Digital Age

The last thing I remembered was the cold, not from the biting wind in the remote forest, but the icy grip of utter betrayal.

My own family, my sister Ashley, my parents, stood by a luxury RV, watching me.

Ashley screamed for the camera, a performance of feigned terror, then shoved me hard, sending me stumbling towards the grim-faced survivalists waiting in the shadows.

I later learned, in the brief, hellish time before I died, that the video of my "accident" went viral.

Ashley' s follower count exploded, millions celebrating my demise, fueled by my family's lies about my supposed tech addiction and instability.

They raked in donations and sponsorship deals, building a life of grotesque luxury upon my very corpse.

Then, there was only crushing darkness.

Until now.

My eyes snapped open to the familiar white ceiling of my bedroom.

My heart hammered, a trapped bird, but there were no wounds, no lingering chill of death.

Frantically, I grabbed my phone, and the date glowed back, October 12th-the very day they coerced me into the "digital detox survival challenge."

I was back.