Page 59 of Forgotten
“I used to have this family in The Sims,” Ash tells me and then pauses, as if giving me time to ask what The Sims is. As if I could ever forget the life simulation gamehe’s been obsessed with since we were little kids. He used to come round my house to play it, because his parents never let him on the family computer. I used to sit by him as he played, keeping count of the graves of the Sims he would drown in the pool.
Ash had a different smile, back then. More tormented. I don’t miss it.
“I’m listening,” I tell him.
“It was me and you. We lived in the desert and at some point, I got us a dog. Queen Cupcake. She was a Shepherd.”
“Queen Cupcake?”
“The name was auto-generated.”
“Right. And we lived in the desert?”
“I didn’t want to deal with bad weather. I made us a little villa and I made us immortal and we just lived, did our thing. You had a guitar and I was writing books.”
“You made us immortal?” After a weekend of illness, immortality sounds pretty fucking good.
“Yes. I had to, after that one time we accidentally set the kitchen on fire and I died. It took me weeks to bring the ghost back to life and so I had to take precautions.”
“Exactly how many hours have you spent playing with our fake selves?”
“I shan’t say.”
“Fucking spill.”
“I wouldn’t be able to quantify. It was across different games. The Sims Two, Sims Three, Four,” Ash admits, an adorable blush colouring his cheeks.
I don’t push it. “You set the kitchen on fire, huh?”
“Shut up. Don’t make this about my cooking.”
“I literally don’t even need to.”
Rolling over onto his stomach, Ash curls beside me and hides his nose in the space under my armpit.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” he mutters against the cotton of my pyjama shirt.
“No, I’m glad you did.” I hesitate before asking him, “So how is real life with me? Better than the game?”
Ash pushes himself closer to me, draping one arm across my stomach. He makes himself impossibly small, my tall strong boy.
“So much better.” The words are soft and I know Ash is almost asleep. “Maybe we could adopt a dog, one day. Winnie needs a friend.”
I run my left hand up and down his side. “Queen Cupcake?”
“Queen Cupcake.” It’s the last thing Ash tells me before he’s out like a light.
The next morning, I wake up before Ash. I make my way upstairs to check on Winnie and I find her awake in her crib, playing with a stuffed teddy bear. When she sees me, her entire face lights up and I pick her up for a hug. I change her and dress her and then I stare at the messy twists in her hair. My fingers itch and I remove my brace, deciding that if I could braid before the accident, I must still be able to. Following an instinct, I carry Winnie to the playroom and set her on a little stool in front of the dollhouse.
“I will be right back,” I tell her and then I go into the bathroom looking for supplies. I find a pink box next tothe sink filled with brushes and hair ties and hair clips. I grab it and leave the bathroom.
“The twins and I are driving on Friday evening. Do you think he’ll be okay?”
The sound of Erik Bergman’s voice echoes down the stairs and I try not to listen. I fail. If he doesn’t want me to listen, Ash should stop putting his family calls on speaker.
“Honestly I don’t know. I’ve been worried.”
“Bro, we’ve been worried. It’s been months now and nothing has changed,” Martin (or Edwin) chimes in. Without seeing them I’m never sure who is who.
