He had long grown accustomed to the blindfold. The first visit to the cemetery had promised absolute darkness. After the third, all he found was apathy. Somehow, it had stopped making sense.

He walked down the street guided by murmurs. It was impressive how the brain could adapt—just put one foot after the other and follow the sounds, without fully trusting them. Besides, as long as he focused on the memory of the kiss on the forehead he’d left behind when closing the door, everything would be fine. He just needed to hold on to the memory, not the music.

He knew immediately he had arrived. People had warned him the smell would be unmistakable. What truly convinced him was the putrid taste sliding down his throat.

“Nnnf hhjh jhj”. The vesanic grunt tore him from the trance.

Somehow, his brain translated it automatically. He lacked the tools—and so did everyone else, to be honest—to understand how they managed to do that.

“What is your price?”

“It’s in the briefcase”.

Alan extended the object into the darkness-beyond-the-blindfold. The hairs that brushed his hand—more like bristles—made him shiver at the cold touch of those elongated fingers.

He heard the click of the briefcase and a whisper of forty voices. His heart stopped for a few seconds, just as people had said it would. Each second seemed to drag on.

The second click carried relief. His bargaining chip was worth something.

A scraping, viscous sound followed. One step after another, always forward. Alan walked for five minutes, through what felt like a sequence of hollow cracks and cartilaginous crepitations.

He didn’t know how many doors he’d crossed before reaching the atrium. From there, a discordant song—as if two compositions in different rhythms—overlapping. A hellish lullaby carried by the strings of an angelic dissonance.

Then an invisible force stopped him from moving.

“Nnngghrakjz.”

The muddy language was the same, but the tone of that voice was sharp and sublime, like the edge of a blade grazing his ears and neck.

“What is your life?”

He focused on Lia. Held a pale smile. The memory of the little one sleeping before he left was all he had to offer. Would he remember, until the end, why he had started this?

The blindfold never allowed him to know whether the aeolian embrace that dissolved around him was part of the creature or just his imagination. But he knew it was the signal to move on.

Or rather, to move down.

Strangely enough, a good sign. If his journey were upward, he feared the game was already rigged.

Beneath his feet, he found the first step. He could taste the rot. Each descent was a gamble. The choir grew more evident, more visceral, as if every voice ventriloquized each muscle in his body. It became increasingly difficult to concentrate. The only consolation was that the strings faded as he ascended into the abyss.

When his feet touched the bottom, there was a dry snap, as if he were stepping on fragile pieces of humanity.

The voice that greeted him this time was unmistakably human.

“Welcome to the casino.” A thin hiss, almost a sibilance, but still human. “Place your bets on the ground before you.”

The music was infernal. Clinging to her memory had become unbearable. He needed to succeed. It was all for her.

Alan carefully knelt and opened the briefcase. He removed a small square piece of laminated paper and set it on the ground in front of him.

“You have a beautiful daughter.” Alan could feel the malicious smile behind the words.

How had these things managed to achieve so much, so quickly?

“What is your compensation?”

“One million hours. In her account.” He pointed to the floor, still blindfolded.

The creature laughed openly. A chorus of infinite voices.

“Very well, you may remove your blindfold if you’re ready.”

Slowly, Alan undid the blindfold.

What he saw next he could neither remember nor forget. He walked home with the briefcase in hand, without the photo.

In his mind, only blood and thirst.

Before opening the door, he fired the gun.

“What? What do you mean? What are you talking about?” I asked, unsettled. His calmness was unnerving.

“Do you know what I did yesterday? Do you have any idea what I was doing?” He asked, staring straight ahead, his gaze lost. Most of his face was covered by a hood, but I could still tell he was apprehensive by the way he bit his lip. “No, of course he doesn't know. How could he know, you idiot?!” I knew it wasn't a question anymore, but a statement. His hands were shaking. At that point, I couldn't tell if it was from the cold of the night that was approaching or something else.

“Dude, take it easy. Start from the beginning. What happened?” I replied worriedly. Until that moment, I hadn't understood why we were there, right there, and, to tell the truth, I was afraid to know. The purple sky mercilessly swallowed up the last bit of copper that the last minutes of sunlight had given us as we talked.

He pulled both hands from the pockets of his hoodie. In one, he held a pack of cigarettes, and in the other, a silver lighter I knew very well. He gestured, as if offering one. I declined. With some effort, he lit the cigarette—it was very windy—and after a long drag, he carried on, seeming to pull the words from deep within his lungs, expelling them with the smoke.

“Yesterday I cried all night. And I don’t mean just a little, like you might imagine,” he said, focused, taking another drag from the cigarette. There was no relief in those words, only anguish. So much anguish. I hadn't imagined anything. “I cried pathetically, lying on the cold floor of my dark room, begging for help. For anyone’s help. A deplorable sight, to tell the truth. A truly shameful scene.”

“Why were you crying? Why are you telling me this?” That quietness of his, that serenity… something about it bothered me. It bothered me deeply.

“You’re not a very patient person, are you? No, you never were. And yet, you’re the only person in the world I feel could understand me… somehow. If I can even be understood.” The ember smoldered slowly on the tip of the cigarette between his fingers, and at that moment, it was practically the only light I could see. The silence was absolute, strange. “The only person who could hear me. Really hear me. But do you think I like telling you this? No, I don’t. I feel ridiculous confessing it, but this is who I am.” He let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “But if you want to understand, you’ll have to hear my story my way.”

“Alright then, go on. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry,” I explained. He nodded. The air grew heavier around us. His breathing slowed. I didn’t know where this conversation was heading.

“Tell me something… when you witness an accident with victims, what’s your natural reaction?”

“Well… I guess I’d run to help them, or call for help, I don’t know,” I replied, puzzled.

“And do you think everyone would do the same?” he asked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. His tone was serious.

“Well, I don’t know, but I think most people would…”

“Let me ask you something else… what were you connected to a few minutes ago, when you were still on your phone?” he asked, pointing at the device in my hand. “Can you unlock it and show me?”

Instinctively, I unlocked the phone. The last screen I had open was a photo-sharing social network. Two images appeared: one of a shirtless guy with arms wide open in front of a mountain view, and the other of a cat wrapped in a white blanket.

“What do you see?” he asked, without even looking at the device in my hands.

“A picture of a cat in a blanket, and a friend on a trip in the mountains…”

“What do you see?” he repeated. I had no idea what he meant. Faced with my silence, he continued. “Open some profile. Any profile, please.”

I went to the profile with the cat photo, which belonged to a friend. Her grid was filled with impressively aesthetic images, combining color tones, backgrounds, and patterns. Mostly selfies, but always maintaining that design consistency. I scrolled through the profile a little further, and the tones shifted, but never clashed. It was practically an art piece.

“What do you see?” he pressed again. This time, I had an answer.

“A very pretty, organized profile. She really puts effort into her pictures, into the aesthetic.”

“I see. Now, could you open another app? That one with the short posts?” I nodded with a murmur, and while I searched for the app, he took another deep drag on his cigarette. It was fully dark now, and I felt cold. I imagined he didn’t, as the smoke warmed him from the inside. “And now, what do you see?”

“I don’t get what this has to do with anything, but… fine. Some news posts, random daily thoughts, jokes, meme images, more cats, someone angry, someone complaining… I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

He stood up, dangerously close to the edge, exhaling smoke in a slow ring as he spun in place.

“And still, you can’t see. NO ONE EVER SEES.” He was truly agitated. I had no clue where he was going with all of this. Anxiety hit me as I watched him standing there, terrified he might fall.

"Hey, calm down. Sit down again. Explain to me calmly what you're thinking..." I begged.

“I won’t sit. You see, it’s a thin line.” He spread his arms, pretending to walk a tightrope right on the ledge. My heart raced. “A subtle balance. And yet no one notices. No one sees it. Tell me, about the accident I asked earlier, if you could prevent it, would you?”

“Yes, of course I would,” I replied apprehensively. He went still again, eyes locked on the dark horizon. My heartbeat slowed.

“Of course, you’d prevent it. But what if saving those people costs you your life? Sounds heroic, right? Let me rephrase: what if saving them cost you all movement in your body, a lifetime in a wheelchair, and you knew that risk? What if saving someone cost you the best part of yourself? Would you still save them?” He stifled a low laugh. I was speechless, and he continued. “You don’t know anymore, do you?”

The cigarette was nearly gone. He flicked the butt into the dark and pulled another from the pack, lighting it quickly. After a deep drag, he crouched beside me, his gaze growing more distant and, at the same time, fuller. My impatience built. I wanted to explode.

“You’re stalling, and I don’t see this conversation going anywhere. Just answer what I asked.” I said sharply. I couldn’t take the runaround anymore.

“Yes, of course. I figured you’d say that eventually. You’re impatient.” He said it without reacting to my nervousness. “Right now, you’re probably thinking about one of your connections. Someone you need to reply to. Someone you should’ve replied to already. A post you saved for later. Something. You, like everyone else, live in two worlds. The real one, and this new one. You’re here and there. But where are you really connected?”

"Are you one of those who claim that these connections aren't real?" I asked, indignantly. I’d met so many interesting, wonderful people in recent years through those tools. So many friends.

“You tell me, are they?” he replied calmly, dragging on the cigarette again. I didn’t know how the thing hadn’t killed him yet.

“Of course! I’ve made great friends in what you call this ‘new world.’ Really amazing people!” I blurted out. My words sounded sillier than I expected once spoken aloud.

“Yes, you do… If you could prevent that accident, and chose not to, would it be your fault it happened?” he asked unexpectedly. Again, that senseless topic.

“Of course not. Accidents happen…”

“But wouldn’t you feel at least a little responsible, if you could’ve prevented deaths and chose not to?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Let me shift perspective. You’re at a bar and see a man slip something into a girl’s drink. What do you do?” He breathed deep and tapped the ash from his cigarette. The night was growing colder. “I don’t want you to answer. I just want you to think. Sometimes, doing nothing is the same as doing something.”

“I don’t see the connection between all these things,” I muttered, confused.

“See, even now, I managed to entertain you enough that you gave up on wondering why I was in such a state of decay last night. Even now, you struggle to care. Tell me, these friends of yours, you say you know them. But do you really? In a job interview, do you show every part of yourself, or just some?”

“I show the best ones. The ones I think will get me the job,” I answered automatically. My phone buzzed, the screen glowing in the dark. A message from a friend I’d met on that short-post app years ago. Instinctively, I unlocked it, read the message, replied quickly, and locked it again.

“Can I ask you to read that message aloud?” he requested, still crouched. I wondered how he could stand that position; it looked painful. In fact, his face seemed carved by pain. I hadn’t noticed before, but there was exhaustion there. Some unknown suffering that had marked him deeply. Marks that seemed to have appeared long ago. Had he always been this way? Guilt struck me, maybe I’d failed to notice until now.

“It’s just a message from a friend about a series we both watch… he’s complaining.”

“And still, it was enough to break our connection for a few seconds. It was enough for you to completely untie yourself from where we are, transport yourself there, and respond to him. This new world often overrides the real one. How many times have I spoken to someone only to feel they weren’t really there—and never had been?”

“You keep separating them, calling this the ‘real’ one… as if the person on the other side isn’t real too.”

“Are they? Do you really know them? I mean, really?” The wind had shifted, blowing his smoke toward me now. Noticing it, he stood up and walked around me without me asking. “When someone builds a profile, do they really build it with all their traits? The good and the bad? Would they even be appreciated if they did?” Before I could answer, he continued. “How many times has someone cared about another person’s problems on your timeline? How much attention does a small, sad comment get? How much weight does a kitten video carry? People aren't ready to get involved. They aren’t ready to dive in. They aren’t ready to be real. They’re afraid of what’s real. Real is costly. Real demands. Real requires them to be real—and dealing with someone’s real problems is too much.”

The cigarette was almost gone. He took a last drag, and unlike the other cigarette, he stubbed it out and put the remaining stub in his pants pocket. My legs were shaking with impatience, and I clutched my phone tightly.

“People use these devices all the time. In any spare second, between tasks, they grab them. It’s like there’s an urgency to fill the silence. As if stopping were unbearable. They’re always alone, bored, sad—and this is the cure they use. Distraction. Looking inward means being real, and that’s hard. Sharing jokes is easier.” He was still standing beside me and took the lighter from his pocket. The silver object gleamed as he lit a flame. “The flame within us is powerful, but it burns out when you feed it too much. Looking within burns. Being real burns.”

“And suddenly this whole thing turned into a philosophy class and boring,” I shot back. As insensitive as it may have sounded, it was bothering me.

“Yes, of course. Let’s be practical.” He snapped the lighter shut. “Yesterday I cried like an idiot because, basically, I’m completely alone. Because I can’t stand the voices in my head telling me I’m worthless.”

“Then why don’t you talk to someone? Why don’t you ask for help?” I asked innocently. He laughed. That sarcastic laugh was filled with pain, and tears welled up.

“I did ask. Over and over. Every comment in that new world, every post, every word was a cry for help. Most of the time, ignored. Sometimes I got a ‘try complaining less’ or ‘you whine too much, my life is worse than yours, and I don’t complain.’ I didn’t know I was in a competition. Sure, once in a while, someone would respond. Sometimes it’s just smoke. You let it out, and it annoys people. What really matters is what you do with the butt that’s left, the ember still burning. But it’s my burden, and I knew I had to carry it. And at the same time…”

“But you really do complain a lot. You’re always down, always sad…” I interrupted. He laughed again. Out of pain.

“That. Is. Me. That’s my real self. That’s who you’ll meet out here, and in there. That’s the me nobody wants, the one who annoys, who doesn’t please.”His tears were heavy. I felt bad about it all. “And yet, you believe you really know people. You claim they're real. No one is prepared for the real.”

He pulled the lighter out again, lit it, and locked the valve so the gas kept burning.

“The accident you didn’t prevent. The girl you didn’t help.” He stepped closer to the edge. “Sometimes doing nothing is the same as doing something. Living on the edge is so hard… You can fall at any moment. You beg for help with tears in your eyes. You’re desperate and don’t know what to do. Some people walk by and ignore you. Of course—it’s not their problem. If something happens, it was your decision. Others pass, hold your shoulders, whisper kind words. You pull yourself together, for a moment, but soon you find yourself back on the edge.” The lighter’s flame flickered timidly, his arm stretched out over the drop. He smiled. A terrifying smile. “And others, unsatisfied, give you a little shove. Or just a breath. It's not their problem, but it's annoying.”

“Man, I don't know what to say... let me help you. What happened to you?” I replied apprehensively. “Sit here, please. You're way too close to the edge.”

“Now you can really see. I'm glad you really saw, in the end. You really were the only person I could talk to. The only one who would understand.”

He held the lighter in both trembling hands, as if in prayer to some higher force.

“I killed Lucas. Nothing of him remains in this new world.” He tossed the lit lighter into the void. Its faint flame smeared orange into the blackness as it fell, fading. "And when you're real in both worlds and that happens, there's nothing left in either."

He leapt into the darkness. I felt my heart stop in my throat.

“LUCAS! LUCAAAAAAS!” I screamed with all the air in my lungs. My voice was lost in the emptiness of the dark night.

I still gripped the phone tightly, now turned off.

I killed Lucas. As I fell, I could still hear my name reverberating in the cold night air.

I was alone, as I always had been.

This story was originally published in Portuguese (BR) in December, 2016 in WattPad.
“Smoke” was my first short story, inpired by a TV Mini Series from 2016, “This New World”.

I sat on one of the rocks that rose before the trees, knees pulled up. I looked skyward and began counting the stars. I spent a long time there. Two hundred, maybe three—I’d already lost track. My thoughts were racing. I rested my head between my legs and closed my eyes. The week had been considerably difficult up to that point, and before I knew it, I'd already collapsed into tears. I took out my phone and, determined to calm my mind, opened Wattpad in search of a story to distract me. By the time I decided on a fantasy tale, the tears had already subsided, and my mind was completely immersed in that world.

I had been there for some time when I felt a calm, serene female voice calling my name. It was only when I heard it repeated a second time that I truly believed my ears and, suspicious, raised my head to look for whoever was calling me. There was no one. No matter how hard I strained my eyes, I saw nothing, and yet, my hearing picked up a third call. The words came from the forest, and, though quite suspicious, I entered the damp undergrowth.

The forest was dark. Although I could see nothing but branches and roots, I could clearly make out the sounds of small animals in the darkness. The voice continued to call my name, and I walked on, without looking back. After a while, I suspected I heard the sound of running water—impossible, there was no river inside the university—and it grew louder and louder. My clothes were heavy, and I began to wonder why I was carrying so much gear—gear?

The sky was visible the entire way, but unfortunately, there was no moon to guide me, which had caused me to trip over all sorts of things many times. The voice, soft as the wind, warmed me from within. It seemed to come from something very ancient, something I somehow already knew. After a few minutes, I reached a clearing, cut by a dark stream—how was that possible? In the middle of the stream, on a small island, stood a massive tree with leafy branches that seemed to touch the sky, emanating a vivid green glow. Drawn by the voice, which appeared to reverberate with the movement of the branches in the night breeze, I approached in disbelief.

I crossed the stream using the thick roots of the ancient tree and reached its mighty trunk. Its leaves shimmered with a mysterious green light, and the air was filled with a scent I did not know—yet that felt strangely familiar.

"So you finally decided to answer my call." I was startled by the clarity of the voice coming from the tree, its tone mixed with malice and irony.

After steadying myself, I searched for the source of the voice, but couldn't find it. Deep grooves in the bark seemed to form an ancient face—this was madness.

"You're not going crazy." I shuddered at the possibility of someone guessing what I was thinking. "Indeed, it's me speaking."

"You? The tree?" I asked in disbelief.

"You took your time. I feared you might be too late, but I knew you would come. After all, I could only wait."

"What are you talking about? How is this possible? What the hell are you?"

"I am Aldaband, the world tree. My branches bear the future ramifications of history, and my roots grow with the records of the past. I am now, yesterday, and tomorrow, and yet, I am nothing but a tree."

"This is crazy, how can I be talking to a tree?" I asked, shaken.

"That doesn't matter. You know you've always seen the world differently. Always seen beyond. Always sensed there was something more. Something hidden." Her calm, measured voice exuded confidence. "This is your chance to discover the truth about yourself and the world."

My blood surged with excitement. I finally felt understood.

“Are you serious? What do I have to do?”

A creak of wood and the rustle of leaves permeated the night. Anxious, I stared at the trunk as an opening appeared where the grooves had been, about the height of my arm and the size of a fist.

"You just need to place your arm here, and my vines will transfer my sacred sap into your blood." Eager, I obeyed.

When the vines tore my skin and the sap flowed in, all I felt was pain as my vision turned completely green.

"Finally!" The tree's voice of relief was ominous.

All my limbs went rigid. Only silence remained. When I realized what had happened, I was overcome by a disturbing anguish. The transfer had worked—how foolish I was! There, bound to the trunk of the majestic tree and alone, at the peak of my madness, I tried desperately to count the stars again, clinging to the hope it was all a mistake, or a dream.

"I'm under an unfamiliar sky." No matter how many times I recounted, those weren't the stars I knew.

Lowering my gaze to the waters around the tree, I saw that the stars reflected there were not the same as those above. These, I recognized.

My cell phone lay on the ground, lit.

My branches swayed in the wind.

I looked upward and began to count the stars. By the time I realized it, I had already burst into tears.

After all, all I could do was wait. Fearing it wasn't too late.

I had finally escaped reality.

This story was originally published in Portuguese (BR) in December, 2016 in WattPad.

As an entry in a contest (The Short Story Cup), it got shortlisted in 9th place between 120 stories. The theme:
”I got sucked into Wattpad. What now?”