Better than my life. Chapter 8

8

When I came home I sat in front of my computer. Now I saw it was very old, an ancient model. They were new when I was a kid, but now they looked too big and too old.
Anyway, I had to think not about computers, but about my situation.
So when I opened that door I went right into my past. How did the game reconstructed my past? How did they know about Peter, about the test and Mrs Pridey? The answer was simple, it was logical, but I didn’t like it.
Anyway, I had to say this to myself. They knew everything from my head. They could read my memories. They could even read things which I thought I didn’t remember. For example, the images of our school were so real. Every little detail was correct. And Peter, and my mother… They were real, and they weren’t. They were images in my head.
So when I saw those doors…It was a model of my memory, and I could open any door I liked. I could try every door, and each door would bring me to some moment of my past. Could I change anything? Of course, not in the real world. But I wasn’t sure. Actually, the most dangerous thing of computer era was happening to me. I didn’t know where reality was, and I didn’t know what it was. All I knew I was somewhere in my past. Maybe I could live my life again. How old was I now? Hey, no, it’s a stupid question. You can’t ask that. You must ask, ‘How old am I now?’ Anyway, the most important thing for me now was to speak to my Mum. Everything else would wait. She was alive, but I knew that in two days after that test which I failed she would die. All my life I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to think that she died because of me, of that damned test. Now I understood perfectly well why I chose that door. I wanted my mother to be alive. I wanted to change that. I wanted to stop her. She wouldn’t travel by the underground in two days, the crowd of people in a hurry wouldn’t push her in front of a train. So I have to speak to her. But what should I say?
I went into the small living room. My Mum was sitting there. She was waiting for me.
‘Listen, Mum!’, I said with difficulty, ‘I must tell you something’.
‘Is it about the test?’ she asked. Her voice was sad, as if she knew something I didn’t know. A secret which made her sad.
‘Well, yes and know. You know, the test is all right. I have passed.’
She smiled at me and looked at the window. There was her favourite picture. A forest, a small river and some birds. My heart was going to break from love to her. I felt tears in my voice but controlled it.
‘Mum, everything will be OK! Don’t worry too much! When you worry everything could happen…’
I stopped because the security video system said that we had a visitor.
‘Are you waiting for somebody?’ she asked.
I was surprised.
‘No! And you?’
But she has already pressed the button which opened the doors for our visitor. Now I could see him. It was my friend Peter. I could see him and hear him, while he was travelling to our 76th floor in a speed lift. He was singing a stupid song. I could hear the words, those ancient but stupid words:
Oh, my little sixpence, my pretty little sixpence,
I love sixpence better than my life;
I spent a penny of it, I lent another,
And I took nothing home to my wife.
Oh, my little nothing, my pretty little nothing,
What will nothing buy for my wife?
I have nothing, I spend nothing,
I love nothing better than my wife.