He thought about the knife, the words on it.  He had not remembered them, but he knew they had held the answers–they were the key to uncovering the mysteries surrounding his empty life.  He would have to go back to the game, find the girl, question her.  He exited the journal, but found that the game was removed from the terminal.  A great sadness overtook him.  He was now powerless in the time when he was so close to finding out what he had once forgotten.  Without the game or his answers, life was now meaningless. 

    He involuntarily rolled back, away from the terminal and the walls.  In a fit of rage, he began pounding the armrest of his wheelchair, the only thing his fists could reach.  Again and again, he smashed the plastic until it broke off the metal of the chair.  After the loud noise echoed throughout the silent room, he remained still until his anger began to subside.  He did not feel his hand, assuming it was numb from the pain.  Even in real life this tinge was comparable to when he shot in the game–his senses were dulled beyond the point of even recognizing physical suffering.  He remembered that the game was gone now and he could no longer excel in his solitary hobby.  He brought his left hand to his face and dropped his right.

 
   
    As he sat in the noiseless room, the piece of plastic that was once armrest caught his eye.  There was an engraving.  Words.  He reached for it and brought it closer for examination. 

    Novus

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