The Company of Myself

I played a delightful flash game this weekend. The company of myself. Click here to play it. The music is wondrously creepy, and the monologue by the main character insightful and depressing. If you plan on playing it to the end, don't read on. But for those of you who don't want to or can't beat it, I really want to post the monologue of the story from the game. Enjoy.

If you have a minute, I'd like to tell you a bit about myself.

The first thing you need to understand is that I am alone. I've been alone for a pretty long time now. I'm used to it. I'm content.

Before I became more or less a hermit, I found that I had two passions in life. One was performing. Even today, when I find I can't relate to others, I can still stand in front of them and make them laugh or surprise them. The irony is strong enough to taste.

It doesn't taste good.

In case you're wondering, my second passion was a girl named Kathryn. But I'll get to that later.

I generally face the same day-to-day problems as every other person, except when every other person gets stuck, they have friends and associates to back them up. I don't.

I know you don't want to hear me describe my admittedly less than fascinating lifestyle, so instead I'll describe my day with a much more interesting analogy. I used to find joy in the company of others. Now, I only have the company of myself.

I haven't talked to anyone lately, but at least I can solve my own problems.

I am grateful of my above-average ability to work alone.

I search for reasons why I don't desire companionship.

I settle on avoidance of the issue. I can clearly get by without others anyway.

I find myself unable to leave the question alone. Why can I not be with people?

I think back to the first day that Kathryn and I met. Our paths converged and suddenly we were a team.

This was before I was as reclusive as I have become today, so I had not yet learned to truly multitask. That talent grew out of simple necessity.

Her approach was quiet, as was my response. The connection was instant and unmistakable. A team.

Mutual.

Perfect.

I wasn't ready to let it go.

When we faced a problem we would solve it together. Today I find myself solving the same problems alone.

I was under appreciative. Plain and simple. Didn't understand just how much I needed her. How much she needed me.

It was perfect. Everything. It was all perfect.

I helped her, and she helped me. Mutual.

I never suspected the end to come so quickly.

I found myself crushed by guilt. I didn't leave the house for days.

But she was gone.

And now I find myself alone. I can't handle talking to people anymore.

Internally, I visualize and overexcited man yelling "Checkpoint!"

I like this, I continue.

What? Don't leave yet. I have more to say. I really do.

Are you really leaving?

I've been tasked with psychoanalyzing Jack after his mental breakdown. In general, he recalls his life very accurately - the things he says line up with all of the records.

The first problem is that he doesn't seem to remember any of my visits. I've talked to him once a week for the past eight years, and he always tells me the same things as if we have never met before.

He describes himself as a loner, and this makes a whole lot of sense, as he has been kept in solitary confinement for the duration of his stay at the hospital.

He always briefly talks about his life, and eventually gets into the story of how he lost a loved one, Kathryn.

He understands that she has died, and he certainly feels at least somewhat responsible, but he doesn't recall that he murdered her. She was found buried in their backyard in a green package - evidently, it was the only box large enough for use as a coffin that Jack could find. Also of note were the two flowers he planted next to the makeshift grave.

He considers her death to be the reason that he can't talk to people anymore. I suppose that in a way, he is correct.

This will be my final report on Jack. I don't find any reason to believe that he will recover from his current severe state of mental illness, and he is far to dangerous to himself and others to allow his release.