777

DAN

As Dan takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste clings to the tip of his tongue, rousing him from his sleep. With a deliberate, almost exaggerated slowness, Dan meticulously aligns the corners of the files in front of him, paying unnecessary attention to the angles of the papers to ensure they match the edge of his desk. After double-checking for any potential disruptions in his workspace that may interfere with his day’s labor, he sighs. He reluctantly taps his machine to life.

A familiar face fills the screen.

Number 777.  

Dan groans. He has been working at Somnasculpt for three months now and each day, he's had the thrilling task of witnessing the same hapless guy embark on yet another date with the same sassy girl, only to be dumped by her. It was already a miracle that this repetition didn't trigger a red flag; surely, wasn’t one-sided obsession the first sign of stalking?

It was in fact the very promise of catching criminals in the act that had initially attracted Dan to the company’s surveillance team. Although Somnasculpt had started off as a neat appliance for simulation - giving people that extra practice for dreaded interviews or providing second chances to relive memorable (or perhaps to revise poorly executed?) moments - with human nature’s unfortunate tendency to bring out the darker side of every good invention, people had gone overboard and used it as their mock-practice for all sorts of wicked scenarios. With a surveillance system now in place, the team managed to prevent over 300 homicide cases this year alone.

Thus, never had Dan imagined that his seemingly heroic new job would involve spending hours monitoring the unfulfilled romance of an otherwise mundane 37-year-old bachelor.

Stacey, Dan’s supervisor, walks past with a knowing grin spreading across her face.

“What is it this time, brought the wrong types of flowers?” she jokes.

Number 777 was already a legend in the office, and even the female employees who had initially swooned over 777’s dedication to his one and only had now turned their backs in disgust over his freakish attachment.

Shaking his head in defeat, Dan returns to observing 777 as he approaches his crush with a handful of sad-looking crimson roses. He braces for the inevitable rejection, knowing that in a matter of seconds, his cheeks would blush with second-hand embarrassment for the poor guy.

BRIAN

My eyes are fixed on a pair of crystal blue orbs as I press my trembling legs onward. They glisten with mischief, as if stifling a laugh at my feeble attempt to hide the bouquet behind my back. I tried a species of blood-red this time. I’m still haunted by the memory of my previous attempt of mistakenly offering her a bright fuchsia. My fingers instinctively graze the spot on my cheek where the flowers, hurled back in disgust, left their stinging scars. 

Beads of sweat begin to lubricate my hands, and the slender stems turn into bars of soap under my grip. They threaten to slip from my grasp, on the verge of shattering, much like my heart that has already been broken a thousand times. The stems still bear the thorns, pressing into my flesh. I almost wish they would dissolve now and carry my pains away with them into the water.

“Rebecca,” I manage. My lips are glued together, and the countless rehearsed phrases from sleepless nights tangle into meaningless knots.

The thorns sink deeper into my palms, leaving wounds from which blood will never flow. I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, sealing any gap where those all-too-familiar words of rejection may find a way in.

But even with my eyes shut, I start to see them.

The slightest shift in the crystalline coldness.

A hairline fracture in the glacier.

The first caress of the sun's warmth as her lips curl into a smile.

“Oh, Brian. They’re lovely. I love you.”

My heart skips a beat. Had I heard her correctly?

“I love you, Brian.” she repeats, as if reading my doubts.

Oh, Rebecca, at last!

After all these excruciating years! Your recent, shockingly lewd behavior must have been but a temporary departure. Much akin to a wandering adolescent during the boisterous period of puberty, come to think of it. Now that the icy layers on your road have melted under the heat of my affection, you have at last discovered the path to love me as you ought to. So, it seems what they say is true. Dreams really did come true.

A nameless emotion sets my heart on fire.

"I love you too," I reply, savoring the taste of those words I had so longed to declare.

DAN

Dan winces as the rancid smell of rotting food strikes his nose. While carefully maneuvering his way through the plastic cans and abandoned pizza boxes scattered across the floor, his briefcase knocks an untouched cup of coffee sitting on the counter, spattering the hems of his beige chino pants.

He curses under his breath.

Just a few hours ago, Dan’s trembling hand had sent his coffee splashing forward, ruining his recently bought shirt. He had watched in terror, the empty cup still shaking in his hand, as 777’s days fragmented into a blurred loop. Starting with the girl’s deadpan confession, the painfully mismatched couple had strolled hand in hand toward a deserted bistro and Dan found himself caught in the strangest cinematic experience that sat somewhere between comic romance and pure horror. Faceless diners had joined one by one, gathering in the hallways as they awkwardly twisted and twirled in pairs. Their moves had been outlandish to the point of being questionable as if choreographed by someone with even less knowledge of dance than Dan himself. The freakishness hit its peak during the third loop when 777’s clumsy hand move set his beloved’s hair on fire, courtesy of the candle that had been an unusually pretty detail in the dream scene. Despite the gravity of the situation, the girl maintained a composed smile as her hair crisped and strayed onto the white tablecloth like burnt dust of coal. Even as 777 frantically tried smoothing out the frazzled strands, she continued to smile, apparently unfazed by the close call. Then, the following day arrived. The girl reset, her smile unchanged, and her hair as beautiful as it had been the day before. Winters passed without a trace of snowfall, icicles suspended mid-air, never melting. Tips of tender green remained in frost-lock, much like 777 had trapped himself in the deathly grip of his fantasy.

Dan sighs. Now, the two pieces of Dan’s only presentable attire matched in perfect harmony. Just great.

As Dan proceeds down the corridor, he tries to avert his gaze from the photographs of the all-too-familiar girl plastered all around him. It was one thing to see the girl on screen but witnessing her on the walls in real life was just too bizarre. Her smile on paper is a friendly one, but Dan can’t shake the memory of the pure, clueless grin she wore, even as she was burning.

When Dan finally reaches the door to what must be 777’s bedroom, he notices that the crooked door is left slightly ajar, almost daring him to have a look inside. When he gathers enough courage to take a peek, he finds none other than 777 – or what's left of him.

On the bed lies 777, his emaciated body resembling a beast left to starve. Even from a distance, Dan can see the dryness in his skin, evidence of days having gone without a drop of water. By his side, lie strewn shards of glass on the floor from the shattered window. The trails of blood lead to 777’s right hand, merging with his veins like tributaries. A lone “W” stands on the frosted window, the imprint of Dan’s effort to wake the unconscious villain now etched as a ghostly mark. Dan takes a step closer. He can make a faint smile on 777’s, as if cherishing the last lingering memories of his extinguished dream. But his half-lidded eyes betray no sign of life.

Shuddering, Dan recalls 777’s final breathing expression on screen. His eyes had raged with fury when Dan had transmitted the warning, morphing the usual subtitles on 777’s thought-up television into a message that accused him of violating their company’s policies and commanded him to abort. In a fit of rage, 777 had seized the roses resting on the table and forcefully pushed the pan away from Rebecca's hand, sending her hours’ worth of effort to shatter as it flew against the wall. He had then set the stems ablaze, thrusting the roaring flames into the heart of his constructed realm, igniting the entire backdrop of his unfulfilled dream.

“Unanswered love torments the soul, but bursting the bubble kills the body,” Dan murmurs to himself.

Silently praying that he’s not too late, Dan steps into the room.