A short story, born from this animation.
His life was a monument to the mundane. A grey cubicle, instant noodles that tasted of cardboard, and a silence in his apartment so profound it felt like a physical weight. But online, he was a spectacle. Julian_Ascendant. His feed was a kaleidoscope of vibrant parties he’d left early, exotic meals he’d barely tasted, and joyful gatherings where he’d felt utterly, terrifyingly alone. Each post, each carefully selected filter, was another brick in the fortress of his digital self, a self that was infinitely more interesting than the man who bled and breathed behind the screen.
It was a Tuesday, the colour of concrete and despair. He’d just spent ten minutes artfully arranging his takeout sushi to look like a Michelin-star meal. The perfect shot. But as he looked at it, a wave of self-disgust washed over him. It was all fake. Every last pixel.
He remembered Veritas.
He opened the app. The interface was stark, just a black screen with a single, unblinking white circle. No options, no settings, no escape. He pointed the phone at his own face, the weary, familiar mask of a man playing a part. His thumb hovered over the circle. Capture the reality of the moment. What would it show? The crushing debt? The loneliness that gnawed at his insides?
He pressed it.
The screen flickered, not with a flash, but with a wave of static, like a dying television. The image that resolved itself was grainy, soaked in a feverish, sickly pink. His own face was there, but it was a nightmare version of it—a twisted, screaming mask of digital noise. His shirt and tie, symbols of his drab servitude, seemed to be dissolving into the chaos.
But that wasn't the horror. The horror was the arm draped casually around his shoulder.
It was a skeletal arm, clad in scraps of a black, hooded robe that seemed to drink the very light from the room. Julian’s eyes, wide with a terror that was finally, terribly real, followed the arm up to the face of his companion. A skull, grinning with empty sockets and a jaw frozen in a silent, eternal laugh. It was Death. Not a symbol, not an allegory, but a passenger who had been with him all along, now revealed by the awful truth of the filter.
A scream lodged in his throat, dry and sharp. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat for a dance that was already over. He was going to die. The thought was cold, sharp, and clear.
But then, a second thought followed, insidious and utterly, horrifyingly him.
What a photo.
The terror didn't vanish, but it was joined by a new, manic energy. His fingers, trembling, moved with practiced instinct. Crop. Adjust contrast. The static, the glitchy pink, the skeletal grin—it was perfect. It was art. It was the ultimate, undeniable, viral post. His masterpiece.
He could already see the comments. The shock. The awe. The theories. Was it a clever hoax? A groundbreaking piece of digital art? No one would believe it was real. But they would talk. Oh, how they would talk. Julian_Ascendant would finally live up to his name. He would become a legend.
He looked from the ghastly image on his phone to the empty space beside him. The air was cold. He was still alone. Or was he?
With a final, trembling breath, he began to type the caption. The perfect words for the end of everything. After all, if you’re taking a selfie with Death, you have to make sure you get your good side.
