B3L13V3

  

 

Yesterday was normal. So regular, boringly normal that I can still remember every detail:

Dad was sitting at the table, eyes glued to the newspaper.

Mom hummed her song off key while pouring coffee.

My slippers were on the left side of the bed, where they've been since the last decade.

The fridge clock stuck at 9:17 for exactly sixty seconds before ticking forward again.

Everyday cycle. Regular, boring, unchanged.

This morning, I woke up, or at least I think I did, and nothing was the same.

The slippers were on the right side. Not close, but perfectly aligned, as if carefully placed.

The fridge clock wasn’t analog anymore. A square LED one blinked in steady pulses, like a heartbeat.

The toothbrush in the cup was red, rather than blue. I could swear I’d used that blue one for years, or had I?

Small changes. Easy to dismiss. But when you know every corner of your life, you notice when it bends.

I whispered to myself, “It’s fine. I’m just tired.”

Then Dad walked in.

His beard was gray and heavy, thick as a brush. His hair was longer, falling on his forehead. He looked like a man who had been unkempt for weeks.

I asked him how he grew such a beard in one day or if it was fake. He just smiled in a way that didn’t reflect in his eyes.

“It’ll all make sense soon, just trust us.” He said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked. He ignored me as if the sentence had never reached his ears.

My insides turned.

The house was full of cracks that could no longer be ignored,

The cereal box in the cupboard was already half empty, I clearly remembered buying it the day before. Who ate it? When?

The TV anchors smiled with familiar faces, but their mouths didn’t match the words. Their voices echoed half a second too late.

Family photos looked off, same clothes, same living room, but my smile didn’t reach my eyes. I looked distant.

The whole experience? Uncanny.

I had an obvious expression on my face, one that showed I knew everything wasn’t normal.

My parents noticed.

“Sit down,” Mom said. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“You’re just confused,” Dad said shortly after. His voice was too soft, like he was reading a rehearsed line.

When I tried to leave, they blocked the door. Mom’s hand brushed mine, ice cold. Dad’s eyes were red, tired, but he didn’t say a word.

I shoved past them and ran outside. They didnt follow.

I tried calling emergency services. Instead of a dispatcher, a cheerful hold jingle played. But the jingle warped, first slowing down, then speeding up, like a cassette tape melting in heat. No voice ever came on the line.

I hung up, heart pounding.

The street was filled with taxis idling in silence. Every cabbie wore mirrored sunglasses. Heads turned in unison as I sprinted past. One stepped out and reached for me with perfectly predicted timing.

I struggled and fought free, stumbling forward, and spotted a cop at the corner.

“Help! I need help! The people, my parents, everything-” I shouted.

She turned slowly, her eyes calm and unblinking. “I know,” she said. “I’ve seen this before.”

When I blinked my eyes, I woke up in a hospital bed. A doctor removed some sort of equipment, almost like a helmet, from my head. Machines buzzed around me. My parents sat on either side, gripping my hands too tight.

“You fainted,” Dad said gently.

“You’re very sick,” Mom whispered. “But this is for your treatment.”

A man in a lab coat stepped into the room. He didn’t introduce himself. His voice was flat, and without a speck of emotion.

“You are part of a controlled experiment,” he said. “Your memory resets at the end of each cycle. You retain fragments from before, but nothing more. Each day is reconstructed with changes: subtle shifts in the environment, behavioral changes in family, technology adjustments. The goal is simple, to find out how long it takes before you place complete, unquestioning trust in the procedure. Let what is happening happen, go through with it. That is all we ask of you.”

I stared at him. “And if I fail to?"

“Then we reset the cycle again,” he said. “Until you do.”

On the monitor beside me, a batch number blinked steadily, reading B3L13V3.

Mom squeezed my hand harder. Dad kept his eyes down, trying to hold back his emotions.

I’ve tried leaving signs.

A smudge on the bathroom mirror.

An X carved into a coin in my pocket.

A scar on the tissue at the base of my thumb.

Every reset blurs them, fades them. Sometimes changes them completely. But some traces survive. That’s how I know it isnt all in my mind.

The cereal box dates. The beard growth. The length of shadows outside the window. I thought only one day had passed. Fourteen days have gone. Maybe more.

They keep putting me back at the start.

I don’t think the machine only affects memory. I believe it warps reality itself.

Sometimes the resets feel too perfect. Objects placed with inhuman precision, conversations delivered like scripted lines. Other times, it glitches: jingle loops, smiles out of sync, my own handwriting appearing where I don’t remember leaving it.

What if the real world is just another layer? What if I’ve never actually left the machine?

I don’t know how many times this has happened.

I don’t know how much of me survives between loops.

I don’t even know if writing this will survive.

But I can feel it from the looks in their eyes, they’re about to plug me in again.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up. My slippers will be in the wrong place. The fridge will hum differently. Mom will hum her song out of key. Dad will say to trust them. Yet, somehow about all of it will be different, something I can not place my finger on.

And I’ll know it’s all wrong. I always do. But no matter how many times I fight, no matter how many marks I leave, they’ll reset me.

They won’t stop until I break.

They won’t stop until I submit.

And maybe that is why i never will.

 

****

 

Credits