The Case of the Missing Reality

 

The Case of the Missing Reality

Scene: The Courtroom of the Mind

The protagonist blinks, and suddenly, they are in a courtroom.

They don’t remember walking in. They don’t remember being charged with anything. But here they are, sitting in the defendant’s chair, hands gripping the wooden table, while a sharp-dressed figure with piercing eyes and a permanent scowl paces in front of them. The Paranoia Prosecutor.

“Your honor,” the Prosecutor begins, “we are here today to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the defendant has fabricated a crucial memory.”

A murmur spreads through the jury. A few members shift uncomfortably. One of them—a garden gnome—nods solemnly. Another, who appears to be the protagonist’s childhood teddy bear, shakes their fluffy head in disappointment.

At the judge’s bench sits the protagonist themself. This is their mind, after all. But it doesn’t make things any easier. How can you fairly judge your own reality?

They clear their throat. “Uh… Defense?”

A sigh from the other table. The Rational Defense Attorney, a tired-looking but well-meaning figure in a wrinkled suit, stands. They adjust their glasses. “Your honor, we intend to prove that the memory in question is not only real but essential to the defendant’s identity.”

The Prosecutor smirks. “We’ll see about that.”

The Case: A Missing Memory

The memory in question? A conversation. A moment that changed everything. The protagonist remembers sitting with someone important—a friend, a sibling, maybe a therapist. Words were spoken that helped them make peace with something painful. But now, that memory is under fire.

  • “This conversation never happened,” the Prosecutor declares. “There is no proof. No texts, no notes, no other witnesses who recall it.”

  • “Memories aren’t always recorded,” the Defense Attorney argues. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t real.”

  • The Prosecutor holds up a document, proof that on the supposed date of the conversation, the protagonist was… where, exactly? The ink on the paper melts as they read it. They fumble, then scowl. “Ignore that! It was just… a formatting error.”

The protagonist shifts in their chair. It felt so real. The warmth of that moment, the words exchanged. But now, they can’t be sure.

Courtroom Chaos Ensues

“Call the first witness!” the Prosecutor announces.

A shadowy figure takes the stand. The protagonist squints. It looks… familiar.

“State your name,” the Prosecutor orders.

“I… I don’t know,” the shadow stammers. “I think I used to be real? But now I’m not sure.” It turns to the judge—the protagonist—with pleading eyes. “Do you remember me?”

Before the protagonist can answer, the Prosecutor slams a hand on the table. “Objection! The witness is leading the defendant into an emotional spiral!”

“Overruled,” the protagonist tries to say, but before they can, the jury starts shouting objections too. Everyone is objecting. The gnome. The teddy bear. Even the stenographer, who is just a floating question mark tapping away at an invisible keyboard.

“ORDER!” the protagonist finally yells, slamming their gavel.

Silence. Mostly. One juror is still whispering, “objection…” under their breath.

The Breaking Point

The Defense Attorney sighs, rubbing their temples. “Your honor, may I approach the bench?”

The protagonist nods. The Attorney leans in. “Listen. This is a losing battle. You’re not going to find physical proof of this memory. The question is—does that matter?”

The Prosecutor hears this and laughs. “OF COURSE IT MATTERS! If they can’t prove it happened, how can they trust anything they remember?”

The protagonist feels the weight of the question. What if nothing is real? What if every meaningful moment, every comforting word, was just… fabricated?

Then, a lightbulb—literally—floats into the courtroom.

“EUREKA!” the bulb shouts. “I HAVE THE ANSWER!”

Everyone stares, waiting.

The bulb flickers.

Then it sputters out and falls to the floor with a soft clink.

The jury groans.

The Verdict

The protagonist looks at the evidence, the conflicting testimonies, the sheer ridiculousness of the trial.

Finally, they take a deep breath and say: “I don’t care.”

The courtroom gasps.

“I don’t care if I can prove it. I don’t care if it’s ‘real’ by anyone else’s standards. I remember it. It mattered to me. And that’s enough.”

The courtroom shudders. The Prosecutor shrieks, “NO! YOU CAN’T JUST—” but before they can finish, the walls of the courthouse begin to dissolve into mist. The jury vanishes, the Defense Attorney tips their hat, and the protagonist feels the weight of doubt loosen.

The case is closed.

Epilogue: Walking Out of the Courtroom

The protagonist wakes up in the real world.

The memory still lingers, faint but firm. Maybe it happened. Maybe it didn’t.

But the impact remains.

And that’s enough.

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