Lost in Creation

"You're fucking kidding me right?"

"My apologies, Mr. Broussard. It is just that your story is not handing out the correct ending." The therapist was a middle-aged man with a bald spot and deep frown. He had said that he had been using this machine for years, but it was clearly beginning to show signs of age. His white lab coat was stained with coffee and long-burnt cigarettes and his fingernails were dirty. "This has never happened before, I promise you."

The machine sat on the table between them. It looked like a typewriter from the 1920s but with a glowing panel above the keys instead of letters. Most of those keys were now blank or dark, save for a brightest one in the upper left hand corner.

"Let me try again," Broussard said. "Where did you get this thing anyway? A garage sale? At least make sure it actually works before I come here every week."

The therapist sighed and rubbed his forehead, causing what remained of his hair to fall down over his eyes. "I'm so sorry Mr. Broussard, I really am. Please try again."

Broussard stared at the machine for several minutes before deciding to give it another shot. He tried to think back to earlier that day when he had been sitting in traffic on his way to work when something strange happened...

Broussard's car began to smell like smoke, which was surprising because he didn't remember lighting up a cigarette recently (he could never take up smoking because of an allergy). He took one hand off the wheel to wave away the smoke but as he did so, his car began to shake violently left and right on its own. He tried to grip the wheel tighter but suddenly found that he couldn't move his hands at all - they were somehow stuck deep in the seat cushions as though someone had poured concrete into them and set him free to drive around town like that.

At that point, a bright light shone through Broussard's windshield from somewhere above him and there was a loud *boom*! from outside the car which seemed to rattle everything inside it even more than before. The vehicle began moving forward into other lanes on its own until it finally came to a stop against another car ahead of him at a red light, as though someone or something else had taken control of it while he struggled against whatever force was holding him back in his seat.

Broussard sat back in his chair and sighed loudly, then turned towards the therapist who was still staring intently at him with a look of concern on his face. "I don't see how any of that is supposed to be helping me get better," he said after several seconds of silence.

The therapist looked even more upset than before; he leaned in close over the table towards Broussard with wide eyes and lowered voice:

"Mr. Broussard... you are dead."