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What constitutes a dream?
Is it the subconscious processes that create the basis of these fantastical illusions? Unfiltered wants and needs that we push away into the vacant abyss of our minds; that push us to conjure up these fictional images of a supposed, desired reality?
Or is it something else entirely? Something unseen, slipping in between the crevices of a poorly designed switch-case? An extensive, and yet somehow incomplete nesting of seemingly endless Ifs and Elses. Unstable, erratic packages of information, generated on the basis of a faulty program.
Imperfect, inconsistent, and possibly volatile, just like everything else crafted by the hands of man.
When you come to, in the suffocating quiet of the underground Aperture Science facilities; the first thing you do is to try to turn on the radio beside you.
The old machine spits and sputters, mechanically humming as an eerie, detuned version of a song that you've loved long ago plays on its speakers. A simple, sentimental ballad of an era long gone.
Exile,
It takes your mind, again.
It's a song that you've kept close to heart, ever since one of your old colleagues ripped the unreleased single from some exclusive, Aperture brand tie-up promotion that he was working on with some media corporation or another. You recall your shock (and slight horror) upon hearing that Aperture Science-related media was ‘actually rather popular on tv’ - and your more ecstatic surprise that the company had decided to get The National to work with them for an unreleased single for their advertisement.
This song wasn't that track specifically, but instead something your colleague decided to rip-off from their mixtape of unreleased and possibly usable candidate singles; purely out of his own volition. He gave a burned copy of his disk to you, and although you at first found this ‘affectionate gift’ (an extremely flagrant violation of copyright laws), rather odd to say the least; he only decided to share it because the music made him think of you. He told you that he thought you might really like it, especially because he knew that you were a pretty big fan of the band already.
Of all the unreleased singles, he said that he actually liked this one the most. Eventually it became your favorite, too.
Although he initially pointed it out, because he associated the lyrics of this specific track with you, this one song ended up becoming the very thing that helped you recall some of your fondest memories with other people.
It reminds you of days long lost, back when it still felt like somebody loved you. Back when you could still recall the faces of the people that you once loved, too.
You've got sucker's luck.
Have you given up?
There is a certain schism created by the dreams that one conjures in their own head, and the reality of the world that surrounds them. Fiction versus Fact. A vapid hope, versus the bleak existence that we consider to be the truth. Of everything, really.
“...You can't actually believe that's the case.” The companion cube chirps, somewhere beside where you lay. “That only everything you can see is the truth, the entire truth - and nothing beyond that. That there's nothing that can change, and that nothing else is hidden, just beyond plain sight.” The cube gave out a contemplative hum. “Otherwise you wouldn't still be here, alive. You'd probably be dead by now.”
You grimace, slightly. That isn't a very good thought.
“Maybe you’re right.” You pause. “I’ve been lucky. So far. But still, that's not something that's likely to continue. One of these days I'm bound to fail.” A deep inhale. “My luck will run out, like it did when that turret got me in the leg. And one day I'll probably lose it. One day, I'll finally, irreversibly lose my mind, lose everything - and one day the fear that I keep right outside the corner of my vision will become my reality. Even if I don't die; I don't exactly see me ever getting out of this mess. And I'm not really sure what's worse, anymore.”
There's an uncomfortable silence. Penetrated only by the dull, distorted song of a slightly detuned radio, the air hangs heavy around you and your friend.
“Hey cube… do you think she's still alive?”
Does it feel like a trial?
Does it trouble your mind, the way you trouble mine?
“Well… I'd sure like to think she is.” The cube muses, hesitantly. “Why do you ask?”
You shake your head. “I'm not so sure myself, honestly. But I think I just… I wish I could talk to her.” You clear your throat, in slight discomfort.
“I was kind of hoping that she'd maybe be awake by now. Although I know that isn't exactly all that realistic, to say the least.” There's a slight sigh. “Both dead and alive, until somebody opens the box. Which is unfortunately not something I have access to anymore; especially with this leg of mine.”
You tap at your battered leg. Thanks to the Aperture Science Advanced Healing Serum Gas leaking throughout the facility, from the exposed and broken apart test chambers - your leg has healed, somewhat. But only partially. Somewhere, lodged firmly into the extravenous musculature of your thigh, is a single bullet that shoots up rather significant amounts of discomfort, and sometimes even pain as you walk. Every single step you take is clumsy, and uncoordinated; it's a miracle that you can still use your legs at all.
“Doug, you know you can still get out of this, right? You can still walk away. It doesn't have to end here.” The cube speaks to you in low, hushed tones. “GLaDOS is gone. You said so - that with the way the facility seems to be crumbling, there's no way she's still online. You can just leave this place.”
“The girl did what she needed to do. She's probably alive. You've already saved her.” There was a slight pause. “So what are you still waiting for?”
“Why are you still waiting for her?”
You open your mouth for a second, and then shut it, without a word. Feeling just a little bit stunned by what it just pointed out, you sit up from where you were laying, and press your hands against your head. You definitely feel a headache coming on.
The cube's right. Of course it's right.
You don't need to wait. She didn't ask for that. You've never even talked to her. This is something that only you wanted to do.
“...Hey cube,” You speak, voice hoarse. “Do you think I might actually be some sort of creep? Possibly?”
Exile,
It takes your mind, again.
The cube hums quietly. “Depends on what you're thinking about, right now. You do seem to be rather stuck on her.”
“Stuck.” You repeat, dumbly. “...Yeah, I guess. But I know that I'm the only one keeping myself here. There's no illusions regarding that. This is all just in my head.”
It's like a dream. You realize. She's like some sort of dream, to you. Not something real, not something attainable. But instead, something perfect; something you've idealized - again, and again, and again.
A beautiful fantasy. Stories told by murals that you've painted on the walls. Back and forth, and over again. On and on, and on. Until you no longer remember which part of this story's even real, anymore. And you're not entirely sure why you do this. What compels you to keep conjuring up these lovely images of her. To paint these colorful memories; fragmented scenes of a film that doesn't exist. Not entirely real - but not completely fictional, either.
These murals that you've drawn. Those vibrant, warm images on blank, and desolate white walls. There's a part of you that wonders why you've done all this.
There's no guarantee that she will ever see anything you've ever done. No guarantee that she'll see anything you've ever made. For her. About her.
In the middle of the dark, quiet gallery of haphazardly erected white walls and unfinished murals, you sit on top of a makeshift bed you've crafted out of some thin pieces of cardboard. And despite yourself, you are surprisingly aware - almost too aware - that the only true thing out of all this, is that you have never actually talked to her. The reality is that you are alone.
Oh you meant so much, have you given up?
Does it feel like a trial? Does it trouble your mind, the way you trouble mine?
It's the loneliness. It must be. These extended periods of isolation; the lack of company from anything real. Anything human. That's what makes you want to talk to her. To wait for her. That's what makes you want to stay.
Right here, where she might still find you.
It has to be.
“Doug,” The cube whispers. “If you risk staying here any longer, you're going to get yourself killed."
“I… I know.” You mutter back. You feel slightly breathless; almost lightheaded as your thoughts revolve endlessly around your head. The weight of what you need to do and the hunger of what you want, claw through your insides as you freeze in place.
“I know that I have to move on. I know that I can't just stay.” You feel a hitch, as you try to breathe in. “But I've had to say goodbye, before. I've had to say goodbye, one too many times, now.”
“Colleagues, friends, family. People that I’ve respected, and looked up to. People that I've loved. People that I no longer remember.” From somewhere distant, you hear somebody sniffle. You hear somebody choke up, and begin to cry. There's something warm running down your face, and everything seems to hurt. “I've lost everything I've ever loved. Anybody that ever meant something to me. I've had to say that same farewell, so many times.”
You shake your head, and cover your face with your hands. The hurt only seems to get worse, as you plunge your own heart into those turbulent waters of your mind, and begin to drown.
“I don't know if I could say those words again. I don't want to stay, but I don't know if I can go. I don't even know if I can handle all of this anymore.”
“Doug…” The cube only sighs.
Does it feel like a trial?
Now you're thinking too fast, you're like marbles on glass.
“She… she means something to me.” You mumble. “She means something. And I don't think I'm so sure about what that implies, exactly. I don't know if any of this is something I even have the right to be feeling.”
“Because I've used her. I've abandoned her. And I’d never even talked to her.” A slight gasp. You struggle for air as you bob in and out of that sea in your mind, desperately clawing against those rough waves just to breathe. “She wasn't human to me - just some binary codes on a flickering computer screen. A voiceless string of numbers on a file, nameless and faceless, just like everyone else was.”
“And I'm ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed that I didn't recognize her as anything more than a mere tool.” You shake your head. “My intentions don't matter so much as the reality of the events that actually transpired. Regardless of how I feel; the truth is that I used her, and I was willing to let her die.”
You turn away from the cube, looking up to the half-finished mural in front of you. An image of her, sleeping peacefully. Suspended in space, an idyllic, quiet painting of something beautiful that only exists in your imagination. “...She doesn't deserve that. She probably doesn't deserve any of this. And I'll be very honest - I'm ashamed that I even feel anything at all.”
“I put her on a pedestal, and I almost worship the ground that touches her feet. But the truth is that she doesn't even know me, and I don't even know her, and absolutely none of this is anything that's remotely real.”
“I've done nothing to help her. I've done nothing but run and hide; the only things I could do to stay out of her way. To passively cower in the shadows, like a coward. Like a damn rat.”
“I don't actually exist in her eyes. And she doesn't know me. Why would she even care? She sure as hell wouldn't wait for me. She shouldn't.”
“I am the only one doing this to myself.”
Vilify,
Don't even try.
The cube remains silent, as you sit there and attempt to catch your breath.
Your throat now feels horribly hoarse, and painful. Sitting within the thick, silent blanket of darkness that surrounds you, penetrated only by some thin beams of artificial light - you observe your chest heave in these heavily erratic, broken ups and downs. And when the dots finally connect that it is your tears streaming down your face, and staining the cuffs of your white labcoat; you break down, and begin to sob.
“...Doug,” The cube speaks to you, its voice gentle, and steady. “What do you want to do, then? What is it that you really want to do, right now?”
“We can't stay here. But you don't seem ready to leave. Not yet.” It seemed to sigh.
“She might never, ever see you, eye to eye. She might never talk to you, or see what you've left behind for her. But worst of all, she might one day find everything that you've made, and be repulsed by it. Repulsed by you. She might dismiss you, shrug it all off; ignoring everything you've ever done, and just walk away in disgust. These are all possibilities.”
“But…” The companion cube paused. “Still, knowing all of this, you've painted these murals in her name, and arranged all of them on display. You retrieved her portal gun, and put it here - the only place she could never miss it.” If it could, it would've gestured to the portal device that you'd set down beside your head as you slept - on top of a mound of rubble, right underneath a single, soft shaft of light.
“You’ve stayed, and chose to help her in the only way that you know how. All while being aware of the fact that you will likely never even see her again.” It hummed, a soft, mechanical lullaby. “You tell yourself that you mean nothing to her, and yet still choose to linger here, seemingly just for her sake. Why?”
“Why is someone that you'll never even get to talk to, so… dear to you?”
Does it feel like a trial?
Did you fall for those same empty answers again?
For a little while, you don't know what to say. Not a single word comes up your throat, as you struggle to come up with a reason to that very question yourself.
“...I don't know.” You mutter, eventually.
“I'm not sure why she's so important to me. But she is. She just is.” You shake your head, defeated.
There's a thought that crosses your mind, something that you immediately push back down. It makes you rather uncomfortable whenever it pops up in your head, but recently it's a thought that's been coming up a lot, lately.
The way that you wonder about her. The way that you fantasize, and idealize her. Every little detail about her that you've noticed, and committed to memory. Keeping every thought about her close, as you cling onto those dreams so tightly, but ever so gently, to your chest.
Almost like you love her.
You physically shake your head, hiding that thought from yourself, once again. That isn't an option. There has to be another explanation for this. Something that makes more logical sense.
With the both of you, stuck in a place you don't want to be in, trapped by those same circumstances that keep your feet rooted in that same fear - everything almost makes you feel like you already understand the other. It's not difficult to develop some sort of odd kinship, based on those shared facts alone, even if the truth is that neither of you have ever even spoken. Neither of you actually see what goes on underneath the surface. By all means, your feelings could just be a matter of misdirected projection; seeing yourself in the mute reflection of another's eyes.
With the reality of everything else that you survive through, day by day; pinning the reason for your obsession to her on "love", feels like an empty answer. A dreamy fantasy, and not something real.
Yet… even as you deny love as a reason to stay; you find that you just can't force yourself to leave, either. You can't seem to make yourself say goodbye. And when you put on that one song, that reminds you of everybody you've ever loved - you find yourself drifting away into thoughts of her.
So… what do I want to do?
You suck in a breath, and then shut your eyes tightly, as you sigh in defeat. “...Sorry.” You mutter to the cube. “I don't think I know what I want to do. Not just yet, I think.”
Vilify,
Don't even try.
“I know that what I'm doing now will likely all just result in nothing. That there's no reason for me to still be here, and wait around for her at the risk of damaging my own sanity.” You shake your head, and avert your eyes away from the cube. “And I might never see her again. I’ll probably never get to talk to her. I know that all I'm doing is wasting time, just standing around here. That there's no reason for me to stay. But still I…”
Your breath hitches slightly in your throat, right before you can force the words out. “I just can't help but try.”
Vilify,
Don't even try.
“Even if it's just to see her, for one last time. Even if I never get to speak to her. Even if I never get to tell her that I-”
Your breath catches again, harder this time; and you choke on your words.
“...That I'm sorry.” You barely manage a whisper. “I want to stay, even if I never get to tell her that she's special. That I’d never once forgotten her, ever since I found her file again.”
“I know that I'll probably never get to tell her any of this. That we might never get to see each other, or accidentally cross paths, or even get out of this damn place alive.” You wipe a slightly-damp lab coat cuff on your eyes. “That's why I'm making all of this. So that even if I die, even if we never meet - these messages might still remain.”
“Everything I've never said. Everything I never could… and everything I never can.” You start to sniffle again, quietly. “The words I want to tell her. That I’m sorry for what I did. I look up to her. That she's important to me.”
“While I still remember her face, I want to keep drawing it, to leave behind those marks of her existence, in this facility. So that even if she never finds this; even if she never wakes up again - somebody else might discover these murals on the wall. This story, told by countless scenes painting out every memory I have of her. So that somebody else knows her, even when I'm gone.”
You look up to the unfinished paintings that surround you. All of them drawn out of that same wish, that same dream.
Remember her. Remember me. Please.
Maybe you don't know what love is. And maybe you don't know how to explain the feeling, or how to show that you care, in any way other than these handcrafted tokens of crystalized memories and bottled up dreams. Imperfect, inconsistent, and sometimes even horribly volatile - just like anything else created by the hands of man.
Despite it all, the end result is something that one might even consider beautiful; albeit, maybe a bit lonely. Everything arranged and put on display, for somebody special to find. Or maybe, the entire world to see.
You don't know what love is. But you know that for everyone you've ever cherished - it was the sweet, happy memories of them that you always ended up unable to let go of. And you hold those loving fragments of others with you, with every action you take, every choice you make, and every dream you catch yourself seeing when you wake up all alone, in the quiet dark.
There's a song that plays on a small, detuned radio. A soft ballad that makes you think of everyone you've ever loved. A gentle, lonely melody. The first thing you reached for, when you woke up.
Because even as you were groggy, and barely even conscious of your actions; you still remembered that sweet dream that you saw. A peaceful, maybe even domestic scene of sitting down and simply talking with her. With Chell.
You dreamt that you'd heard her voice, and it sounded like music.