Thanks :)

The prompt was very fun to work with!

"What if"

At first those words sounded intriguing. So curious. And the answers I have gotten felt so lifelike. So lifelike indeed that I just went ahead to ask about certain decisions I was unsure on how to appraoch. And when I went with what was answered back to me, the outcome was just as that god forsaken typewriter had predicted. At first I thought that this was it, that I had stricken the proverbial pot of gold so many poeple were loking for.

I went ahead to write many fictional history books on how famous events would have turned out if the circumstances were shifted.

What if the attempted hit on Hitler was succesful?

What if Columbus had actually found a faster route to get to India?

What if the Titanic didn't sink?

What if....?

What if...?

WHAT

IF

Even though the lifelike nature of all of my novels have made me wildly successful and rich, those two words are what haunt my nightmares now.

I have become obsessed with those two words that seem so harmless. And even if I try to take a break or just enjoy another activity, I somehow always end up in front of that same typewriter, asking about the outcomes of every scenario crossing my mind.

What if...

Lately it seems like reality has shifted. Sometimes when I look outside of the window I see a world that I don't know. Sometimes when I go to bed I don't recognise the sheets. On the rare occasions I go out to spend time with my friends I have a hard time recognising the people I am meeting up with, yet they still seem to know me and many of the personal memories I think (?) I have never shared.

And at the end of all this confusion there is only one thing that keeps me going.

What if...

I am now incapable of making any choices on my own. I need to ask my trusty typewriter what the best course of action would be. Could you image what would happen if I made a wrong decision?

What if...

I don't remember how I was ever able to live without every possible answer to those two simple words. Does it really matter that the seasons seem to change on a daily basis? Does it really matter that I have now met at least 216 people that are my parents? Does it matter that I get up every morning and look into a different face when I walk up to the mirror?

What if it actually mattered? I better go ask my beloved typewriter.

No matter how many unfamiliar rooms I walk into, no matter how many pairs of hands I look down on while typing, this trusty machination is my only remaining constant in life.

The golden letters spelling out "what if" engraved on the side of it are my only comfort.

And then it hit me. What if... I did something different about my own life? The anxiety on what to do next suddenly vanished. I don't need to leave my houses or families or realities or whatever nonsense I exist in that revolves around that typewriter. I can just go through my whole lives inch by inch figuring out what could have been if I just.... changed it a bit.

And so I waltzed towards one of my desks with a newly found disregard of the obsceneties that are my lifes. I have a new purpose now. I need to find out what would have happened, if... The hammering of the keys is my last resort of sanity. Everytime I think I have explored every possible solution I just seem to have a new perspective I have not yet discovered. I need to know now. I need to know the answer to "what if".

​

The obsessive hammering of the keys can be heard throughout the entirety of the underworld. Looking throgh the small window in the door you can see a simple chair and a table with a typewriter sitting on top of it. On the side of the typewriter you can see the words "what if" engravid in golden letters. The floor, the walls, every possible surface is covered in pages and pafes of paper. The only thing that is written on each page are the words "what if". The man who started out in this room is barely recognizable anymore. He has a constant look of obsession in his eyes and even though he seemed to enjoy just existing in this room, sometimes doodling on the blank sheets of paper, sometimes writing and performing songs to audiences only he could percieve... But the only thing that is still left of him is a husk of a person, glued to a useless typewriter that is only ever typing out the words "what if".

Please don't feel sad for him. This is the afterlife he has chosen for himself and it is not up to us to decide wether this choice is making him happy or not in the end. But maybe you are curious about him and are wondering yourself...

What if?

They all will...

I really hope you enjoyed it, it was the first time I ever engaged in this subreddit and I generally enjoy the dark and hidden themes since I am a huge Stephen King fan :D

I looked at the can I was holding in my hand. It was cool to the touch, just as a canned beverage should be. It looked so... ordinary.

I still remember hearing the booming voice from within the shadows. I remember how lost and confused I was. The sound was seeming to come from each direction at once and though it felt like my sanity was being dragged away from me with every syllable, I felt comfortable. Safe. At rest. I had barely any memory on how I have even gotten to this place. I remember being out with a couple of friends, sitting at the bar, having a few drinks and the occasional laugh, and suddenly t h i s v o i c e.

The instructions I got were simple. I can't recall the exact words or if they were even given to me by any means of speech, anyways. But the implications. The promises. I have never felt bliss just like this while listening to what I was chosen to spread to the poor, tired, and overworked people of this earth. I was blessed with a taste of pure extasy while I got told on which carrier to use to spread the joyous message. Of course the masses would not receive the pure version of joy until they found their way to the glorious v o i c e.

And just as quick as those memoried have gotten back into my mind, they were abruptly cut off by a young boy no older than 16 years old who took the can out of my hand. "about time, I was really getting bored of just having Red Bull". And then he walked towards the cash register.

I was overcome with glee, 'my first recrutee!' I mumbled into my own mind, until I noticed my left hand clutching the wrist that was just holding the can, nails trying to dig into to flesh of my wirst.

Silly me. Why would I try to stop this? I don't need to fight anymore. Stocking shelves in a supermarket may not sound glamorous, but all I need to do now is listen.

They

will

all

l i s t en