BRACKET B, ROUND 2
The living room was a dump. Every flat surface was smeared with uneaten snack foods, soda pop spillings, and hastily tossed candy wrappers. The carpet, though originally one solid color, has become patterned with stains. The kitchen was a cesspool, the bedroom reeked of mothballs, and every other corner of the dilapidated home seemed to have been neglected for months.
Except for his computer desk. Sitting regally in one corner of the living room was a pristine iMac with accompanying Magic Mouse, mounted on a crimson Ikea desk with egg white legs. This was his shrine, and a portal to the world he used to know.
He finally emerges from the bedroom, Monster drink in hand, yawning loudly. He slowly meanders over to his pantry and swings the narrow door open. Inside, hundreds of copies of Britney Jean sit stacked and unopened.
"My little darlings," he coos as he picks one up, staring sagaciously at the picture of Britney Spears on the cover. "One day they'll understand you." A single tear trickles down his face as he delicately places the sealed item back in its stack. He closes the door and makes his way to the desk.
As he wrestles over to the computer he brushes off mountains of trash with his hands, including unautographed Femme Fatale merchandise (she refused), Beyonce posters with her eyes colored in with red sharpie, and thousands upon thousands of his own crude illustrations of Chris Brown, most depicting him dressed in pastels or a suit, each one with the words "MY SWEET BOY" ominously scribbled across the page.
Finally at his desk, he logs in and immediately launches Google Chrome. "Let's see what's in the news today," he mutters sarcastically, as he hastily types in "n-e-o-g-a-f".
He silently clicks through page after page, regularly glancing at his username on the top right, grimacing each time. He wished so badly to switch it back, but knowing the ramifications surrounding his grand exit years prior, he knew better than to risk it. It was a constant fight in his head as he scrolled through the POPGAF pages, wanting so badly to reveal his truth but convincing himself more and more each time that a reveal wouldn't have the impact now that it once could have. He felt forgotten; washed away.
Now glass-eyed, he makes his way to page 12. Before he starts scrolling, something catches his eye in the first post. He springs back into focus and reads the last three words. Suddenly, he feels an electric shock down his spine, and his hands start sweating. His legs jubilantly kick in unison. It was a thrill he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Immediately he sits up, and reads the sentence again. He takes it in.
He reads it again.
And again.
Each time he reads those three words the electric jolt piles up inside. Pure happiness takes over, and a revitalized sense of purpose starts building once again. Perhaps it was time..?
Millions of thoughts swam in his head in that moment, and even though he knew this was a call to action, he pauses for a short while, then reclines into his chair with a peaceful smile. He wasn't forgotten. He'll never be washed away.