“If and when society decides… that virtual reality is an acceptable and legal form of punishment, serious thought must be given to the scope and allowance of different virtual environments society uses to punish.”
– Jose A. Mancado
Indiana Journal of Law and Social Equity
Volume 8, Issue 2
This is going to be the best prom ever. Of course, since I’ve never been to any prom before, it’s easy to set that bar wherever I choose. You might think I’m too old for such nonsense, that someone like me doesn’t even deserve it. But it’s going to happen, and I’m going to be the belle of the ball. I just need the dress.
Dances and parties weren’t a part of my teens. I couldn’t afford fancy clothes or limousine rides. Chemical engineering degrees don’t come easy where I’m from. Without a scholarship, I was doomed to the thread factory. The family curse. That fear pushed me forward, kept me striving.
With school, work, and Stevie, I had no time for childish things. Mom was a waste of air, a saggy body in a tv-lit room, choking on tar and methadone. The blanket I sewed for her, a Kevlar core wrapped in fabric coated with zirconium acetate and hexafluorozirconate, was cross-hatched with near-misses. Cigarette burns. The nods, it was called. No appreciation was shown for my handiwork, for the delicate brocade with filigreed corners. It had taken months of late nights to work the material, only to have my beautiful creation become an ashtray. I didn’t make it for her, though. I did it for Stevie. The last incident involved the fire department. My little brother didn’t deserve to burn to death or asphyxiate because our mom was a zombie and our dad was a ghost.
When her insurance ran out and I had to quit school to afford her medication, I did the only thing I could.
She never noticed the new blanket I gave her. Didn’t complain at all about the oily smell. She didn’t say a word when I told her Stevie and I were leaving. Just sat there, coughing. Watching Wheel.
They said that’s why I’m here, all the therapists and psychoanalysts. PTSD. Neglect. Temporary psychopathy due to childhood relational trauma, they called it. I call it bullshit, though. I’m no more damaged than the next person. We all have trauma.
No, I’m here – wherever here is – as a result of my own very intentional choices. I could have done things differently. I should have just taken Stevie and left. I’ve come to terms with that over time, though it’s hard to define what that is anymore. In the Bible it says something about a day being a thousand years, but I don’t think this is what they meant.
When the judge told me, due to the extenuating circumstances of my crime, I was eligible for experimental rehabilitation, I was game. A sixty-year sentence was a life wasted, but it didn’t have to be. My productive value to society was redeemable. It could be dangerous, they said. The prototype software might make it seem longer. There was little data of its effect on the mind. The benefit was that I could serve my sentence and reemerge, presumably rehabilitated, in less time than it took to ship a package from Seattle to Miami.
The other people in this place aren’t with me. Just voices. You can’t push them away or shut them out. They’re in your head. At first, it was a constant, maddening jabber. We had to learn to listen, and to signal our intention to speak.
There are rooms, if you can call them that, but they are empty. There is no internet, no television, no phone. The books I read, I do not hold in my hands. The music I hear doesn’t emanate from speakers, doesn’t vibrate the walls and rattle the ice in a glass that isn’t there.
One of the inmates, a smoky voice called Kitty, says the software malfunctioned. She said we aren’t supposed to be able to hear each other. According to her mental calculations, and what she knows about exponential temporal projection, we’ve been in too long. She uses a lot of scientific jargon to tell us that something’s wrong, something may have happened on the outside, that we might be stuck here.
Personally, I’m sick of it, and I’m not alone. Kitty and her little band of worrywarts are really getting on our nerves. We’d prefer they just kept their fucking mouths shut. But rules are rules, and when it’s someone’s turn to speak, it’s everyone else’s turn to listen.
No one talks about why they’re here or what they’ve done. There’s no time for that. What’s done is done. We’ve got bigger fish to fry, and there’s only one topic anyone cares about.
A prom. Our prom. Not some shitty kid’s prom, but a gloriously elegant, exciting affair. It will fulfill every unrequited regret of my youth. The ultimate fantasy. It’s all I can think of, everything I hope for. I’ve worked out a plan for when we get out of here, and I’ve assembled a group who will ensure it goes off without a hitch.
Jim, the gravelly, pensive musician says his sound system will rock any room.
Debra’s polished eloquence suggests she’s telling the truth about her family’s money, and their compound in the Hamptons sounds like the perfect setting.
Sheila’s nasally Jersey shore patter is obnoxious, but her uncle’s limo fleet will be invaluable if she can deliver.
Chris, sweet Chris. The golden-soft voice that hints at a Channing Tatum stand-in on the other end, he’ll be the emcee. He’s also handling the decorations – and with any luck, me.
There’s only one problem. Chris and Kitty. They share long stories about their childhoods and laugh at each other’s jokes. Yammer on about getting out of here and what they’ll do. They discuss meeting in person, going hiking, taking their dogs for playdates. I imagine my mouth grating its teeth when he asks if she’s going to the prom. I picture my sleeping face red with anger when she says yes.
But that’s okay. I always have a plan. These plebs, including Kitty and her crew, will arrive in their silk and taffeta, rayon and satin. Polyester, oh please, let there be polyester. And my dress will be the most beautiful dress there, shimmering iridescent silver in layer over layer. I will make Chris a suit of similar material, more sharkskin gray but just as effective. We will waltz, gleaming beneath the sparkling fusillades of dahlias and chrysanthemums, crosettes of peonies, spiders and whirlwinds and silver dragons. Only us in a blazing sea, whirling through the screams.
Because I’m in charge of the fireworks.
Mate this is good shit. And you absolutely nailed the way that character thinks!