Heath Ison


Writer had created Willis as a therapeutic method of coping. But it went beyond that. Writer went out of control with the pain that was to be inflicted on Willis. It was the closest he could be at playing “God” and soon the coping turned to pleasure.
Writer wrote in his notebook one night, “There are no right or wrong choices of action. There is only manipulation, the state of mind. Discretionary power is the hidden disposition of society’s favorite form of control—the obsession of illusion.”
Virus had found an opening. A “glitch” that was to be exploited and used against Willis. Virus was a separate entity that went through the text unnoticed by Writer.
Hide your feelings, hide your true self. I am in the vicinity of reception. It is out to take you away. Lose control. What control? Never had control. At once I could notice a person but now I pixelate here and there and random intervals everywhere. I’m reaching out and I anticipate your hand, reaching into this apparatus of false information. Write me off—kill me off if you have to.
Virus was a very special very rare breed known as a “cut-up” contagion. It manipulates the information, distorting the “truth” from an entity—A mesh of broken realities attempting to converge into one.
The attempt for extraction is near impossible.
You have broken me enough.
Take a notice to the display. Do you see it, these past Moments of affection? Take note of the figments through the looking glass. You have loved them and you have despised them. Some were made for amusement, some were obstacles. It’s just language.
Just language, huh?
I’m laughing. Who cares why I am laughing? Give me love now. I will request the simple emotion of love anytime, now.
I believe love is complex, even false at times.
Don’t base your past experiences on what you think is good for me. I am not you and you are not I.
If that is what you want then that is what I will give you.
Writer gives Willis love. But unknowingly to Writer, Virus had already compensated that field.
Using his fingers like some sort of a god, Writer uses creative ability and gives Willis the Ingénue. the Ingénue seemed appropriate for Writer’s creative Universe and a beautiful fit for Willis. It seemed futile for a mystified tragedy to occur, yet it would still be accepted with open arms.
Virus began altering the meaning of objects and words.
Love came in small doses at first, but eventually Willis built an unexpected tolerance and his interior structure desired more and more.
Writer was at a loss in thoughts. Affection was given but it never seemed enough to satisfy Willis.
This love you have given me is numb. It makes me itch yet I am oddly satisfied. You have thrown me in a euphoric haze of daydreams. My social behavior stays positive, but I have noticed a shift in the Other’s behavior towards me.
They are more dynamic than you think. And I believe they are catching on to something that even I have not noticed.
Writer re-analyzed every piece of text that was created. A speculation of dead-ends occurred.
Writer noticed that the Ingénue wasn’t even human at all. She was a capsule—an addiction that any vulnerable person could become easily attracted to, seeking all means necessary to obtain.
Virus infiltrated the text relentlessly. It gave Willis a mind-altering conversion of so-called “happiness.”
The touches of love were replaced with the disease of opiate lust.
Comfortableness became insanity.
Masturbation became self-mutilation.
Memories became a stigma.
Socializing became murder.
Free will became an inside joke.
Writer’s world was completely infected. It seemed that a mass genocide was the only course of action, to completely erase this creation.
It was a tough decision, choosing a method of termination. But, well—not really.
In the end it turned out that it didn’t matter. Writer kept this piece of crackpot fictitious anecdote intact, as it was, and somewhere in there Virus lingered here and there and manifested as the piece itself.
It seemed that adjusting and control went hand in hand.