The VR Headset

by Winter Chiu

In this short fiction story, does technology truly free Alex from confronting reality?

“Alex! Watch out!”

As I put on a VR headset, my heart was pounding out of my chest.

“Alex, my sweet boy!” I heard my deceased mother’s voice!

I frantically looked around, turning my head left and right, slowly realising I was on a busy road, then I saw her. She was glowing and looked intact, but felt so far away.

“Mom!” I shouted, running towards her.

In that split second, a car at maximum speed was racing towards her. Thick, red blood splattered across her loving expression, her warm hands, her entire body. “No. No. No… This cannot be! Mom!” I yelled in sickening grief, my hands clutching my heart, unable to process what I just witnessed.

Violently ripping the headset off, I was frantic as the scene of my mother’s death replayed over and over again in my mind. “Take a deep breath, Alex,” coaxed my therapist. “In…and out. In…out…That’s it. Good job. Everything will be alright.”

With a surge of renewed determination, I forced myself to put on the VR headset again. This time, my mother was standing right in front of me, her face heavily bandaged and her hands amputated horribly. The mere sight of her was horrifying, yet, somehow, I felt a sense of relief and love wash over my mind. I reminded myself that I saw this as the last chance, the only chance I got to talk to her.

“Mom, I love you and always have. Even if I never showed you and acted like I care about you.” My mom merely smiled and gave me a tiny nod, her appearance conveying little emotion, but for a second, I thought I caught a glimpse of love, mixed with sadness, on the once familiar face.

Taking off the headset, it dawned on me that this was the end, the very last time I got to see my mother, her soft hair, her kind smile, her wrinkled hands. The thought of leaving my mother in a world that I could no longer reach was almost unbearable, and I couldn’t resist but put the headset on again.

Hours turned into days, days into weeks, weeks to months. Every single day after school, I would go to the therapist’s office and put on the headset, slowly immersing myself in the virtual world, just to see my mother. There were times I wore the headset for hours, times when I would skip school, times when I would even forget where I was. Every day, I would dread the time to take off the headset, feeling disconnected from the real world, like the illusional world was where I truly belonged.

Weeks passed, and I was still spending most of my time there. I had already fallen too deep into a world where my mother still exists. I had plunged into the darkness of this illusion. Every time I visited my mother, I would say the same thing. “I love you.” Every day, I would hear the same, distant response, “Alex… I love you too.” It was a never-ending vicious cycle.

Through time, my voice became near robotic, but I wasn’t aware of how my grief of losing my mother would interrupt my life, how it snatched away my happiness, leaving nothing but the urge to put the VR headset on. I was slowly fading away, both mentally and emotionally. The truth was, I never did let go of my feelings of grief or even accepted the fact that my mother had passed away. I kept my feelings bottled up, never wanting to deal with them. In the end, I spent my last years in virtual reality, until my life in complete darkness ended, when my mother took pity on me and welcomed me with open arms. ■

Winter Chiu is an outgoing and adventurous 14-year-old who is interested in dancing and writing. Currently studying at N.T. Heung Yee Kuk Yuen Long District Secondary School, Winter is a member of Youth Hong Kong’s young writers team and has participated in The HKFYG English Public Speaking Contest. Find her at Instagram @winterc_ty