Chapter 1: Part One

“…and in three small installments, you can purchase everything you’ve ever wanted for Christmas and test our new hardware…”

Before hitting the “Skip Ad” button on UTube, I clicked the link at the bottom of the screen, temporarily halting the voice of a man who sounded like an auctioneer rather than someone on an infomercial. Usually, I wouldn’t have paid much mind to the ads—particularly when there had been some annoying jingles this year and enough renditions of “All I Want for Christmas is You” to shatter every window in the dormitory. But something made me catch my finger before it made contact with the mouse and sent the promotion into oblivion.

The advertisement had all the Christmas glamour, jingle bells, shitty plaid, and whatnot, and I stupidly complied with the resounding “STOP” from the announcer. Now bookmarked for the foreseeable future in my browser’s history, I contemplated buying the item right now, watching my bank account throw cobwebs and tumbleweeds at the transaction, and I was already irritated by the fumbling of tabs the ad and its subsequent pop-ups managed to induce. Maybe it was a shady website trying to sell this item? No, the site had an organization extension, so it had to be at least somewhat reputable, right?

But regardless, nothing was going to prevent me from getting to the next section of the rom-com I had been watching and whining about not having a girlfriend this winter. Nope.

***

A good rule of thumb: Never buy dumb things online for Christmas when you’re lonely and especially when you’re a broke college student. That was like going to the grocery store while hungry and wondering why your pantry was now filled until it burst with subsections for oddly specific cravings.

This was precisely why I was at the communal delivery center for about the tenth time this week. With my throat raw after calling my parents about the ethics of monster-fighting video games (an argument in pure jest) for what felt like an eternity, I figured the ladies behind the counter were probably sick of making small talk with me as I laid across the single padded couch. Although I wasn’t lucky enough to get a seat on most of the days leading up to Christmas due to the sheer amount of last-minute packages, I apparently one-upped the few people remaining in the dorm by picking up a box on the morning of the holiday. I would always win when it came to procrastination.

While I scanned my feed for news about tomorrow’s snowstorm, a notification caused my phone to vibrate, so I fixed myself up, walking to the counter.

“Another parcel, Misha?”

Although I was embarrassed (“another parcel”—Christ, I was single-handedly keeping this place in business), I still grinned and nodded at the woman. I always thought that was a beautiful name and was glad I could now stake a claim to it as my own like a snowflake or the lines of a zebra.

The employee dug in the back room for new shipments, and when the shuffling of cardboard ceased, a box thumped on the counter in front of me.

“Here ya go. Have a merry Christmas, dear!”

“You, too, ma’am!” I hoped she would get paid a hell of a lot extra for both working today and dealing with my buying binge since the break started.

I strolled up the stairs. (This college, despite whatever it charged for tuition, still seemed too poor to install an elevator that wasn’t constantly drowning in maintenance—and in the middle of the 21st century at that.) Apart from my footsteps up several flights, the dorm was so silent that not even hungry termites’ nibbles permeated its walls.

Nearly every other student went home to visit their family, but I was stuck in this one pillar amidst the icy wasteland outside, warm in temperature but not in heart. I lamented how my senior-year finals ran so late, extending to around the 22nd or 23rd of the month and preventing me from making anything useful out of my break. It wasn’t worth it to go home despite how much my parents begged to see me and my longing to speak with them face-to-face, and it equally wasn’t worth it to get turned into a snow angel. After the first or second day of January, classes would be back in session, anyway, and after graduation, I would be stuck in my hometown for as long as I desired. There was no rush to get back; that was what I had to say to myself.

Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but feel like a salted driveway amid winter—a hole in an otherwise idyllic landscape—since this year’s holidays seemed more akin to a footnote than a grand hurrah.

Treating the box gingerly as if it were a magic 8 ball—my miniature clairvoyant—I glanced down to ensure it was still secure in my arms while I was on the first landing.

“Are you spending Christmas alone this year? Do you miss the feel of a warm hug, the wisps of a fireplace, the sun peeking out behind the winter storm? Would you like to forget you spent the day full of melancholy?”

You are reading story Lonely Hearts, Dial Me Up at novel35.com

The advertisement from a few weeks ago was etched into my mind and lingered like the pungent smell of body odor in the stairwells.

“Then, if you’re interested in participating in our beta test for a new virtual reality model, please keep listening.”

I recalled groaning at the time—as I did now—because this was really how every other apocalyptic hell started. A VR headset would malfunction and voila, another hero’s journey. But for whatever reason, I kept listening, thinking I’d found the newest sexbot-style remedy for loneliness.

“The Lonely Hearts VR system is like purchasing an experience. It’s like buying a concert ticket rather than a video on demand. You get to experience your Christmas wishes and have them fulfilled in real-time, but you can’t replay them. The system is no different than a typical headset after the period of its intended use.

“But for you, it won’t matter. The system will erase all memories of loneliness and isolation from the morning. For as much as you will know, as if by slight amnesia, you will have been surrounded by your loved ones. Anyone and anything your mind can conjure up will become the reality of your Christmas. Isn’t that exciting?”

It almost was. I almost wanted to believe this wasn’t ridiculous. Yes, VR technology had come a long way and could approximate more detailed sensory experiences—but amnesia? That seemed capricious and journeyed into the battlefield of ethics.

Absent-mindedly, I traversed the last few flights of stairs and arrived on my floor. I dug through my pockets to check I had my keycard, balancing the box with an arm and knee as if walking a tightrope.

What the university had invested in was a scanner akin to a metal detector, which no longer required the tedious lock turning or belligerent card swiping older methods had entailed. So I easily entered my room as the door slid open and closed in my wake.

Slipping off my shoes, I headed for the “holiday spirit” corner, wherein I mustered up as much energy for today as a sleep-deprived college student could (a.k.a. barely any), and the flickering, half-dead string of lights was emblematic of this.

My Christmas tree—an autumn branch with some lights, at best—was already surrounded by long boxes with clothes, soaps, and other little indulgences inside, none of which had been wrapped for practical purposes. It was my first Christmas since coming out as a woman, and for fuck’s sake, I deserved to pamper myself with things I actually wanted. So that meant eschewing half my wardrobe, purchasing a few online games and DLCs, and sitting my ass in warm water with a bath bomb that smelled of sakuras in the springtime.

Online shopping was probably a disease, but I would stay sick if it meant I got to relax during the break.

“A party full of kisses underneath the mistletoe, a comfy evening with family and beloved holiday movies, a small outing with a few friends—the clichéd and banal are no more difficult than a Christmas spent riding elephants on the savanna, boarding a spaceship to watch the world light up in spirit, or finding yourself in summer all over again. The only limit is what you believe can happen, and VR will create your ideal day without a single prompt.

“Our mission with this technology is simple, really. We made this to help that old lady with Alzheimer’s at the senior center. We made this to give that sweet orphan with no hope something to look forward to. We made this to replace tragedy with joy. Will you help us with this project? Please click on the link to our website if you’re interested, and in three small installments…”

I had never known a company to state this type of goal in its advertisement campaign, but I wasn’t complaining, even if it seemed fishy.

While I was originally ambivalent about my newest purchase, the recollections of this short promotional video wrenched my soul. It went without saying: “We made this to give you lonely hearts the time of your life.”

Reframing pity as excitement, I ripped open the stubborn packing tape. Without hesitation—for I had already read all the small text about liabilities and whatnot on the website before my purchase—I sliced open the inner box, plugged the headset into the nearest outlet without worrying about the current overflowing, and placed the visor over my vision, cascading into the world of real-life fantasies.