A young lad tries to deal with procrastination and distractions. His brain gives him a hand.
"You should have done this earlier," my mind decides to remind me. A Swedish streamer is blathering mindlessly in his foreign tongue from the speakers in my laptop. Five tabs are open simutaneously, most being socia media outlets.
I stare at a blank page. The laptop hums a gentle noise as it charges upon my lap.
"I know," I respond. The cushion of the bed underneath me provides a comfy oasis for the nerve cells in my butt. If not for the double layer of clothing, my butt would be coated in a blanket bonanza. I wouldn't do that to my blankets, though.
I rub the soft stubble on my chin.
I could write this paper for class in no time if I didn't have all of these distractions in front of me.
"Then get rid of the distractions."
"You don't understand, I need these." I check my Twitter to see if anyone's retweeted my last message. I can see my tanned, flawless reflection on the blank screen as it loads.
"Why do you need these?"
"Shut up." I force my hands onto the keyboard and start the story. It begins with a guy sitting at his laptop, staring at a blank screen as he tries to figure out how to start his story.
"You're just describing your situation."
"And it works, right?" My lap is starting to get hot from the laptop's exhaust. Good thing sperm is produced more rapidly under warmer temperatures. I think.
"I do not know. I need confirmation from the teacher."
"It would also be alright if I just used a whole lot of dialogue cues to eat up the space count." I snicker as I continue to type in every word of my "character's" conversation with his mind. He's perfect in every way; good looking, smart, dependable, and puts his money where his mouth is. He's just kinda bad at thinking of story plots. Not that that affects his perfection or anything.
This is brilliant. And what an interesting story, too! A boy who can't think of anything to write as a story, so he decides to write a story about a conversation with himself, contrasting the troublesome nature of the narrator and the logical processing of his brain! It's like a character study within a character study, with a mundane plot!
With a triumphant nod and forty-two words down, I go back to the Swedish speaking streamer and converse with the losers in the associated chatroom.
"This paper is due in four hours." My brain is trying to distract me from my distractions.
"That's plenty of time. I can finish up this paper in an hour." Someone in the chatroom just called me a "meme faggot." What an asshole.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes," I respond, "I'll get it done. Trust me."
"Similar situations in the past have led me to the conclusion that you cannot be trusted." Why does my mind have to be so chatty?
"So I've blown off a few assignments," I say snidely, arguing with both my mind and the denizens of the chatroom. "What're you gonna do about it?"
"I will do it for you."
I suddenly feel odd. My body is getting colder; cold to the point of numbness. It starts with my hands and crawls up to my chest, then spreads out in every direction. I tilt my head upwards, as if I were trying to avoid drowning in deserted water, but to no avail. The feeling of nothing envelops my eyes and my vision goes black. I no lon-
"I am now in control."
"What? Where am I?" I try to look around, but I see nothing. I try to move, but I feel nothing. I try to breath, but I can't seem to. I'm trapped within empty space, unable to do anything but comprehend my situation.
"You are where I used to reside." I heard that. Did it hear me?
"Hello?" The word is monotone.
"Hello." The word is also monotone.
"Who's... talking to me?" I can think it, but I can't hear it. I just know that I'm reacting.
"What do you mean? Where am I? Why can't I do or feel anything?"
"I have taken over control of your body. I decided you were not suitable for the task at hand. I will return control upon completion of your paper."
I should be panicking, but I feel nothing.
"Where am I?" I repeat.
"I have placed you within yourself. You are currently being harbored inside of your brain, where I used to maintain full control."
"I am using nearly a hundred percent of the brain to control every aspect of your being. However, to attain control of your conscious, I must disconnect myself from most of the brain's involuntary functions."
"How is that possible?" If my brain is using itself to push me aside and do everything itself, how can it lose control of... itself?
"I do not know."
"If you aren't using most of the brain's functions, how am I still alive?"
"You are establishing control of the remaining functions of the brain."
"I'm controlling my brain? That seems... redundant." I was able to let out a joke to no audience but myself. "How is this possible?"
"Going into detail would exert me too much. I can only attain control for a limited time."
"Then give me control of my body back."
"I am doing this for your sake. Do not oppose." The words are still monotone, however, hostility seems apparent. "I will return control upon completion of your paper."
"I want control now." It doesn't answer.
"I want control now." It doesn't answer.
It's no use, it won't respond to me now. Answering me any more than it has to will only exert it more. Wait, what's to come if it overexerts itself? Will it lose control? It mentioned that I control some parts of the brain. If I can control some portions of the brain-
"Please refrain from doing anything unnecessary," it finally answers.
"I want control."
"If I overexert my current position, then the body will fail and you will die."
"I want control." It doesn't respond.
What can I control? How can I control? I try to imagine my stomach. The image is provided to me upon a few moments of concentration. It's currently in the middle of digestion. Fluid and acid serenade the walls of the constricting body of the stomach. I wonder if I could make it stop.
"You are making a mistake."
The heart pumps blood with every passing second. The sound of its tubes closing providing a solid snap. The blood circulates in a military fashion. It comes and goes in rapid succession. The sign of life in any living thing. I wonder if I could keep the tubes shut.
"I'm warning you." The words don't appear monotone anymore. It's scared. Scared of what it knows I'm willing to do.
Can I just shut myself down?
I blink. My vision returns, but it's blurry. It feels as if I just awoke from a deep hibernation. The Swedish streamer's voice reaches my ears, but it's jumbled, more than it already was. I slowly uncurl my fingers into a spider's crawl. I move my eyes from side to side. I take one deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.
I'm back. And incredibly exhausted. I could go to sleep right now and never wake up.
I look down at my laptop to see my word document up. It's the same as when I was taken from it. A few lines of dialogue between a boy and his mind. All of my tabs remain intact. The chatroom is still abuzz, begging the streamer to speak English. Twitter has zero notifications.
"You couldn't even think of anything either." I close my eyes and bob my head. "You just ended up being another distraction."