Still Following

By Matthew Minard

It was early. The living room still dark except for the blue glow of the T.V., the heater wasn’t on yet. My dad in his recliner, controller in hand. Skyrim already running. A blanket pulled over my shoulders. The broken controller passed down to me. He shifted to sit on the floor with me. The hum of the Xbox 360, the click of his buttons, mine clicking too though nothing moved on screen.

He stepped into a dungeon. I imagined I was the Scamp behind him, summoned to help, following close. His fireball lit the walls orange. I darted in the shadows. He pressed forward. I pressed forward. He swung a sword. I imagined myself swinging too. We cleared the cavern together, his quest and mine.

Outside the window, morning still waiting. Inside, a dragon’s roar shook stone walls. My dad leaned forward. I leaned forward. I can’t recall any other mornings like this, only that it felt like it belonged to us. That blanket slipped down my shoulders.

We crossed mountains, snow spilling into caves. I imagined trailing him, our steps echoing together. I imagined my claws in the dirt, my voice rising with his. I imagined the game was ours, us wandering together.

Now, years later, I sit at my computer. Skyrim boots up, the same chant rising, the same world forming out of fog. I scroll through mods, trying to change what I know too well. My character spawns in the snow. And just for a moment, in the blue light of the screen, now with no shadow leaning forward beside me, I feel the blanket again, the weight of the broken controller in my hands, and I imagine I am still following him.

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I am a student at the University of Delaware's Associates in Arts Program in Georgetown. I also participate regularly in the Hen & Ink Society, a campus creative writing and visual art club. I was originally born in Baltimore, Maryland but I moved to Delaware from when I was about thirteen; I have grown up in Delaware. A significant portion of my writing draws on my past experiences with family that shaped me.