Oskar Leonard's Blog, page 8

Chained Soul – Part Sixteen

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Fifteen, you can read that here!

Day Sixteen

The stupid ‘dietary privilege’ thing was salt. Fucking salt! They gave me a little paper sachet of it on the tray next to my slop, like the sort you normally get in a fast food place or something like that, but this one didn’t even have the decency to be labelled as ‘salt’. It was just white. I had to rip it open and sniff at it for a bit before I trusted it enough to put a tiny bit on my tongue.

Maybe that was stupid of me, but it did turn out to be just salt. Well, I guess, I hope it’s just salt. If there’s no more entries after this one, then you can just assume that the salt wasn’t actually salt and killed me. Kind of a shitty way to go, but I guess I’ve already found myself in the shittiest situation I could imagine, so maybe a shitty death would fit.

Okay, I’ve written ‘shitty’ far too much now. Anyway, my point is that the privilege sucked, but I guess I don’t know what else I expected from this place. Maybe I just wanted some colour – some variety. I would have been happy with blue slop, or green slop, or slop with sparkles in it. Maybe the salt counts as sparkles. Nah, fuck that. I’m not giving them any more credit than they deserve, and they don’t deserve any.

Thinking of salt as sparkles doesn’t even make me feel any better. I think I would’ve felt better if I got some slip of paper letting me know about the new privilege. A certificate saying that I earned some salt would be better – at least I could rip that up. I could sprinkle it on the slop as another topping. Salt and paper – what a combination.

I’m going to go mad in here thinking about salt and slop and paper. Is that what they want? They’ll let me out for a day in ten years and I’ll get thrown straight back in when I start asking the nearest person I see about slop. That’s their master plan.

God, what am I saying? I’m already mad. I would swear I wasn’t mad when I got put in here, but I guess can’t even say that for certain. I just don’t fucking remember. Do you know how infuriating that is? Fuck, why am I talking to you like you’re something more than a piece of paper again?

You’ll run out soon. The paper, I mean. I guess I can scream at them to give me some more, but that’s not guaranteed. Maybe they’ll give me post-it notes next time, or tiny pieces of paper, as big as a fingernail. I wouldn’t put it past them.

I don’t know what to think about what Helen said. Maybe I should chase the privileges, like stupid achievements in a video game that mean nothing. Is the feeling of ‘getting something’ enough for me? Nah. I already know it, before going through all the trouble. If they’re going to mess me around, like with the outside area and now this new thing with the salt, then what’s the point? They would be hollow victories.

Speaking of things that are hollow and have no worth, there’s someone knocking at my door. Hold on.

Conversation With The Psychologist Lady

-she comes in and has the audacity to sit down on my bed before I can even say anything, settling herself in all comfortable like it’s some sort of hotel room instead of a prison cell-

Helen: Hello, Robin. How are you doing today?

Me: You’re still fucking persisting with that name thing?

Her: Look, this will be a slightly longer visit today. We’re going to have a session together – normally, this would take place in my office, but we’ve been on fairly high alert recently and I thought your room would be an appropriate substitute.

Me: You mean my cell?

Her: Please, Robin.

Me: Robbie.

Her: If it will make you feel more comfortable, for now, I will address you as Robbie. I suppose it’s a nickname for Robin?

Me: No… it’s a name-name. My name. Always has been.

Her: How do you know that, Robbie? (she leans in a bit here, and pats the bed beside her – again, the absolutely audacity of inviting me to sit on my own bed!)

Me: I just do.

Her: I thought you’d been struggling with your memory.

Me: Yeah, everything before here is a blur. I only remember… (thinking better of it) … well, fuck, I don’t remember anything at all.

Her: Not even the name ‘Robbie’?

Me: I know it’s my name, alright. Stop pestering me about it. What’s this fucking session you want to do, anyway?

Her: We’ve already started, Robbie. It’s talking therapy. It’s designed to ensure that you’re comfortable here and making progress during your time in this facility.

Me: I gotta be honest, it doesn’t feel like it’s doing me much good.

Her: You have to give me some time, Robbie! (she’s laughing – I’m not laughing with her, and she stops, thankfully)

Me: Seems like time’s all I got. Why do you want some? What do you gain from this?

Her: Firstly, it’s my job. Secondly, we are trying to ensure that you go through your treatment plan successfully.

Me: Yeah, the pills and slop. How revolutionary.

Her: You recently received your first dietary privilege – surely you’re uplifted by that?

Me: By… salt? Are you fucking serious?

Her: Please, keep yourself calm, Robbie. Anger during these sessions may lead to the revoking of your privileges, or further consequences.

Me: Like whatever ended up happening to whoever trashed your group therapy session thing?

Her: Yes… like that patient. He was properly dealt with and is undergoing some more concentrated treatment now.

Me: You’re drugging him up so he won’t throw more chairs at you?

Her: That is not what we’re doing here, Robbie. The pills are enabling you to get better. They give you energy and set you on the right path.

Me: What the fuck is the right path? Maybe if I knew what it was you wanted me to do, then I could fucking do it!

Her: The treatment will work, Robbie. You just need to give it time, and co-operate fully. The privileges are just small rewards in the meantime – the true reward is your recovery.

Me: My recovery from fucking what? What the fuck is wrong with me?

Her: Okay, I’m disengaging now, Robbie. This is clearly going nowhere. I will be in touch to discuss your next steps. (she gets up and starts leaving now)

Me: Fucking fantastic.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Fifteen

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Fourteen, you can read that here!

Day Fifteen

Dietary Privileges Form – Level One

Patient Number: 0619

Patient Name: Robin Stephens

Question One: How Are You Feeling Today?

I really, really don’t see how this is at all fucking relevant to my food. If I say I feel kinda sad, will you give me a big tub of ice cream and some cake? Nah, you’ll probably just keep giving me the slop to match my mood if I say that. You might do that if I’m too bloody happy too, to calm me down. Fuck it – I feel fine. Completely in the middle. You’re not tricking me up with your stupid questions.

Question Two: Do You Have Any Allergies And/Or Intolerances?

Oh damn, it almost feels like you actually fucking care. It’s a shame that whatever you’ve done to me has made me forget literally fucking everything about my life. Jeez, I really hope you don’t give me something that I’m accidentally allergic to and then have the lawsuit of your lives on your hands. That would really be a shame. Maybe if you gave me my fucking memories back then I’d be able to help you out a little bit more. How about that? A trade – memories for information. Sounds good to me, and a lot less expensive than a negligence lawsuit for you.

Question Three: Do You Have Any Religious And/Or Cultural Requirements Relating To Food?

Once again, I’m afraid that I simply cannot help you without your co-operation. Wow, that sounds like a really familiar line – y’know, it really sounds like the sort of thing you people are usually saying to me. Oh, co-operate Robbie, and everything will be fine. Co-operate and you’ll get some privileges. Co-operate and we can help you. You know what would help me? My fucking memories!

Question Four: On A Scale Of One To Five, How Would You Rate Your Current Dietary Fulfilments?

Dogshit. Also, ‘dietary fulfilments’? Seriously? It’s slop. It’d do you lot some good to get yourself down from up your own arses every once in a while and taste some of the absolute shit that you’re serving to me every day.

Question Five: How, If At All, Could Your Current Dietary Fulfilments Be Improved?

This has got to be a fucking joke. Firstly, it would be nice to have some actual food. You serve me slop. Not food. You’d probably get in legal trouble just for calling it food. I doubt it’s got any nutrition in it, no matter what you say about it. I. Want. Actual. Food. Meals. Fucking sandwiches would be better! Have you guys heard of meals? Soup, even! Stew! Pie! Pie and chips! Fuck, now I want pie and chips. You see what you’ve done? Improve the damn slop by getting rid of the shitty stuff and giving me something actually edible.

Question Six: Do You Feel Ready To Gain Additional Dietary Privileges?

I’ve been ready since the very first time I laid eyes on that disgusting slop. I’ve been so ready. I’ve never wished for flavour more in my life. Not just flavour – texture! I want the crunch. Or even something stringy and tough. Something to chew. My teeth will have turned to dust by the time you’re finished with feeding me that shit! Your slop just runs down people’s throats – you should tell rich people that it’s a special diet cleanse where they don’t even have to move their jaw muscles to consume it, and you’ll make bank off them. They’ll eat that shit up – literally. See, I should be in your marketing department. Do you have one of those? Or are we hiding away in the mountains somewhere, just hoping that the government doesn’t find us? Are you official or what? Are you criminals?

Question Seven: Are You Still Willing To Co-Operate With Your Treatment Plan In Order To Gain Privileges?

I’m assuming you mean the pills and the laughably awful mess that you made of the group therapy thing. To be honest, I don’t care too much about the pills. If you’re poisoning me then it’s far too slow and you get a 0/10 for efficiency. I’m not sure if they’re meant to be doing something beneficial, but it doesn’t really feel like that either, except for the energy. I know that’s caffeine, by the way, I’m not stupid. But yeah, I’ll jump through your fucking hoops if you really want me to. I don’t care what I have to do as long as you stop giving me the horrible slop. How’s that for a deal?

Question Eight: Do You Feel Normal?

Again with this shit. If I knew what you meant by normal, then I’d at least try to answer, but going off what you describe as ‘food’, I don’t really trust your definitions of anything. I’ve been in here for weeks and all I feel is bored and lonely and fed up and frustrated. Heh, I guess that’s a lot when I write it out like that. But I’ve felt like that all the time – is that normal? It’s my normal, I guess. Yes, fuck you, I feel normal – as normal as I can fucking get when you keep me locked in a box all day and all night.

I should’ve guessed that the dietary privileges, whatever the fuck they are, wouldn’t kick in until after today. I had to sit there and look at the slop after the psychologist lady left with her questionnaire tucked under her arm. I stared at it. I stared for so long that I thought it grew a mouth at one point, but I didn’t dare to say anything in case they were watching me and thought I was going crazy for real. Then I blinked and it was just a normal gap in the slop.

Bringing myself to eat it was harder today. Maybe because now I know there’s better options, and they’re just choosing not to give them to me even though, may I remind you, I was not the one who threw a chair in that room that I never got to go into, and in fact, I would say I’ve been a model kidnapee this entire time. I’ve taken the pills, eaten the slop, and done everything that they could possibly want me to do, even if I’ve had an attitude – I mean, who can fucking blame me?

I don’t get it. I don’t understand any of it. What the fuck do they want from me?

What the fuck is normal?

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Fourteen

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Thirteen, you can read that here!

Day Fourteen

When I woke up today, I had a thought. Not completely unusual, I know, but it was one of those that struck me as soon as I opened my eyes, and then I couldn’t get rid of it. I thought I might as well write it down here.

Even if I didn’t have any sort of disease to start with, they’ve given me one while I’ve been in here. Loneliness. It sounds stupid, but it might as well be a fucking disease. It’s changed how I look at the world – not that I can properly remember how I did that before all of this, or that my world is much bigger than a room and a corridor, but still.

I sit here, every day, just listening. Footsteps in the corridor, breathing from the room next to me – where I hope Helen still is – and the occasional cough. Mainly just the footsteps, though. I can’t identify whose are whose, because I hardly ever see people in here. Again, the loneliness! I don’t even know what Helen looks like.

Different options have floated through my mind, every so often. I mean, can you blame me? I’ve got nothing else to think about, unless you count the continual dread of wondering what their end goal is with keeping me in here. If I thought about that all day, I’d end up developing an actual mental health problem.

But no, Helen’s appearance is something that I think about. For some reason, she always has long hair in my imagination, although I guess that might be a bit stereotypical of me to assume. She could have a mohawk. She’d look awesome with a mohawk. Dyed bright green, too – that would be something. It’d break up the monotony of the awful, bland colours in here, anyway. Now, in my head, she has vibrant purple contact lenses that shine like the eyes of those deer and rabbits that you see in photographs, when the flash has temporarily blinded them and recorded a moment of pure nighttime panic.

I bet she’s made her own list of demands too. She probably asked for paint – now I’m completely making everything up in the name of colour, but I don’t care – but forgot to ask for paper or canvases. Her walls are splattered in so many colours that you can’t see the horrid eggshell blue beneath them. She’s painted feathers stretching out in impossible colour combinations and patterns that are both geometric and floral. They didn’t give her paintbrushes, so her hands are covered in the same colours, and she tries to peel off another layer every night at the sink, but then gives up when all the shades fade into each other and nearly become brown, realising that a rainbow on her hands is as good as a revolution in here.

She could be boring, of course. Or not boring, per se, but monochrome. Like me. Normal brown hair; normal brown eyes; beige uniform; no paint on my hands. I just don’t know, after all. I could ask her, I suppose, but then…

Wait. You’ve got to be kidding me. Someone in the universe is looking down on me and having the best time of their life messing with mine.

She’s knocking.

Conversation With Helen

-she’s barely had time to knock twice before I’m over at the wall, knocking back, and then she knocks back once, and I feel like a kid in primary school again, for some reason-

Her: Is it still you, Robbie?

Me: Yeah, ‘course. Why wouldn’t it be?

Her: I don’t know. I had… well, nevermind.

Me: Is this another one of those things that you’re not gonna tell me for my own good, or something?

Her: Jeez, are you still thinking about that?

Me: Not like I got much else to do. (obviously not mentioning that I’ve been thinking about her, quite a bit)

Her: Well, it’s not that. It’s just private.

Me: Wow, they still let you have privacy? I’m jealous.

Her: Wha- what do you mean? Are they watching you? Right now? (she goes down to a stressed out sort of whisper here)

Me: It was sort of a joke. I reckon they’re spying on us.

Her: Don’t make yourself paranoid. I think they’re just leaving us in here to rot.

Me: …because that’s a way more positive spin on things.

Her: Better than looking over your shoulder all the time.

Me: What, at the boring wall behind me? Nah, I think it’s the box on the ceiling.

Her: I suppose thinking about it will keep your mind occupied, at least.

Me: Oh! I need to tell you – they let me go outside.

Her: Heh. How did that go? (sounding like she’s a mixture of bemused and defeated)

Me: You’ve been outside, haven’t you?

Her: Fenced-in square?

Me: Yup. I felt ripped off, only I didn’t even pay for it.

Her: Get used to that feeling. Don’t stop taking the privileges, though. They’re a change to the monotony, if nothing else.

Me: Why, what sort of things have you got? (hoping my prying doesn’t come off too strong)

Her: Well, that would ruin the fun for you, wouldn’t it?

Me: I’m starting to think you just like messing with me. I’ve been remembering more, you know.

Her: …how much?

Me: Not enough. Just a conversation with my mum, which was just as fucking vague as you can be sometimes.

Her: I’m sorry. I know you probably don’t believe me, but it is genuinely for your own good. I’m glad you can remember your mum.

Me: Not properly. Just that one memory. It’s so weird – it’s like ninety percent of my brain is just fucking gone. Locked with the key thrown away and all that.

Her: You’re getting it back though, even if it’s slow.

Me: Were you the same, at first?

Her: Nowhere near as bad as you. But again, count your blessings. You’ll realise what I mean when you remember.

Me: Jesus, what a lovely thing to look forward to. You’re really reassuring, you know?

Her: I wish I could help you more.

Me: I know. I appreciate you just being here, anyway. Not that you can really go anywhere, unless you’ve got some kickass privileges.

Her: None of them are that good. (she’s laughing a bit, though)

Me: The way you said that makes it sound like there’s a ton of them.

Her: These people don’t really understand the whole ‘quality over quantity’ thing. There’s a couple that I think you’ll find nice, though.

Me: And you won’t tell me about them.

Her: Not yet. Leave yourself something to look forward to, y’know?

Me: I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.

Her: Trust me, Robbie. It gets better. Maybe only by the smallest amount, but it does get a little bit better.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Thirteen

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Twelve, you can read that here!

Day Thirteen

Day Thirteen

I have to admit, when I wrote out all of those demands yesterday, I think it was more for the catharsis than anything else. Part of me knows that I’m stuck in a role here, and that role is not anywhere near any sort of power. Plus, I don’t think I’m ballsy enough to demand too much from the psychologist lady. A little, sure, here and there. But I know that she’s heavily tied into whatever’s keeping me here.

Pissing off the people in control of my entire life doesn’t seem like the smartest idea.

However, there have been… developments. It all happened before I sat down to write today – to be fair, they didn’t give me much of a chance, so I’ll just recount it as best I can.

The Random Shit That Happened Today

So I woke up, right. Pretty normal – probably the most normal part of being in here, anyway. Except it wasn’t… right. There was something weird that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, like when you wake up and you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming. I would’ve pinched myself, but then I realised what was wrong, so by that point, minor bodily harm would have been fairly useless.

Someone was knocking on the door, and there was a voice behind it. Usually, there’s just knocking before the psychologist lady lets herself in anyway, but this was definitely a voice. I was still groggy as fuck, so the voice was more of a weird murmur for a few seconds before I could actually start figuring out the words.

Then, I was just confused. I sat there for about a minute trying to figure out if I was actually hearing the words that my brain was telling me I was.

Someone was asking for permission to come in. It was completely wild – they didn’t ask for my permission to lock me up in here, or if they did, I can’t remember that now. Still, someone was pretty insistently asking me for a response, and that was definitely… different.

I have to admit, I took a little time getting up from the bed. I even had a bit of a stroll over to the door. Not that I have much room to stroll in here, but I did my best. When I got to the door, I let the person outside ask me again, one more time, just to savour the feeling. It was the slightest drop of normality – of control – and it felt amazing.

But then I replied to the voice beyond the door, because I was starting to feel like a bit of a prick. And of course, I told them they could come in. What else was I gonna do? Refuse?

The door swung open, and the person came inside. It was a man, pretty slim and wiry-looking, wearing a dark blue cardigan over some sort of white uniform. He had a lanyard around his neck with some sort of card at the bottom of it, but I couldn’t get a good look at it to see if it had a name on.

The guy didn’t really introduce himself. He said he was a part of the facility, almost like he was describing a room or something, and that he was here to escort me to a secure exercise session. I’m pretty sure he said some other words too when he was describing it, but I couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to them the first time I heard him say them, so now I’ve got no chance of remembering what they were.

Once he got me to sign a form – a real simple one that only needed my signature, thank fuck – he went out again, and I had a little time to sit on my bed and think. I guessed I didn’t really need to lay out all of my demands at once if they were taking it upon themselves to give me the outside time already, before I even asked for it.

It was a very, very rare feeling for me, but I actually felt like things were going kind of okay for a little bit.

Then the dude came back with some guards, and I had to go through the motions of being secured before they let me go out into the corridor. Part of me was excited just for that – the chance to stretch my legs outside of my room – but I was buzzing at the thought of going outside. Outside. There would be fresh air, hopefully, and maybe the sight of… something else. Some other place that wasn’t a part of this facility.

We went in a different direction than the last time, further down the corridor in a different direction, and then a couple of turns that I kind of tried to remember. Just in case I ever wanted to try and hatch some sort of grand escape plan. It would be pretty impossible with my memory, but at least the thought gave me another helping of hope.

Finally, we got to a weird door where we had to be buzzed through with an intercom and all that fancy stuff. I knew what that meant. Outside, finally.

That door opened with a beep, and the first thing I saw was metal. Fencing, taller than two people with barbed wire curling around the top, growing into it like a monstrous grey weed. The space was… fuck, it was disappointing.

It was smaller than the space in my room. The ground was concrete and beyond the fencing, all I could see were towering grey walls. Not even brick. It was grey slabs, and I spotted at least one security camera with a beady red eye staring down at me before I got turned around and my wrists were released from the restraints.

They let me pace around for all of ten minutes, looking up at the sky – grey as well – before they decided my time was up. The restraints were slapped back on, and I only got a few seconds to appreciate the ugly fencing before they spun me around and took me back inside. There wasn’t even that much of a fucking breeze.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Twelve

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Eleven, you can read that here!

Day Twelve

I’ve got an action plan. Considering that I’ve been very nice to these assholes recently, going along with taking their pills and not being whoever threw a chair across that room for the horribly planned group session, I think I deserve some of these privileges that the weird psychologist lady keeps throwing around. She specifically said I would get to go outside if I co-operated with the group session, and I co-operated just fine. It wasn’t me who spoiled the whole thing.

Not that I can blame the poor fucker who did. Especially not if it was Helen. She’s been silent ever since. I’m getting genuinely worried, but part of me is getting paranoid about knocking on the wall. If any of those facility fuckers hear me doing it, they might think I’m going properly insane and keep me in here forever.

Well, they might be keeping me in here forever anyway, but I’m holding onto the hope that they’ll let me out at some point. It might be a stupid hope, but I think it’s the only thing keeping me going at the moment.

Anyway, those privileges seem like gold dust, and I’m not gonna throw away her mention of being allowed outside like it was nothing. I did what she wanted – I filled in the form and I walked to the room. Granted, I didn’t do any of the group stuff because of it not happening, but I still went through the motions and I didn’t even make a fuss when I got dragged back here! In my books, that’s worth a reward.

So, the next time she comes in here, I’m going to demand that I’m let outside. I would say that I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, but I don’t think I really have any ground to stand on if she does refuse me. It’s not like I can get up in a strop and shout ‘You’ve lost a customer!’ and storm out.

I really wish I could, though. She’s a shit psychologist. I don’t even know what a good psychologist looks like and I can still tell that she’s shit. If she even is a psychologist. To be fair, I don’t think she’s ever outright said that. She might be a nurse. Or a… something else medical sounding. Or a receptionist.

It’d be a weird gig for a receptionist, but this is a weird place, so I can imagine that happening.

No matter what she is, though, I’m gonna remember my demands. Fuck it, I’ll write them down. That’s probably the best way to make sure that I don’t forget, given that my memory hasn’t been the most reliable part of my brain recently. Right, here we go.

My Demands (Non-Violent Demands But Still Demands So You Better Give Me Them Or Else I’ll Be Sad Or Something)

I want to go outside in that enclosure bit you talked about.I deserve this because you said I could if I co-operated with the group thing, and as far as I know, I co-operated.Your shit security and pre-pre-pre-pre-checks are not my fault. If I was you, I’d be giving me all of the privileges as an apology for your miserable failing with that whole thing.I want to see other people who you’re keeping here.Maybe not whoever threw the chair though. Or if it is them, could you have them in those handcuffs so they don’t throw anything at me?I deserve this one because the group thing would have let me see them anyway, and, once again, you miserably failed at that whole thing, so I would like to be compensated.Psychologist lady does not count. Guards also don’t count. I’m talking about specifically other people like me.I want to have some form of contact with the outside world.I deserve this because fuck, even prisoners are allowed to send letters and stuff. Let me send letters! You gave me paper!You might have to give me the addresses of my family and friends, though, because I can’t remember those.I also deserve this because you said that they were aware of what’s going on, and you can look over the letters and whatever you want, I just want to actually hear from someone outside of these walls.I want a shower.I deserve this because I stink. You can tell I stink, I can tell I stink, and my pits might be growing mould by this point.Also, I’m pretty sure hygiene is a human right. If it’s not, it should be.I literally do not care if it’s a bucket of water, a communal shower or if you add a five-star hotel ensuite to the side of my room.I am not washing myself with the water from the toilet. If you think that’s a solution, you can all go fuck yourselves.I want some sort of routine.Again, even prisoners have routine. And I know you probably put the meal through at the same time every day, but that doesn’t count. The pills show up at random times and I’m struggling to tell day from night with all the electric light. It’s all fucking with my brain.Even though I don’t need it, I would even take daily five-minute fucking therapy sessions or meditation sessions or whatever. Just something to break up the nothingness.A clock also wouldn’t go amiss. I don’t see why it would be such an issue for me to know what time it is. I could actually try to get a proper sleep schedule if I had a clock.

To be honest, I feel better after writing all of that out, regardless of whether I get them or not. It almost feels like a manifesto. Not that I’m some political party leader or anything – but it does feel nice to have some sort of purpose again.

My heart’s actually beating a little faster than it usually does. It’s reminding me of banging on that bloody door for ages to get pen and paper, only my knuckles don’t hurt this time.

Swings and roundabouts, I guess.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Eleven

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Ten, you can read that here!

Day Eleven

I had a really weird dream last night. I don’t really know if it was a dream, like straight-up imagination land, or if it was something else. A memory, I guess. Something real. It could have been a dream mixed with a memory – I don’t know how much I can trust my brain at this point.

It’s wiped out pretty much all of my memories from my life before being in this place, and it’s been fairly consistent with not letting me have access to them. That one memory from the supermarket has been all I’ve been allowed, so far. I guess this new memory-dream-thing might be another one to add to the collection.

If it was real. I hate that I can’t check. Even though it’s stupid, I feel like this place might be hiding all of my thoughts and memories somewhere. In a database, or a huge medical folder. Reels and reels of times that I should keep in my brain, like – fuck, I don’t know, my first car, girlfriend, kiss, starting my job, spending my money on whatever the hell I spend my money on, all that stuff. It’s my life, and I want it. I deserve it, if nothing else.

Unless I did something properly horrendous to get in here. What if I’m a serial killer? That would suck. Helen doesn’t really seem like a serial killer, though. I guess she could’ve done some other horrible crime. Some sort of mass-scale fraud or something. The government would probably care about that.

Are these people the government? I can’t tell. It could be private, but that wouldn’t make sense with how much it seems to be touting itself as healthcare. There again, we do have private healthcare stuff here – but why would they be keeping prisoners as patients? That sounds like a government deal. It’s pretty hard to get people to pay to be locked up.

Not that I have any personal experience with that. Fuck, saying that, I might do. I can’t remember a fucking thing. Maybe I tried to start some sort of pay-as-you-go-prison and did a whole load of messed up stuff with that.

Nah. I work – worked – in a supermarket. That wage isn’t enough to build some sort of mega-complex for keeping people locked away. You need the big money for that – probably more like whatever that stupid Chief of Operations is on. Snob. Looking down on the people he’s kidnapped and kept away from society for just long enough to send out a note. Not even personalised. They’d only call me Robin, anyway, for whatever reason.

It must be brainwashing. Taking away your identity and giving you a new one. That sounds right. Maybe that’s how they’re keeping my memories away – new name, new brain.

I don’t know. I’m not smart enough for all that. But yeah, I had a dream, so it only feels right to write it down before I forget it.

A Dream That Might Be A Memory

I’m in a bedroom. It’s small, and I’m small – smaller, anyway. Thinner, I think. I look down and see twigs for arms. Thin, definitely. The sleeves of an oversized band hoodie are rolled up, and I’m drowning in it. There’s a bed to one side of me and a desk and chair to the other – I don’t think the room would be able to fit much more in it. The wallpaper is your standard rented off-white, and the carpet is some colour that reminds me of vomit. I don’t even know what you’d call it – ‘essence of stomach contents’.

There’s a letter on the desk, and I have the vague feeling that it’s somewhat important, but at the same time, zero desire to go anywhere near it. Before I can make much of a decision about all of that, there’s a knock at the door.

Voice Beyond The Door: Hey kiddo, can I come in?

Me: I guess. (shuffling my feet and going to sit down on the bed)

The voice opens the door and steps into the room. It’s a woman, and from how much she looks spits of me, I’m guessing it’s my mum. It’s kinda freaky that I can’t remember exactly. She perches on the edge of the desk, looks down at the letter, and then quickly looks back at me.

Her: How are you feeling today?

Me: Fine, I guess.

Her: Have you thought anymore about what we talked about?

Me: A bit.

Her: I just want what’s best for you. You know that, right?

Dream-memory-me doesn’t respond to that. I’m getting the distinct impression of a moody teenager, sullen over something or other. Maybe the letter’s about a school trip we can’t afford, or some test I failed. Or a detention. I can’t really remember if I got those.

Me: Is this about Matthew?

Her: It’s not just about… it’s not just about him.

Me: I know you were upset. (jeez, I was sounding like the mature parent)

Her: I can’t expect you to understand. That’s my issue to deal with, not yours. (she sighed pretty heavily saying that)

Me: But you never started bringing up anything until after everything kicked off with him.

Her: Can you blame me, kiddo? I’m worried.

Me: I’ll just hold off, for now. Things will get better.

Her: But I can’t ask you to… We went through this. There are two options, and whichever you go with, you have to be certain. There can’t be an in-between anymore. It’s not safe.

Me: It’s fucked that I have to choose.

Her: Hey, language! (she laughed a bit, though)

Me: Sorry.

Her: Look, we’ll figure it out. But you need to tell me, soon. I’ll have to start making plans.

Me: We. We’re in this together.

Her: I know. I know.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Ten

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Nine, you can read that here!

Day Ten

After yesterday’s shitshow, and the rather humbling feeling of being dragged back to my room-cell-thing, whatever you want to call it, I’ve decided that today will be a nice, chill day. I’ll take the pills that have randomly appeared in my room, three-a-day, chew – or try to chew – the slop that comes through the door, and stop myself from shouting and screaming when the claustrophobia hits a little too hard.

To be honest, I’m mostly pissed. I wanted to be the one throwing chairs around and causing a ruckus, y’know? Not some random other person that I couldn’t even see. It should have been me! I would have been great at it. I’d have thrown an entire table at someone if they’d let me.

Not that they would ‘let’ me, but whatever. If they gave me enough freedom I would have run with it and put on a show. It would’ve been the most exciting day of those annoying, creepy guards’ lives. But no, I had to be outside of all the fun stuff, just watching it through a tiny little window of a screen. It’s all bullshit.

I can’t even have fun in my confinement. I’m lying, now, with my head dropped off the edge of the bed, trying to write while the blood rushes into my skull and makes me feel all dizzy and weird. This isn’t ‘fun’. At most, it’s sensation-seeking, and even then, blood moving around my body isn’t exactly what I’d call a thrill.

But I have nothing else to do. Helen is silent today, maybe not even there anymore. I haven’t heard anything for an almost worrying amount of time, but maybe the clangs and footsteps from outside are just confusing me. I don’t know. I always try to figure out when she’s getting fed – the slots in the door are noisy as fuck when they clank up and down – but they must do it at the exact same time as they push my slop through the door, because I can never work out a separation of two metal sounds; it’s all just one huge clang.

They’re fucking with me. I bet they already know that I’m doubting if she’s real or not. They’re probably laughing at us, thinking we’re so slick and getting away with talking through the wall, when they’re actually listening in the whole time. And now they’re going for the ultimate play: messing with my head until I convince myself that she isn’t real. Sure, they could send psychologist lady in here to tell me that I’m talking to a brick wall and nothing else, but it’s so much more effective to have me go through the mental gymnastics on my own – torture myself…

God, I have way too much time to think in here. I’m not letting any more blood get into my brain, so it’s upright again for me, sitting on the bed with my back against the wall. I look up at the ceiling, again, and wonder if my CCTV theory is right for that weird little rectangle box. It would make sense. Other people – if there are other people here – have probably got more complex needs than me.

I’m boring, I’ve figured out. I’ll sit here all day and do nothing and be perfectly fine. Sure, I’ll complain and shout and scream if I feel like it, but that’s not necessary for me to be here – I could just shut up. There’s gotta be some people who are having to manage other conditions on top of whatever bullshit has got them in here – diabetes was what came to mind, with the insulin and whatnot, and then that got me thinking about food, and allergies and intolerances came up. Again, I’m boring and can eat pretty much anything as long as it’s not rotting and moulded-over, but there’s gotta be other people in here with more stringent requirements.

I don’t doubt that they’ve got the manpower to make it happen, like. There were a lot of people in the corridor, when I got my little glimpse of freedom yesterday, and it smells of money out there – hospital money, so not the fun kind with golden chains and designer boxers or whatever else rich people have, but still money – so it’s probably not an issue of ‘can’, but rather ‘jeez, could you really be bothered?’. It makes kidnapping people so much more difficult.

Thinking about it, I guess this is why I’m not in the kidnapping business, and these guys clearly are. It all makes my head hurt, so I should probably stop thinking about it, but thinking’s still the only sorta half-way fun thing I can do in here, so I’m stuck. I’m writing, of course, because I’m always fucking writing these days. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane and reminds me that yesterday, whenever yesterday happens to have been, was real. If I write it down, then it happened.

One sec – something weird popped through the door slot.

A Note From The Chief Of Operations

Dear Patient,

I wanted to extend a note of communication with regard to the incident you may or may not have witnessed yesterday, pertaining to the cancellation of your Group Activity. Every patient here means the world to us, and we are sorry to say that one of your fellow patients could not comply with the behavioural policies of the facility.

They have been appropriately dealt with, and you will not have to see them again. Rest assured, we have your safety in mind on every step of this journey we’re taking together. Future Group Activities will still be happening, with some extra precautions in place.

I also want to take this time to wish you, if you are one of the chosen few going on to the assessment stage shortly, a hearty good luck and hopeful farewell on behalf of the entire facility – we’re all rooting for you!

With sincere apologies,

—— ———-, COO

… alright, I wanna know what the fuck ‘appropriately dealt with’ means and who the fuck threw a chair yesterday. If it was Helen…

If it was Helen, I think I’m gonna cry.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Nine

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Eight, you can read that here!

Day Nine

Patient Pre-Check For Participation In Group Activity

Patient Number: 0619

Patient Name: Robin Stephens

Question One: How Are You Feeling Today?

If I say ‘healed’ do I get a gold star? Probably not, considering you stupid fucks won’t even tell me what I’m supposed to be getting treatment for. God, whatever. I feel fine. No, y’know what? I feel shit. Not mentally – well, kinda mentally, but not because I’m mental. No, I feel shit because I’m being kept in this stupid room all fucking day and all night, so actually, if you do let me go to this stupid group thing, I might feel a tiny little smidge better. Just a tad. Just the tiniest, smallest bit.

Question Three: Do You Have Any Thoughts Or Plans To Harm Yourself?

If I didn’t tell you last time, why on Earth would I tell you this time? Also, I’m pretty sure you’d notice. I know you’re spying on me. Not because I’m paranoid – fuck, why did I say ‘spying’ like some stupid little kid? You’re watching me, or whatever. Viewing me. Like some sort of zoo animal. Again, not paranoid, just want to make that very clear, I’m just being realistic.

Question Four: Do You Have Any Thoughts Or Plans To Harm Others?

Hm. I wonder if the spooky psychology doctor people will let me go to their little get-together of kidnapped patients if I tell them that I’m going to murder everyone when I get there. What a mystery. Also, no. I haven’t even seen another normal person in days. Psychologist lady doesn’t count as a normal person, by the way.

Question Five: Do You Remember How To Interact With Others?

Of course I do. What a bullshit question – I happen to have had a memory, y’know, while I’ve been in here, and I worked in a supermarket. Do you know how many people I had to interact with? I can’t exactly remember that bit, but I know the gist of working with the public. Too many fucking people! I think I’ll handle your stupid little group just fine.

Question Six: What Is The Proper Way To Conduct Yourself In A Group Setting?

You want some sort of bullshit answer about ‘ooh, let other people have their turn to speak and be respectful and everyone has their own opinions and we should let them feel valued and contribute’ and all that shit, don’t you? Well, there you go. That sums up what you want to hear, right?

Question Seven: Do You Require Any Additional Help Or Equipment To Participate In This Session?

A kebab would be nice. Doner, no salad, garlic mayo.

Question Eight: Are There Any Topics That Would Bring You Distress If Brought Up During The Session?

The topic of pointless questionnaires would bring me to tears. Tears of boredom, like, but still.

Question Nine: Do You Understand That By Taking Part In The Session, You Agree To Behave In An Orderly And Calm Manner?

Unfortunately, I kinda guessed that would be part of the deal. Also, the way you’ve worded this makes it sound like I can say I ‘understand’ and then just choose to do whatever the fuck I want anyway. You’re just checking that I understand it, not that I’m going to go along with all of your bullshit. Like, I could have said ‘I understand what you’ve said, and I’m going to fully ignore it’. What would you do then? Just keep me in here, I guess.

Question Ten: Do You Feel Normal?

If I knew what the fuck sorta normal you meant, then maybe I could tell you. Give me a fucking hint!

Fuck me. If I haven’t just seen the shitshow of a lifetime, then I don’t wanna know what’s gonna top that.

I’ll start from the beginning. Psychologist lady read over the form – she wasn’t a fan of my comments about her, but I swear to God her eyes lit up when she was reading about me having a memory. I don’t know if I should’ve written that down, but she didn’t actually say anything about it. Maybe she was hoping I’d pour my heart out in the session with a soppy story about my mum or something.

Anyway, apparently I scraped a bottom-of-the-barrel pre-check pass. The moment she opened the door, and I knew I could go out with her, half of me was ready to jump up and make a run for it. But then these two burly dudes came in, and I thought better of it. They put my hands behind my back and put my wrists in some sort of weird kinda-handcuffs-but-not-handcuffs. Almost seemed like a sex thing.

Then, it was outside time! Or sort of outside. I followed the psychologist lady out of the door, feeling like every miracle ever just happened at once, and it was a sort of weird open-plan medical-looking corridor, like the sort of thing you see on those hospital TV shows. There were people everywhere. Some burly guard dudes – and dudettes, probably – but mainly just posh-looking snobs in white coats and some people who might’ve been nurses in scrubs. The floor was so shiny that I could almost see my face in it, and everything stank to the high heavens of bleach.

All of the people seemed to be giving me a wide berth, except those two annoying guards behind me, foiling my pretty rubbish escape plan. We crossed the corridor, went through a door into another, quieter, more normal-looking corridor with doors on either side, spaced quite far apart, and then psychologist lady stopped outside one of them. There was a rectangular window running vertically down it, almost like a school classroom sorta deal, but the moment I got close enough to look in it, all I saw was a chair flying across the little panel and then an eruption of papers, like a tiny stationery volcano.

Psychologist lady made a weird sound, sort of between a ‘tut’ and a squeak, and waved her hand at me. I didn’t know what that meant, but as she opened the door and pretty much sprinted inside, I got yanked backwards by the maybe-sex-related-not-quite-handcuffs, and literally dragged along the shiny floor back to my cell.

The worst part is, I would’ve walked if they’d asked.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Eight

Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Seven, you can read that here!

Day Eight

I never thought I’d be describing clothes as a miracle. I suppose miracle is the wrong word for it really – no God came down and gave me this bundle of bland, mono-coloured fabric, it just appeared in my room by the door. It was there when I woke up, so I guess someone who works in this awful place put it there. Or maybe it was God.

I don’t know anything anymore, so I guess that’s as good a conclusion to come to as any.

I changed before I did anything else. I didn’t even sit on the bed for my usual morning mope about how this situation is the worst isolation I’ve ever experienced in my life – it’s an important part of my time here, honestly. But today it was put to one side so that I could strip off and get into this… I guess you’d call it a uniform. It’s not old-school black and white stripes, or orange, but it does resemble the stuff you see inmates wearing in those documentaries. Pants and a shirt in a weird, pale beige colour, and one set of underwear, which is too tight but I couldn’t give a damn. It’s not drenched in sweat, so it works perfectly for me.

I briefly considered banging on the door for a bit to see if they’d give me a shower too, as they finally appear to be giving my hygiene a second thought, but then I remembered how sore my hands were after the battle for pen and paper and reconsidered.

My old clothes are now in an untidy pile in the corner of the room. Something that has occurred to me, oddly enough, is that the mess feels homely. This place is the opposite of anything I would even remotely consider home, and one part of that has to be the clinical-ness of it. I don’t have any of my belongings to throw around here and there – fuck, I can’t even remember what my belongings are, or if I have any in the first place, but I assume I must have some. Somewhere. Hopefully.

Now, there is mess. There is disorder. It’s almost hope, in a weird way. I’ve humanised this dehumanising mess of a situation, and all it took was having more than one set of clothes. Part of me doesn’t trust them not to come in while I’m sleeping and steal my clothes away, but I guess there’s no point worrying about that too much. If it happens, then it happens. I can’t stop them.

I could use the bundle as a pillow, actually. I’d wake up if they tried to take it and I’d finally have a nice-ish rest for my head at night. Not a bad idea at all.

Hang about – someone’s knocking at the door.

Conversation With The Psychologist Lady

-she knocks, and I don’t bother answering because I know she’ll come in anyway, and then there’s a second of pause, and then she comes in anyway-

Her: How are you doing today, Robin?

Me: Robbie. And better, to be honest, now that I’ve got these new clothes.

Her: I do apologise, on behalf of the facility, for the delay with… that. I want to stress that we don’t see changes of clothes as a privilege, but rather a right, and that we were experiencing a higher intake volume than usual at the time of your arrival, accounting for the delay.

Me: You sound like that bloody voice that rabbits on and on about ‘high volume of callers’ whenever I’m on hold.

Her: Well, I’m glad you’re more comfortable. (ignoring me)

Me: What about showers, then? A toothbrush would be nice too.

Her: Yes, other matters of hygiene will be looked at accordingly.

Me: … you can’t just let me get rotting teeth and stinky pits, lady. Basic self-care is not exactly a ‘privilege’.

Her: The facility takes a different view. Due to the carefully calculated nutritional content in your meals, we don’t foresee poor dental hygiene to be a detrimental issue.

Me: And the showers?

Her: That will be discussed at a later date. Today, I have something much more exciting for you to consider.

Me: Is it a toothbrush?

Her: Please be serious, Robin.

Me: Robbie.

Her: It’s a different privilege that you could gain through co-operation, and I have a clear plan for you to get there. I’m on your side.

Me: Forgive me for being sceptical that the lady who works for the people who locked me up is ‘on my side’.

Her: The facility is running a multi-patient group pre-assessment session, and I’ve suggested that you can be included.

Me: In English?

Her: Several patients, including yourself, will be involved in a group session where you will be asked questions and presented with different scenarios in order to gauge the likelihood of your success upon taking the assessment.

Me: The assessment?

Her: We have spoken about this before. Anyway, it’s an important step towards the assessment, and if you co-operate and show good signs of progress, then we will be able to give you some limited access to that secure outside area that I’ve also mentioned to you.

Me: How the fuck am I meant to show ‘progress’ when I don’t know what’s going on? I don’t even know what I’m meant to be progressing to, or from. I couldn’t do what you wanted me to do even if I fucking tried!

Her: Please, try to calm down. You’ve already been showing great progress by taking the medication that we’ve prescribed for you. This progress isn’t something that you have to ‘try’ to achieve – in fact, it’s more beneficial that you don’t know, so that we can be sure that your responses are genuine.

Me: So if I do your stupid group therapy session, and I show ‘progress’ of whatever I’m meant to be doing here, then I can go outside for a bit?

Her: Essentially, yes. Of course, you’ll also have to be on your best behaviour during the session – no foul language outside of this room.

Me: You don’t half take the fun out of everything, y’know.

-she sighs a bit here, and moves her head in a way that implies she wants to roll her eyes but she can’t because she’s being ‘professional’, or at least that’s what I think she’s doing-

Her: This is not meant to be fun, Robin. This is treatment. This is necessary for the safety of the public, and yourself.

Me: And such a bloody state secret that even I’m not allowed to know what’s going on, yeah, I get it. Alright, fine. Group therapy, here I come.

Her: Excellent. Tomorrow, I’ll bring you the form required as a pre-check for the session, and then I’ll take you to the allocated room.

Me: Just to be clear, there’s a pre-check for the pre-assessment?

Her: Yes. (not finding that funny)

Me: Whatever gets me out of this room, I guess.

Her: Have a good day, Robbie.

Me: Oh, I’ll have a blast, like always.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)

Chained Soul – Part Seven

After a brief hiatus last week to focus on my university assignments for Semester One (all complete now!), welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!

Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!

If you missed Part Six, you can read that here!

Day Seven

You know those days when you wake up and your head is pounding so hard that you think someone might be genuinely trying to get into your skull with a chisel and hammer, the proper old-fashioned way?

I guess that’s the price of memories.

I couldn’t bring myself to take any more of those pills. It was the first coherent thought I had when I opened my eyes, after all the panicked ‘why is my head hurting oh God my head feels like it’s gonna explode damn this is Hell’ got out of the way. I don’t care what the psychologist offers me, there’s no way I’m putting myself through that.

On the plus side, the headache has worn off a little bit. Unfortunately, I sorta have to believe that she was right about them giving me energy, because despite the pain, I feel a lot more like actually doing something today. Not that the energy’s particularly helpful, being locked in here, but at least it’s something, I guess.

I don’t know. I’m struggling to come up with positives in this situation. Wait… I hear tapping.

Conversation with Helen

-considering she’s tapping on the other side of the wall, I start to tap on my side, and then she abruptly stops tapping-

Her: You could have said ‘hello’, you know.

Me: I was going to write you an essay in morse code about how much I appreciate you being my ‘other-side-of-the-wall-buddy’, but now I don’t feel like it. (I stop tapping here)

Her: I don’t know morse code, so that would have been pointless.

Me: Me neither. There’s not really a point to anything I’ve been doing recently, though. Psychologist lady gave me some pills.

Her: The three a days?

Me: You’ve got them too?

Her: They’re not exactly inventive in here. If you stick around for long enough, you’ll realise all the questionnaires start to sound the same. They’re all from the same template.

Me: Do they give you headaches as well?

Her: The questionnaires? Not literally, but they’re as annoying as one.

Me: What? No, the- never mind. I’m not taking them again, though.

Her: Where are you taking the questionnaires? You’ve been let outside already?

Me: We’re not on the same page here, are we? And what do you mean, outside? You’ve gone outside?

Her: I thought you said you went outside. With the questionnaire?

Me: Right, no. No questionnaires – we’re not talking about questionnaires. I was talking about the pills. (trying not to get too annoyed at the only sane person I can talk to in here)

Her: The three a days?

Me: Yeah, those. (very relieved we’re back on track)

Her: What about them?

Me: The headache! I feel like I was half-cut last night or something. Worst hangover ever and all that.

Her: Oh. I’ve never had any side effects from them, really. To be honest, I’m surprised they didn’t start you on them sooner. Maybe you fell out of bed in the night, hit your head on something.

Me: I think I would realise if that happened by, y’know, waking up on the floor.

Her: Good point. Might be something from your medical history messing up with them in your system, to be fair. Could be… no, ignore me. I forgot.

Me: Eh?

Her: No, no, it’s nothing. Maybe you’re just not used to the caffeine.

Me: …the what?

Her: Don’t tell me you don’t know what caffeine is.

Me: I’m not fucking stupid, I know what caffeine is. But are you telling me that’s all they are?

Her: No, I’m telling you that they’ve got caffeine in them. There’s other stuff too. Some lovely mixture of chemicals to keep us quiet and barely functioning.

Me: I don’t know, I mean, I feel better now than I did before I took them – apart from the headache. But you’re saying that’s not normal?

Her: I’m saying I don’t get headaches. But there’s a world of difference between me taking them and you taking them. We’re different people.

Me: Well, that’s true. I could have cancer or something.

Her: Your mind went straight to cancer?

Me: I remember barely anything about myself. I only just figured out what job I had.

Her: You’re getting memories back?

Me: Just the one. Working in a supermarket. Pretty sure it’s what I did before I ended up here. Some kid was sick all over himself, and most of everything around him. Awesome memory, right?

Her: A supermarket? Public-facing, then. And kids. Yeah, that makes sense.

Me: What makes sense?

Her: Nothing. Ignore me. Just figuring some things out.

Me: You’re worse than that psychologist for not telling me the important stuff, y’know.

Her: I know. But unlike her, I’m doing this for your own good.

-there’s a pause for a few seconds, and then I have a serious thought-

Me: You’d tell me if it was cancer, wouldn’t you?

Her: What on earth do you mean?

Me: If I had cancer. Have cancer, I mean. And that’s why I’m here. And you have it too. Experimental treatment, that could be it. They’ve been doing a lot for cancer lately. All that new research. What if we’re the guinea pigs for a cure? A really amazing super-cure that just fixes it? But you’d tell me, right? Because I’ve worked that out on my own, so you really should tell me.

Her: Jesus, it’s not cancer. At least, I don’t have cancer. I don’t know about you.

Me: So it might be cancer?

Her: If they were keeping us here for cancer treatment, we’d be in hospital beds, not locked rooms. There’d be – oh God, I don’t know, chemo and stuff like that. Our families would be allowed to see us. And you’d be sick, really sick. You’d notice.

Me: You promise it’s not cancer?

Her: With all my heart, it’s not cancer. You’re not going to die here, unless they keep us for so long that it’s of natural causes.

Me: But then why… why the medication?

Her: Look, in every pharmacy in the country, there’s thousands of people taking thousands of different pills and tablets and creams and who-knows-what-else, for all sorts of reasons. I’m not going to tell you why we’re here until you remember on your own, because honestly, it’s better if you don’t know. Right now you’re confused and frustrated, and I get that, because I was too. Knowing doesn’t make it better.

Me: But not knowing is driving me insane, Helen. We’re in the same boat. I assume we are, anyway. I need all the information.

Her: Just wait for it to come back to you naturally. If the three a days help, then take them. It’s better to ease yourself into it anyway. You’ll work it out, and then you’ll see I was right.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my other books – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support a young author!)