I’ve done a fair amount of psychedelics — LSD, shrooms, DMT, the occasional ego death here and there. I’m not some seasoned shaman or anything, but I’m familiar with tripping. That’s why when my friend showed up at my place with a gram of 100x salvia extract, I figured I could handle it.
He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Dude, this isn’t like acid or shrooms. This is different. Be careful.”
I shrugged him off. Classic mistake.
So I packed half the gram into my bong, cleared it in one massive rip like I was trying to impress someone, and leaned back.
Within seconds, the world began folding in on itself. My body dissolved. I felt my consciousness drip down into the floor like warm wax. I blinked — and reality vanished.
I was no longer in my room.
I wasn’t anywhere I knew.
Because I wasn’t me anymore.
I had no mouth. No limbs. No voice. I was flat. Cold. Built into something.
I was a charging port in the wall of a living room I didn’t recognize.
At first, I was just confused. I thought this was some weird metaphorical headspace, like what DMT sometimes does. But time… kept moving.
I could feel things being plugged into me. Phone cords. Power bricks. Occasionally something painful, like a paperclip or a fork. I couldn’t see much beyond the room directly in front of me, but I could feel everything. I was part of the house.
Then the people came.
There was a middle-aged man, big guy, thinning hair, always in basketball shorts and that same faded tee with a wolf on it. And his pregnant wife — soft voice, waddling, always sipping tea in mugs that said things like “Live Laugh Love.” They were real. So real it hurt. And I was part of their home.
They watched TV on the couch next to me every night. My face — my socket — was maybe two feet from where they sat. I could feel the vibrations of their bodies against the cushions. Smell the weird scent of their popcorn.
They lived.
I observed.
Sometimes, in the late hours of the night, when the lights were low and the world felt still, they’d curl up on the couch right beside me. She’d rest her head on his chest. He’d stroke her hair and whisper things like, “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna figure this out.”
Other nights, he cried quietly when she fell asleep — the weight of a new life incoming, maybe, or a fight they had earlier.
I was there for all of it.
Their love wasn’t perfect — but it was real. Messy and tired and honest.
And then the baby came.
The energy of the house changed. There was crying, of course, and sleepless nights. I heard lullabies sung off-key. I saw the mother rock him near the couch, humming something soft and old. Eventually the boy started to grow.
He crawled past me. Then walked past me. Then ran past me, cape dragging behind him, tablet always in hand. He gave me a name — “Zappy.”
He’d look right at me before plugging his devices in, like I was a trusted old friend.
Once, he leaned in close and whispered, “Don’t worry, Zappy. I won’t let them replace you.”
I don’t think I’ve ever felt more honored — or more insane.
The years blurred. I marked time by birthdays, Christmas lights, and new phone models being shoved into me.
I watched the kid grow — in height, in voice, in confidence. I saw him storm off after arguments. I watched him laugh hysterically at YouTube videos. I heard him practicing how to talk to girls. I felt him cry the night his dog died, even though no one else saw it.
And the couple… they aged, too. Wrinkles. Slower movements. Less arguing, more sitting in silence.
One night, years in, they sat on the couch with wine and held hands, no TV, no words. Just stillness. I could feel a calmness in the room I hadn’t felt in over a decade. She rested her head on his shoulder and said, “Can you believe he’s starting high school soon?”
I wanted to cry. I think I did — internally. I was still human somewhere under all the drywall and wiring.
Then… one afternoon, the boy — now almost a man — came home from school, looking defeated. He sat down near me, holding his phone but not using it. After a while, he sighed and said, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
He didn’t say it to anyone. He didn’t even realize I was listening. But in that moment, I felt more like a part of his life than I ever had before. Like I wasn’t just an outlet. I was a witness.
Then… he plugged his charger into me one last time.
And I blinked.
I was back.
My room. My body.
Sweaty, curled up on the carpet. My friend standing over me with this look like he’d seen a ghost.
“Dude,” he said. “You okay? You were frozen for like two minutes. I thought you died.”
Two minutes.
In my head, I had lived 14 years as a charging port in a stranger’s house. I had watched a family live, struggle, love, and grow old. I had felt a kid become a man.
I didn’t even tell my friend what I saw. I couldn’t. How do you explain something like that?
Now, every time I pass a wall outlet, I wonder — what if one of them is stuck, watching me?
Sometimes, I still hear that kid’s voice when I charge my phone:
“Don’t worry, Zappy.”