It was a cold afternoon in September; dreary, overcast and generally unpleasant. The perfect day to stay inside my walled fortress, my safe haven. My eyes caught on the window frame, the tantalizing chilly air, and for a second I thought of venturing outside. I ripped my tired gaze free and instead planted it on the twin screens on my computer. Oh, yeah. I had yet to record today, and the light was already starting to fail.

I would be up all night editing, and I would again go to bed in the middle of the next day, only to wake up to the dying light of dusk. But this was the nature of the beast. I'm a Let's Player.
My name is Cry. No, obviously, that's not my real name, but it's what I would like you to call me. I like to be anonymous, if that wasn't already clear. Despite this, I'm in the public eye on a daily basis... whether I want to be or not is kind of up in the air. I have a following of three-hundred-thousand and counting. A small army, I joke to myself sometimes.
If you don't know what a Let's Player is, well, it's easy to explain. I am someone who plays video games and I provide my sometimes humorous commentary on them. I play for the viewers, and they keep me playing. Some may call it useless and a waste of time, but I'm more than satisfied with what I do. And apparently so are a lot of people.
"Welcome to Cry Plays: Descending." I spoke softly into my headset. I've been told numerous times that I have a nice voice. The voice of a salesman, a disc jockey on the radio, or a phone sex operator. I don't think it's anything to swoon over, but as far as voices go it's pretty alright. It serves its purpose.
"I don't know a lot about this game besides that it's free to play, horror-themed, and it looks fucking awesome. So let's get to it." I began to play, recording every moment of my descent into the game universe. I had my hesitations about playing this game. It was not well known and not the kind of thing I typically do. But, in the end, I was won over by the nice graphics, an open-ended plot I could really get into, and the game play. The game play was just... so realistic and fluid. I was easily hooked on it. Bait, line, and sinker.
The game featured a troubled man, living on his own, seeking to validate himself to the world. He was nameless, something I could obviously appreciate. But he sought to push the boundaries of what his anonymity could give him, starting with simple robbery and escalating into complex serial killings. He would document every crime and post it online, leaving a morbid little tease for the police and his loyal followers. The point of the game was simply to see how much the player could get away with without being caught.
I played for the better half of an hour before dozing off at the keys. It took a while to get a grip on the controls, but soon it was like I had never not played. Each of my three small-time bank robberies were well-executed, netting me some in-game cash to spend on new weapons and other, more elaborate escapades.
Rubbing my eyes, I took off my headset with a measure of grace equally expressed by a drunkard. Unlike a drunkard, however, I still had my thoughts together. I knew I had to edit the raw footage yet, but there was something aching in my arm muscles that protested the very thought. My entire being seemed drained by simply playing a video game. 'I should go outside tomorrow,' I resolve to grin and bear the editing before bed, rubbing my tender wrists.
After much work with the footage, after much toiling aand yawning, I finally had a finished product to upload to Youtube. A hearty yawn escaped from my lips as I absentmindedly set the video to upload. It would take a while to process, and it would post itself some time during the night. That was my cue to finally get some rest. I slid back in my chair, turned sharply, and fell onto my bed.

Or so I thought. My eyes jerked open and I found myself asleep at the keys. My face was pressing on the keyboard, my glasses plastered to my cheek. I remember thinking to myself that this was unlike me, and that I usually wait until I'm at least almost on the bed before passing out. I let out a monstrous yawn, making my eyes watery. I decided it couldn't be helped, and massaged my stiff neck with a tentative hand.
I recall that my second coherent thought was to check up on my upload. Even tired, hungry, and having a crick in my neck- my viewers were always there, somewhere in my mind. After a few clicks, I was staring the video in the face. A flood of comments assaulted my vision. Some good, some bad, and the occasional poorly-written spam message or advertisement. All seemed normal, besides copious amounts of people asking me to play more and for me to give out a download link. Well, that was pretty normal, too. Many praised the graphics and plot, some chastised me for playing such a 'violent' game that sets 'such a bad example!' But let's face it, it wasn't like I hadn't ever played a gory, or crime-themed let's play before.
I began to respond with a download link before realizing I didn't remember where I had gotten it. It wasn't like me to be so forgetful. After a half an hour of unfruitful searching, I gave up the chase. It was like Descending had disappeared from the face of the internet. But yet, it was there. "Screw it." Frustrated, I mumbled before pushing myself away from my workspace. I resolved to continue the search later. They could wait.
I made myself two pieces of dry toast before showering in my dimly lit home. It was nearly night again, I thought solemnly as I pressed my tired head again the smooth shower wall. I remember my friend Russ telling me I needed to get my sleep schedule in order, but I didn't foresee that happening. I let cold water run down my back for several minutes before turning the water off with a reluctant huff. I might not seem the type to enjoy time alone, but I fit it better than most think.
I needed to go out that night. I needed some light was almost gone and most people were at home, sitting in their living rooms. Watching the the latest television programs with their families. Good. I get worried, I will admit, about people recognizing me. Not for my face, of course, but for my voice. It sounds silly, but it's an anxiety of mine- of anyone who would rather remain a face in the crowd.
I pulled on a nondescript grey hoodie and some frayed jeans, completing the look with a pair of worn sneakers lying next to the door. When one thinks of Florida weather, tank tops and shorts come to mind. Bikinis on the beach and surf boards, that sort of thing. But for some reason, September has transformed this place into a windy wasteland. And that's just fine with me.
Catching sight of myself in the reflection of my door's glass panel, I stopped to admire my guise of normalcy. I looked like any other scrub walking the streets. I remember being surprised by a small cut on my cheek in my reflection. I ran a finger over it, and it came away with a squick of blood on it. I guessed it was from shaving, and let it be.
I live in a secluded neighborhood near the edge of town. I own a car, but lately it has just been resting in my driveway. I would be willing to wager that my sneakers have been generating more miles than that three-ton paper weight. It was a short walk into town, wind whistling in my ears. The air was crisp and refreshing after many days cooped up within my house.
Not that I didn't like being inside, I reassure myself as I pass a tv store downtown. Televisions line the glass store front, lighting up the dark streets. I wouldn't have paid it any mind on the usual day. The storekeeper always kept the news on, calling it a public service. I called it a waste of electricity, but it wasn't my place to decide how the man spent his money.
Maybe it was my wandering mind that set my eyes on a crash course with the flashing screen. Maybe there was something within me that felt like I needed to look. On the screen was a newscaster, a woman with a nice jacket and tidy hair. She looked kind of out of it, if I'm to be completely honest. She was not the usual woman who reported for the local news station.
My sneakers caught on the sidewalk, coming to a halt feet from the screen. The streets are empty, so I feel comfortable enough to stop for a moment. Even if there was a crowd, I probably couldn't stop myself from watching the show. There had been a bank robbery two towns away earlier that day. They didn't know much about it, but something about it clicked in my head. The bank shared a name with one of the banks I'd robbed in Descending. I chuckled at it. Funny, I thought, life's little curve balls.
But then the woman smoothed her blonde hair nervously and continued, and my smile died a bit. She rambled off the names of two other banks. Two more banks that shared their names with in-game banks. My brain took a moment to process, and I hoped that I was wrong. That it was just stress, or tiredness, or something else.
This was the moment where I walked away from the screens, my head swimming. Maybe coming outside wasn't the best decision. My first idea was that I had to be dreaming this. Perhaps I had played too many video games, and it was beginning to warp my mind. But after pinching myself and slapping myself on the face, I accepted that this was not a dream.
Somewhere out there was a sick man, recreating the game I was playing. Were they a viewer? Hiding in the sea of three-hundred-thousand-and-counting anonymous followers was a fairly safe place to be a killer. Or was it truly just mad coincidence? I found that hard to believe.
When I got home again, I slammed the door. The house shook and the wooden door frame cracked, leaving a souvenir of my daze. I locked the door behind me and kicked off my sneakers next to the door. I pulled off my sweatshirt, leaving only a striped blue t-shirt underneath. I felt violated. I felt watched, but not in the normal sense.
I rushed around my house, pulling shades left and right. I knew there was no way they could see me, and yet it felt safer to be behind the dark, drawn curtains. I sat in my bedroom, staring at the dark screen for several minutes before turning it on. I felt betrayed by it. I was almost afraid of what I might find.
"Stop." The word came out an octave too high as I choked it out without any measure of conviction. "Stop this, Cry. You're making assumptions. You're just tired, is all." I didn't believe myself, but it felt better to hear it out loud. As the screen flashed to life, I contemplated telling Russ, or Scott, or Pewds. Would they laugh and blame it on coincidence, or would they take it as seriously as I was seeming to?
I went out to my kitchen, and grabbed myself a drink out of the fridge. Nothing that would floor me, just something that might take the edge of apprehension off my mind. On my way back to the secluded room where I record, my eyes nervously skirted my door's damnable glass panel. Although I know there was nothing there, I still paused to make sure.
Seeing nothing but still anxious, I took a solid swig from the bottle. It did little to encourage me, but, with a glance to make sure the door was securely bolted, I headed back to my sanctuary. I place my headset on, adjusting the microphone carefully. I still had to record tonight, but I choose to record something more lighthearted than Descending that night. Scribblenauts would grant me an hour of release.
I didn't rush through it, but I got it done and out of the way. Editing was less time-consuming than usual, and I set it up for processing. This methodical ritual, aided by my choice of alcoholic beverage, helped to keep my mind off of the revelations of earlier.
As if on some divine timer, Skype chirped just as I pushed myself away from the keyboard to fall onto my bed. It was a relief, almost, but also a subtle reminder that the world existed outside my room. It was Pewds.
Pewds is what I had called him. Pewdiepie, really. Felix, if you want to be really proper. A fellow Let's Player from Sweden, and one of my good friends. "Hey Cry. I saw that game Descending you uploaded. Looks pretty fun," the text read. Fun. There was hesitation before another message came through, "Could I bother you for the download link? Can't find it anywhere!"
I stared at the text on the screen for longer than I should have. I could've just pretended not to be there, or pretended to be recording or editing, or sleeping. I almost ignored him and crawled into bed right then. It was late, and the alcohol was encouraging me to sleep. Instead, as if I was being controlled, my fingers danced quickly across the keys, "Hey Pewds. Sorry, friend. I can't find the link again. But I'll e-mail the file to you."
"That would be great! Thanks," came his polite response. Now was my chance to ask him what to do about those perfectly-coincedental robberies... if anything should be done at all.
"Hey, Pewds?" I typed slowly. I knew I could trust him, but it was a matter of keeping it to myself or not. I had the sinking feeling that I was blowing it out of proportion and that all I really needed was more alcohol, more Scribblenauts, and a nap. I barely wait for a response, and with unmatched speed, I spill. I spill it all. Maybe it was the alcohol, perhaps sleep deprivation, or maybe I just was desperate to share my anxieties with him. Whatever my reason was, there the words sat for both of us to see.
My friend took a while to answer. He was thinking it over, I assumed. After several minutes of waiting in the dark, new words flash across the screen. "That's really strange, and creepy, especially so close to your home. I think that it's likely a coincidence, but if you are really concerned about it, I suggest not uploading any more of it for the next few days. It might be best to let it all cool down... If worse comes to worst, maybe cancel the series all together."
He was right, I knew, but there was something in me that wanted to upload more. To get it out there as a test, to see if more robberies sprung up. What about murders? I thought. Of course, the thought immediately made me sick of myself. Sacrificing some innocent lives, just to prove a point? I set my drink down and slid it aside. Perhaps stronger than I thought. Enough of that for tonight.
"Are you okay, man?" Pewds asked. Although it was only text on a white page, there was concern behind the keystrokes. I wondered if he just woke up, and if I had disrupted his good morning with my perhaps drunken talk of robberies and my own anxieties about them.
"Yeah, I'll be fine. Thanks for the advice." I typed, "I think what I need right now is some sleep, if you don't mind." I took off my glasses and rubbed my tired eyes. The beginnings of a killer headache were lurking behind them, and I knew sleep would do some good to me. Perhaps I could follow Russ's advice after all.
"Not at all," my friend answers. "Sleep well." With his farewell, I closed out of Skype and shut off my computer. I wanted to distance myself from the world. As silly as it sounds, the idea of sleeping near it made me queasy. My own bed, just feet from the computer, was grossly unappealing. I dragged my weary body down the hall to my living room and crashed on the couch.
Sleep and I had a complicated relationship, but sometimes we got along was, surprisingly, one of those nights. I slept easily, despite my slightly guilty, slightly drunken conscience.