fuzzy and seems to be going dark, but she is still conscious and can move sloppily. She starts to walk to the vent as the darger like eyes pierce her, shuffling her feet breathing that echoes in her head pounding more and more as she aprotches, she reaches for the vent and at this point she isnt thinking rationally "Why. What are you. Who are you. Why are you here. Get out" this repeats in her head on a loop. The adrenalin takes over and she grasps the cold wretched vent.

An album of photos from times long forgotten. I feel as if I should remember. Faces familiar yet blurry all the same, cut from my memory. My spouse comes over and asks me what’s wrong, I show them the photos and they tell me where they’re from. But I have forgotten.

It makes me angry, confused, why can’t I just remember? It’s such a simple act we take for granted. No matter how hard I try the memories don’t come back.

Soon I start forgetting other things, some worse than others. I forgot my deadname that’s good, but I forgot our anniversary too.

They’re worried for me and book an appointment to go to the doctor.

The doctor tells me to prepare for my memory to worsen over the next few years. My spouse in tears, but I squeeze their hand tight. I will never let go of their hand again, in their hand I remember.

With an empty basket on her hip, Geri collected the random crap laying around the living room that should be the random crap stowed away upstairs. Yawning, Aaron stretched in his desk chair and watched his wife’s luscious ass. Geri bent lower reaching under the coffee table. “That’s funny?” Aaron returned to his monitor. “What, doll?” “It’s our old digital camera. I haven’t seen it since since forever. Since Ash was a toddler.” Geri turned the metallic orange rectangle in her fingers. “No one looks at photos anymore.”
“Didn’t your friend’s goofy kid break it during a party. Whatever happened to that wackadoodle?” Aaron patted his lap. Still rotating the camera, Geri molded herself against Aaron. “He’s at Stanford. Do you think we can get it working?” Aaron took the camera. Geri took his Scotch. She grimaced. Laughing Aaron fished for a usb cord. “It’s probably dead. Battery corroded.” With a few clicks, images filled the screen. A Christmas tree, piles of wrapped presents in green and gold, Ashton in footed pink pajamas leaping with joy, Aaron and Ash making snowmen, snow angels, Aston jumping in puddles, Geri and Ashton dying eggs. There were photos of Easter dinner. Next the images were blurry. A lot of of smeary images of their old dog Chippy and Barbies taken from a small child’s perspective “Remember when she had doll babies and an imaginary friend?” “Hell I remember when she talked to us.” Aaron chuckled softly. After a hearty swig, Geri passed the glass back to her husband. “I remember when we knew when she was coming home at night,” Geri said. Together they watched the world through their daughter’s eyes.

I’ve deleted the very first time he told me he love me. I deleted the day he told me everything he loved about me I deleted the things he said we would do together The only things that are left Are the arguments And the bitterness That I have to hold onto It’s the only thing I can do For how can I love But oh it’s so easy To love him even when I hate him

But it’s too late To say I love him too Because I do But I never told him

I was looking for my baby picture when I found it. I had just gotten back from the baby’s photo shoot for her 6 month milestone session. I remembered I had a photo of myself in a similar pose that she had put my daughter in. As soon as I opened the box, I saw it. Not the photo, but the phone. I forgot it was even in there, honestly. I tried turning it on, just out of curiosity. Of course, it was cold and dead. Checking the charger port, I noticed that it was the same charger my diffuser uses. I plugged it up and went on with my day. I found the photo I was looking for, and posted a side by side comparison on my socials. Later that evening, I was reading the comments on the post from an old high school friend when I suddenly remembered I had plugged my old phone up. I just laid the baby down to sleep so i was able to grab my old phone. I curled up in bed to see what all was on it. Even though the screen was thoroughly shattered, I could just see the screen well enough to log in to everything. I instantly went to the text messages and found my best friend’s texts. I screenshotted a conversation that made me laugh out loud from 2011 and went to the photo gallery to send them to my current phone. Opening my photo gallery was overwhelming at first, seeing photos of myself and an abusive ex-boyfriend of mine. I took a deep breath, and reminded myself how lucky I am to have made it out of that relationship. I sent the photos to her, and she laughed, immediately remembering that conversation. I scrolled through more photos to find something else to reminisce with her about. Looking through the gallery, I found several pictures I took of myself. I couldn’t believe how different i looked. I almost didn’t recognize myself. Then I saw it. There was no way I could have taken it myself. Yes, in a few of my pictures I guess I used a self-timer feature on my phone. But this one I know I didn’t take. How could I have taken it if I was asleep?

 I keep running scenarios through my head, trying to think of a rational reason those pictures are in my camera roll. Could it have been a sleepover I’ve forgotten about? No, I’ve gone back to that date in my phones calendar and it was very much a school night. My parents were extremely strict. 
 Could it have been my parents? Or my sister? Could I have actually taken it and posed to be asleep? No, there’s no way i took them. There are several pictures, different nights even, of me sleeping alone in my bed. 
 I immediately send them to my best friend and tell her I am shaking. I ask her if she remembers taking them. She swears she didn’t. I had a full body mirror leaning in the corner of my room at the time the photos were taken, and my best friend points out that there’s a slight reflection in some of the pictures. 
 We try enhancing them the best we can, and holy shit, I KNOW WHO IT IS. In the mirror reflection I can see my fat old landlord with his hand in his pants. Aside from the total shock and horror of it all, I want to know why he took the pictures on my phone instead of his own. Was it a kink? Did he think he deleted them? Did he want me to know he was there? I don’t fucking know but he passed away a few years ago according to social media so it’s not like the police would do anything. Needless to say I will never sleep again. My baby is waking up, I hope she didn’t see or hear something from her window..

"Shit," Bakkman says, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his ruffled hair.

"What?" asks his colleague, Wilson, beside him, looking over his shoulder at the screen.

"I sent the wrong fucking photos to her phone."

Bakkman's colleague gasps theatrically, laughing at the sheer stupidity of what he'd done.

"Mate, you are so fired. Which phone, the new one or the one in the attic?"

"The one in the attic."

"Oh, then you're fine. She's fucking terrified of that place, because of the childhood trauma Division 43 decided to give her. She'll never find it."

"She wouldn't if it were any other day than today."

"Why, what's happening today?"

"Don't you ever read the daily briefings, Wilson?"

"No, not really. Mostly I depend on idiots like you to tell me what's going on."

Both men laugh, but Bakkman's is threaded with anxiety.

"No, but seriously, what's going on today?"

Bakkman sighs, then clicks a button on the giant keyboard before him. The screen illuminates with the image, a live video, of a frightened-but-determined looking Marsha Frieds, making her way up a rickety ladder. A look of understanding passes suddenly over Wilson's face.

"Shit, mate. She's cleaning the attic."

Marsha grips the last rung of the ladder so tightly her knuckles turn white. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed, feet set apart on a rung a few below the one she's holding.

"Okay, Marsh, you can do this," she whispers to herself ("Fuckin' freak," mutters Wilson, seeing the true terror on the woman's face), "The attic won't clean itself. What are you even scared of? It's just an attic."

She takes a deep breath and readies herself to push off from the ladder.

"Just a dark, creepy attic that has given me nightmares since I was a kid."

The ladder clatters beneath Marsha as she launches herself off the last few rungs and into the tiny room that makes up the third storey of her house. She swings an arm behind her immediately after she's in, stopping the trapdoor from closing behind her.

The room is coated in a thick layer of dust, like frost on the ground in early December. Boxes are stacked against the slanted walls in teetering towers, full of God knows what.

Well, actually, God doesn't know what, LifeCorps knows what. Bakkman and Wilson probably know what, or at least some of what. It depends on how well they remember their training. Bakkman probably knows what much more than Wilson. But that's besides the point.

Marsha reaches into the pocket of her overalls, producing a damp cloth. She crawls over to the small, circular window in the recesses of the room and wipes it down thoroughly. Light streams into the room in thin streaks, illuminating the boxes enough to see their repeatedly crossed out labels and making every speck of dust on the floor stand out.

Marsha scrapes the cloth over the miniscule windowsill, pushing at the pump that in any other room would open the window, but this one has long since stuck. No matter how hard Marsha tries, the window doesn't budge. The air in the room remains stale, unbreathed for years, maybe decades.

Marsha sets the cloth down on the sill and moves towards the nearest box. Her original plan was to carry each one downstairs and sort through them there, minimizing her time in the attic as much as possible.

That all becomes moot when in reaching for the box nearest to her, she knocks over a tower of them at her other side. The contents of the topmost box, apparently unsealed, scatter across the floor, sending up a thick cloud of dust.

"Shit!" Marsha hisses.

("Yes, exactly," mutters Bakkman, frantically pushing buttons on the keyboard in front of him, "Wilson, sound the fucking alarm! That box has the phone inside."

"Shit! Oh, we are dead, we are so, so, so dead-")

Marsha sweeps her hands over the dust-coated floor, tossing objects back into the box, trying to salvage the last scraps of her plan. She pauses when one of the objects lights up at her touch. A phone. Her old phone. The ghost of a smile flits over Marsha's lips.

"I remember this thing," Marsha mumbles, settling in against the wall with the phone in her hands. She remembers the days before the new models came out when everyone had one like this. She passes her hand over the screen, sweeping away the dust and grime.

The phone is unlocked, Marsha doesn't even remember if she ever had a password for it. She swipes through the homescreen. A breathy laugh suddenly escapes her lips.

"Might as well," she shrugs, opening Photos.

("Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit-" Bakkman chants under his breath, hand moving towards his pager to call Division 27, "I don't get paid enough for this."

"Bakkman, would you like to explain to me what the hell is going on here?" a voice asks him from behind. Bakkman twists around in his seat to see the Chief striding towards him, closely followed by Wilson and a horde of people with "27" printed on the backs of their uniforms. His hand strays from his pager.

"Sir, I'm so sorry, I uploaded the wrong photos and-"

"Bakkman what the hell is on that phone?" the Chief interrupts him, not taking his eyes from the screen. Bakkman sighs, wringing his hands in his lap.

"Photos of her from Karceron and Initiation, sir. At least two dozen of them."

The Chief's face pales, and he draws in a stiff breath. He turns towards a woman from Division 27 behind him, whose name Bakkman can't recall.

"Gerard, get the rest of your Division on this, I want damage control, if there's nothing else we can do."

Gerard nods and scurries off with several other members of Division 27 who came in with the Chief. He turns to a man staring at a clipboard behind several remaining workers. A badge on his uniform reads "Assistant to the Chief."

"Frontenac, I need reports from 18 on this every ten minutes, get every pair of hands in 43 writing in new trauma for her, I need her out of that attic now, is that clear?"

The man nods furiously and runs off in the same direction as Gerard. The Chief whirls back to face Bakkman, still staring wide-eyed at the screen.

"Bakkman, I assume you already know you're fired."

Bakkman sighs, bowing his head.

"Yes, sir," he replies, just as a shadow of a frown darkens Marsha's face on the screen.)

"What the..." she mumbles, scrolling through the photos. Among the images of her ten years ago, smiling next to friends she's long lost contact with, there are some that don't belong. These are the most recent ones, that Marsha skipped at first, in favor of those farther down that she recognized at a glance. She comes back to them now.

"How..." she trails off as she flips through twenty-something photos of- Well, they're of her, but they're not. It's her but she's not-

"When the hell-" Marsha stands up abruptly, gripping the phone so hard in her hand she fears it might break. Her head hits the low ceiling, causing her to hiss in pain and sink back down to the floor.

In the first photo, Marsha is pictured sitting around a fire with ten others. Her dark skin is smoother than it is now, free of wrinkles. Her hair is loose on her head, if that can be said of it, not braided back in its current box braids. Gold streaks outline her nose, eyes, and forehead. The people around her have the same markings.

Marsha does not recognize any of the others, nor does she know the place where the photo was taken. The greenery is lush around those in the photo, maybe some type of rainforest? But no, it can't be. Greenery crowds in at the edges of the picture, like whoever took it was hiding behind a plant and poking the camera out to capture the image.

That is, of course, exactly what happened, but Marsha doesn't realize that now.

As much as she'd like to deny it, the reason Marsha doesn't recognize the setting is because no one would. At least, no one human. It looks unnatural, unearthly. Literally, not from this planet. Not from Earth.

There are five more photos of Marsha like this. The same place, the same appearance, sometimes even the same people, and then-

Marsha's hand flies to her mouth in horror, causing her to almost drop the phone.

The next image is of Marsha in a cage. Her surroundings are all white in this one, and the gold paint on her face is smudged. A streak of dirt mars her forehead. Her hands grip the bars of the cage, her face looking through them a mask of pain and fear.

This has to be photoshopped, Marsha thinks, there's no way-

But there is. There is a way, and there's no denying that it's really Marsha in these photos. But it seems as though it's her from another life. Another planet, another-

"Oh my god."

Tears fill Marsha's eyes. Her hands begin to shake.

("We're fucked," declares Bakkman, throwing his arms up and pushing away from the screen. Wilson grips the back of his colleague's chair, "We are so, so fucked."

"We have to tell her the truth," says Wilson behind him, tone surprisingly firm.

"Tell her how? And what?" exclaims Bakkman in exasperation, "'Hey, Marsha, did you know you're actually an extraterrestrial from an alien planet and your entire life on Earth has been a lie? Did you know we captured you and initiated you into the life you know now? No? Well, that's the truth. Have a great day!' Is that what we're supposed to say?!"

"Well, I don't know, I was thinking something a little lighter," Wilson answers, "Like 'Hey, Marsh, you ever see The Truman Show? Yeah, that's this.'"

Bakkman laughs dryly, eyes straying back to Marsha on the screen.)

She scrolls frantically through the rest of the photos. In every one after the cage, she's in that same white environment, wearing something that looks like a hospital gown.

Am I insane? Marsha thinks, Is that what this is? Are these photos me in an asylum?

The thought is almost comforting in it's half-sensical insanity. But she knows it's not the truth. The second to last photo is of Marsha in the backseat of a truck. She's smiling at the camera, but her eyes are empty. Behind her is a sort of dome, made of something that might be glass or it might be-

"A forcefield," Marsha gasps, "Holy fucking shit."

With trembling fingers, she swipes to the next and last photo. It's of a group of people huddled together in front of an enormous screen. Each of them is grinning at the camera with all their teeth, eyes shining with the light of achievement.

("I always hated that photo," Wilson mutters, squinting at the screen, "I look kind of dead inside in it.")

The hands of several of those pictured are tilted up towards the giant screen behind them in a "tada!" symbol. A huge image of Marsha is on the screen, lounging on a hammock with a book in her hands.

"What the actual-" Marsha almost drops the phone. This is a setting she knows. The hammock is still hanging now on her porch. How the hell did these people get this photo, how the hell-

And then she knows.

On the uniform of every person in the photo is one word: LifeCorps. The room they are in, or at least the parts of it not taken up by the giant screen, look like some kind of control center. A keyboard spans the length of the screen, curving where it curves, every inch lined with different levers and switches and keys and buttons. Office chairs sit at intervals along the desk that houses the keyboard.

It's a control room. And what are they controlling? Her, of course. Marsha.

The next few moments fly by Marsha's mind's eye. She half-falls down the attic ladder, then down the main stairs as she rushes down to the first floor. She throws open the porch door, still gripping the phone in one hand. The Sun spills onto her face.

("Well, this is gonna be good," Bakkman mutters, leaning back in his chair. What is practically half of LifeCorps gathers around him and Wilson at his side, all eyes trained on Marsha.)

"Tell me the truth!" Marsha screams at the sky, thrusting the phone into the air with one arm, "What the hell is this? Who are you? Who am I? What the hell is LifeCorps?!"

No reply. The sky remains stagnant, the clouds still floating leisurely along in the clear blue.

"I know!" Marsha yells, and a laugh burbles up in her throat, "I know everything! I know LifeCorps exists! I know you're lying to me, so aren't you going to do anything about it?!"

Nothing.

"Tell me the truth!" she screams, her voice cracking.

"What truth, dearie?"

Marsha whirls around at this new voice behind her, expecting someone in a uniform with another cage in their arms. But it's only an old woman, dressed in white nurse's scrubs, her snow-white hair pulled into a low bun. Marsha raises her hands in defense, eyes wide.

"Who the hell are you?"

The woman frowns, gripping her clipboard tighter. Marsha's thoughts begin to reel. Had the woman had a clipboard this whole time? ("Nice touch," Bakkman nodded to someone from Division 21, who smiled in return.)

"Now, there's no need for that type of language, dearie. Don't you recognize me? I'm your nurse."

"My... Nurse...?" Marsha asked. The woman smiled warmly, and took a step forward, nodding.

Then, Marsha's surroundings began to change. She found that she was no longer on her porch, but in a white hallway lined with numbered doors. The high ceilings shone with florescent lights, and medical carts stood along the walls. Nurses milled around them, exiting rooms, and crossing things off on their clipboards. People walked down the hall and turned the corner into a new one, disappearing from sight.

Marsha looked down at her hand, suddenly frantic. The phone was gone. Marsha flexed her fingers, turned a circle to see if she'd dropped it, but no. It had disappeared.

"No," Marsha whispered, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! No! This can't be happening, this isn't real, I was just-"

"Calm down, dearie," the woman approached her, gripping Marsha by the arms. For her frail appearance, the woman was surprisingly strong.

"Try to remember," she soothed, "You are Marsha Frieds. You are a patient at Bakkman Psychiatric Hospital-"

(Cheers ring through the Control Room at this, hands clapping Bakkman on the shoulder as his face goes beet-red)

"...you have been here for several months, after experiencing delusions and attempting suicide-"

"No!" Marsha tries to pull away, but the woman plows on.

"We are trying to help you; I am trying to help you. You remember me. I am your assigned nurse, Nurse Elsen."

"No, no, no, no, no, no!" Marsha's attempts at escape become increasingly frantic, "This is a lie! You're lying! They're watching me, they've always been watching me, I need-"

She jerks one arm out of the elderly woman's grip.

"To know-"

Nurse Elsen purses her lips and uses her free hand to push a button on the wall. A flurry of doctors and nurses rush into the room. One of them grabs a medical cart from the wall.

"The tru-"

Marsha feels a stab in her elbow, and her eyes droop. She forgets what she was going to say, barely registering the cold floor against her bare arms as she collapses.

"Don't worry, dearie," Nurse Elsen leans over her with a kind smile. Her voice seems faraway, unimportant, her face already blurring, "You won't remember anything in a few hours."

Marsha's mind goes dark.

Booming applause explodes in the LifeCorps control room. Employees embrace, patting each other on the back, smiling up at the image of Marsha in the projection-asylum on the screen above them.

"Great job, everybody," the Chief declares, shaking the hand of someone from Division 27, "Amazing save. Gerard, and everyone else from Division 27, I'd like you give you all a special thanks-"

Loud cheers meet this statement, and the Chief grins wide.

"And to everyone over at Divisions 43, 18, 21, and 37 as well--we couldn't have done it without you."

The applause rings louder this time, and the Chief laughs along with his employees.

"Alright!" he bellows after a moment, still smiling, "Back to work, everybody! I know it's exciting and all, but LifeCorps must go on!"

The workers disperse, buzzing with laughter and light chatter.

"Not you, Bakkman and Wilson. I need to talk to you both in my office."

The two men sigh and cast one last glance at the screen behind them before trailing reluctantly after the Chief.

"All because I uploaded the wrong fucking photos," Bakkman sulks, shuffling his feet.

What he didn't know, was that those "wrong fucking photos" had just begun a whole new era for LifeCorps, and for Marsha Frieds.

Rory Bakkman was going to get one hell of a raise.

Usually you’d be glad if you’d found something you lost. Like finding a lost piece of treasure you hid away unintentionally for later you to find. But I’m not sure if I wanted to find what I hid this time. 183 gigabytes, this was how mush space was left on my phone when I lost it. Yet now nothing, there’s not a single gig of storage left. Instead it’s been replaced by nothing. Well not nothing it was just thousands of blank photos. Yet strangely none would open, guess all of them where corrupted. I still wish that I left it there, I wish I just formatted the phone and sold it. Instead I tried to take a picture of it. I wanted to send it to my friends but the photo I got wasn’t the one I took. The photo was completely dark and then all my photos disappeared. Everything on my phone went dark. I still don’t know how it spread. I wanted to tell my friends what happened so I tried to use the old phone but as soon as it connected to my houses server it spread, nothing in my house was left untouched. I wanted to leave so I ran for my car but as soon as I turn it on I unleashed it. My car instantly connected to the server for its paid features and it spread like a virus. Everything in Europe was infected by day 3. By the first week humanity was sent back to a time without machine. It never stopped though. It just kept going it started to seep out like blood. Everything is gone. I maybe have half an hour left and I’m spending it alone while writing this book.