Chapter 3

The giant speakers hung above me like vultures waiting for their next meal. Its wires twisted into sinewy necks. The voice that came from them was unnatural—distorted, almost like a broken radio. One could see it tried hard to mimic human speech patterns but missed the mark entirely. This was probably what the world would be like if robots took over. Whatever that noise was, it didn't sound human.

Had I been kidnapped? Or worse, was I caught up in a sick experiment?

I don't know the answer to that, but here's what I do know: I've got to get out of here. Escape. There had to be a way out, right? Some exit. Some loophole. If I could just crack the code of this sick playground, maybe—just maybe—I could break free from this nightmare.

It's all a blur, and I'm stuck in the middle of it, running in circles. Every tunnel, every slide is a dead end. Every step forward just takes me back to where I started. But I can't stop. I can't just sit here, can I? No, that's the thing—you can't sit. You can't wait for it to come to you. You've gotta fight. Even if you don't know what the hell you're fighting.

I tell myself that if I close my eyes, if I stay quiet enough, I can still hear it—the laughter, the way the grass sounded under my feet, the way the world didn't feel so small, so impossible. But it's like trying to hold onto water. No matter how hard you try, it always slips through.

And maybe that's the worst part. Not that things change, but that you never get to say goodbye the way you want to. One minute, everything is as it should be, and the next… you're standing in a place that looks the same but doesn't feel the same. And you're left wondering if it was ever really yours to begin with.

Towards the end of March.

"Jack!" Aunt Winona shouted as she slung her brown leather bag over her shoulder, the one that always spilled sunflower seeds from the open packets inside it. I could tell she was watching her weight; her usual busty frame had shrunk noticeably. She nibbled on those seeds like it was a big juicy hamburger while sitting on her usual spot on the bench—always had to be on the left side.

"We've gotta get home before it starts raining!" she said, her voice high with urgency.

I remember that moment so vividly—the grass under my feet felt incredibly cold and moist, almost like walking over a wet velvet sheet. It was one of those days that felt too perfect to break, where every breath felt light, and even the sky seemed impossibly blue. The very idea of rain seemed absurd.

"I'll be there in a minute!" Jack called back, already halfway into the tunnel. We'd gone down that old slide so many times I'd lost count.

"See you on the other side, Art," he whispered, as he vanished down the tunnel. I decided to follow him down. My body lifted for a brief second, almost weightless, like I was defying gravity.

But the moment I hit the bottom, everything changed.

The grass beneath my feet was no longer cold. It was rough and plasticky, like those fake grass sheets in stores that look so real but fool no one. The air felt heavy and stale, like a room that had been locked up for years.

I stepped off the slide and looked around. The bright colors of the playground had dulled, and the sounds of laughter were gone. It was like a cheap replica of the previous one.

Imagine stepping into a dollhouse where nothing fits correctly. Either the beds are on the ceiling or the lights are on the ground. Where the proportions are undoubtedly wrong but you can't put your finger on why.

Everyone disappeared. The kids, the families, Aunt Winona, Jack—everyone. It was like they had been wiped clean from existence, leaving me trapped in a snow globe. Only in this case, it was a playground.

That's when the emptiness hit. I realized, with a sickening twist in my gut, that I was completely alone out here.

At first, it seemed like a dream come true. No one to tell me what to do, no rules, just endless playtime. What else would you expect from an 8-year-old?

But the thing is, there's only so much time a kid can spend in a place like this. It's like throwing a fish into a tank and telling it to swim forever—no sleep, no rest, just endless motion. It doesn't take long before the desperation kicks in.

I turned toward the exit, thinking maybe there was a way out. But a massive wall just stood there. Like the universe itself saying, "You're not going anywhere."

Thinking of the first day, I remember it was all hazy, and surreal. I thought if I just went to sleep, I'd wake up in my bed. This was all just some bad dream, like those soap operas where the lead wakes up and everything's fine.

But no. In this place, sleep didn't bring reality. No matter how badly I craved it.

I bit into the stale bread, its taste like nibbling on cardboard soaked in misery, and glanced up at the sky, searching for a way out. I scoured every corner, every tunnel, every slide. But all I could find were those giant speakers and their static-laced whispers. The slides and swings were frozen in place, their once-vibrant colors now muted against the dull gray ground. The lawn beneath them was too perfect, each blade of grass oddly uniform, like someone measured them with a ruler.

I took a deep breath and turned back to the slide. My heart thumped, a cocktail of dread and hope mixing in my chest. I closed my eyes and whispered, "I'll see you on the other side, Jack." The moment my feet hit the ground, the speakers erupted with a loud, distorted beeping, a relentless noise that rattled me to my bones.

I stood there, heart racing, engulfed in the chaos of noise and emptiness. Is any of this real? Or am I still trapped in a dream? The line between reality and nightmare had blurred so much I couldn't tell anymore.

It's funny, you know? How fast things can slip. One minute, everything makes sense—up is up, down is down, the world's got some kind of rhythm to it.

And then—snap—it's gone.

Like someone ripped the film right out of the reel, and left you staring at a blank screen, trying to remember what the hell you were even watching in the first place.

And that's the part that gets me. Not knowing what's real. Not knowing if I'm awake or if this is just some sick joke my brain's playing on me. If I can't trust my head, if I can't trust my own eyes, then what the hell do I have left?

I kept thinking if I just stood still long enough, if I just listened, maybe the world would put itself back together. Maybe I'd hear something familiar, something to anchor me down. But all I got was static—just that cold, empty noise that filled up all the spaces where reality used to be.

And that's when it hit me—maybe there is no waking up. Maybe this is it. Maybe I already fell, and I just haven't hit the ground yet.

"Squeak!"

My breath caught, my throat clenching, tight as a noose. I turned, slowly, like something inside me knew, like it could already feel what was coming. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, prickling with that raw, crawling sensation. Thirst hit me, sharp, but it wasn't water I needed—it was the source of that sound. I had to know.

Jack?

I scrambled to my feet and sprinted toward the other slide, struggling to keep my balance.

And there he was.

The same beige shorts clung to his long, pale legs. The tiny hair on his legs glinted like fireflies in the dim light. His navy blue and green striped shirt hugged his frame, while his freshly buzzed brown hair caught the light just enough to be noticed.

But I couldn't see his face. Shadows swallowed it whole, the roof of the tunnel blocking any chance of recognition. The one thing that could've told me who he was—gone. Just a blur, a silhouette, leaving me in the dark with nothing but the feeling that I should know him.

"Jack!", I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice raw and broken.

He slid down the tunnel, his feet thudding dully against the ground. I knew it had to be him. The clothes, the hair, the frame—it was all him.

It was Jack.