Oskar Leonard's Blog, page 9

Chained Soul – Part Six

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 Five, you can read that here!

Day Six

Okay, so I gave in. Sue me. The bottle on the floor – the one the psychologist lady put there – wasn’t super interesting. There was a label on it, sure, but guess what they did? Some smart fucker went over all the important words in a black Sharpie, or something like that, so all I could see was ‘take three orally’. How wonderful and definitely not shady whatsoever.

It didn’t even say if I should take them with water, or food, or whatever. Or if I’m not meant to take them before operating heavy machinery! Not that it would be that important whether I did or didn’t operate any machinery of any sort while on this weird unknown medication, considering I doubt they’ll let me near anything of the sort, but still. The courtesy would have been nice. I have a right to know these things.

At least, I thought I did. Rights and all that don’t seem to mean much here. I’m pretty sure I don’t have much of a right to privacy anymore. I don’t have a right to eat food that isn’t completely bland and tasteless, and pretty formless too. I still don’t have a right to any clothes that aren’t sweat-stained and stinking, or the right to a shower. I have a mirror, but I don’t know if that’s a right. My head’s all woozy.

Oh yeah, I took the pills. I don’t know if I mentioned that properly, so I’ll say it here. Three of them, which was pretty easy to count out because there were only three in the whole damn bottle. They weren’t small, though. They were the sort that I wanted to snap in half to make them go down easier, considering I don’t have any water – probably also a right – in here, and the slop hadn’t been delivered yet. To be fair, they didn’t taste horrible, not like some pills that dissolve before you have a chance to swallow them and then leave you with that horrible taste on your tongue for an hour. They just tasted like… nothing, I guess.

My head’s gone a bit fuzzy since I took them, so I’m already considering it as a bad idea, but it’s done now. I’ve just been lying down since then, listening out for Helen or the psychologist. That’s all my life is now. Waiting. Listening. Hoping that some of the footsteps outside in the corridor actually come up to my door, but they haven’t so far today. I’d prefer anything to this – any sort of work. Some menial job, like I probably had before they threw me in here.

Shelf stacking. Now, that sounds familiar. If I push the words around in my head, it almost feels like they’re shoving bits and pieces around in my brain, trying to make them become loose. Shelf stacking. Was that what I did? I can imagine myself in a supermarket, getting lost in the aisles, wearing some monocolour uniform, shuffling away if someone asked me a question that I didn’t know the answer to while vaguely gesturing in the other direction. Mopping up some kid’s sick in the toy aisle.

Mopping up some kid’s sick in the toy aisle.

A Memory?

Alright, it’s vague, but it’s here. Bright lights, pretty much exactly the same as in this room-cell-thing. Long, strip lights, which are pretty industrial looking, and a floor that’s got a weird dot pattern that’s never quite symmetrical or pattern-like. It’s random, but it catches your eye and makes you think that it’s in some sort of order, until you realise that you’ve been staring at it for ten minutes and it’s been lying to you.

A supermarket. It was a supermarket. A big one, not a tiny little petrol station deal. So many aisles – every one of them a long, never-ending, open corridor to get lost in. Some obnoxious voice was speaking over the radio and annoying me, because I actually liked the song that was playing – for once. I could barely tell what the words were, anyway. They all sounded like different forms of static – different static words, pushed into each other to become static nonsense.

I turned a corner, and I saw the kid before I saw the pool of sick under him. Queasy-faced, you could tell. Too pale by a mile, too small by a metre and too teary-eyed by a litre for my liking. No parent in sight. Some fluffy animal was caught in its grubby little hands, half-doused in the vomit that it had gotten all over the place. Some of it had splattered on the colourful display to its side, containing other poor stuffed animals, now probably wishing they could move their limbs and hold their noses, or hop away in a long line of cuddly nausea.

I didn’t have a mop with me. It was the first thought I had when I saw the scene, along with a strong sensation of utter disgust. The smell hadn’t hit me yet, but it did when I walked closer, trying to smile at the child. Trying to help, in some way. There was no accompanying parent with it, which was both a blessing and a curse – I didn’t think I could deal with a sick child and an enraged adult, who would, in all likelihood, blame me for the incident somehow. Or expect me to show up with a mop at the ready, as if I was psychic. Being psychic would’ve helped a lot in this situation, to be fair.

But there was no mop, no parent and not much I could do without abandoning the kid. Someone else would show up, hopefully. I don’t know what I thought I was doing. I was just smiling, and reaching down to try and take the stuffed animal off the kid. It was a bunny, the long ears dipped in… ugh, the thought makes me feel about as sick as the kid probably felt. The tags were still attached to the little blue cardigan it had on, also half-covered in… yeah, that was a disgusting sight.

I reached down to take it, and then… that’s it. Fuck. The rest of the memory is gone.

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 Five

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 Four, you can read that here!

Day Five

The psychologist came in today. I don’t know what she said. I wasn’t listening.

Helen tapped on the wall. I think she said something too, but I didn’t listen.

I think this is giving up. It feels warm, somehow. Even though I haven’t touched the slop today, my stomach feels full. Maybe not full – maybe that’s the wrong word. There’s something in it. Something that isn’t moving, thank fuck, so at least I don’t have a tapeworm or something like that.

Hell, maybe I do have a tapeworm. At least it would be some nice company. Quiet, but present. No confusing speeches about treatment and public safety and ‘ooh, you’re better off not knowing, Robbie’. Fuck, what am I saying? I don’t even know if tapeworms live in your stomach. It might be the intestines, or something.

I’ve been lying on this bed for so long that I think the shitty blanket is starting to melt into my flesh. If I stand up, I might be half man, half cotton-monster. At least I’d be warm all the time.

God, it’s fucking warm in here. They need to turn the heating off. Those fucking bills, I can barely imagine. Some rich twat is behind all of this. Or the government, I guess; a conglomerate of rich twats. Is that even the right word, conglomerate? It sounds vaguely right.

Am I paying for my own imprisonment with taxes?

Well, I guess I’m not employed anymore. Whatever job I had is probably gonna strike me from the payroll after not showing up for however long it’s been. They might’ve been told something by this place – that woman said my family were told something, so it would have been nice of them to tell my work too. Wherever it is. Maybe I was a taxi driver. That would be a cool job, going around to different places.

Better than being locked up in here, anyway. I could’ve been a pilot – although, I can’t really imagine myself flying anywhere. Probably just because I happen to be stuck in here right now. I could’ve been something really cool, out there, I guess. It’s hard to think about that.

It’s less like my memory is just gone. For some reason, it’s more like my brain is guarding whatever part of itself controls my knowledge of the past, and every time I try to prod closer, it pushes me back. It’s almost painful, like a stinging sensation. There might be a wasp in my skull as well as a tapeworm in my… vague midsection.

I guess I can be pretty sure I wasn’t a doctor, anyway. Small victories and all that.

When the psychologist came in earlier, I thinks she left something on the floor. Well, it’s not like there’s anywhere else she could’ve put anything, except the floor. Or in the toilet. That would be kind of funny, actually. It would prove that this is all just a bunch of shit, anyway.

I feel like I should check the floor, but I just can’t really bring myself to move. Writing this is enough of a struggle. It’s like all of the time I spent banging on the door and screaming for anything at all has just caught up to me, and now I’m being drained of all my energy. If I just let my hands go limp now, the paper would all fall onto my face and I honestly don’t think I’d feel a thing.

Nevermind. The paper was fine but the pen hit my nose and that kinda sucked. Still, it was muted. Everything is drained and I can only imagine what this is leading to. My brain won’t take much more. People are miserable all the time in their ordinary lives – how can I be expected to function in this fucked-up version of reality? How can anyone cope like this?

Oh, knocking again. Piss off.

Another Conversation With The Psychologist

-I haven’t moved from my bed, but I can hear the door swinging open and I’m pretty sure the psychologist lady has to step around the uneaten slop on the floor, and whatever thing she put there-

Her: How are you feeling, Robin?

Me: Piss off. (I think about rolling over to ignore her, but then don’t have enough effort to, so I just close my eyes instead)

Her: You need to eat to keep up your strength.

Me: For what? Don’t tell me you actually care if I waste away in here or not.

Her: Of course we care.

Me: Then who is ‘we’? Tell me.

Her: I can’t disclose that right now. But I can say that we were considering an increase to your privileges in the near future.

Me: Can I get some actual food?

Her: The meals provided contain all the necessary nutrients for you to survive. This is more of an upgrade to your recreational privileges.

Me: Oh wow, an upgrade to pen and paper. Please, give me a second so that I can get up and dance for joy. Want me to kiss your boots and all?

Her: That won’t be necessary. The facility contains a secure outdoor area, and we are considering allowing you access to it.

Me: There’s some sort of catch, right?

Her: Nothing in here is a ‘catch’. You are being treated, and there are terms to those treatments. You’ve been feeling lethargic today, I assume?

Me: Forgive me if I don’t feel like running a fucking marathon at the moment.

Her: The initial dose of medication we gave you upon arrival will be wearing off. Without it, you’ll suffer from withdrawal. I’ve given you a safe dose to take, and as long as you co-operate with the treatment plan, your lethargy will subside.

Me: So I’m guessing you already worked it so I can’t OD on this stuff. Spoilsport.

Her: You will find, Robin, that your time here will be much more enjoyable if you co-operate. You may even find yourself able to take the assessment, and then-

Me: Assessment? Is this school?

Her: -and then, you may be able to move on from the facility, depending on the outcome. I’ll leave you to think about that, Robin.

Me: Robbie.

After she left, I did think about it for a long time. I didn’t even look at whatever medication she put on the floor, though. Couldn’t bring myself to. Something told me it was a fucking awful idea to take drugs from the people who locked me in a cell for no reason – but the idea of freedom, privileges, and whatever else… they were all running free in my head, and I couldn’t stop them.

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 Four

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 Two, you can read that here!

Day Four

The wall has been silent today. I’ve been half-thinking that I must’ve made it all up – that I’m actually crazy. Maybe that’s why they locked me in here. But how does talking to walls like they’re people constitute me being a hazard to the public? It wouldn’t make any sense.

There again, I’ve realised that there’s something else I have to consider, if the person behind the wall is real: there’s other people who are in the exact same situation as me. It sounded like she’d been here for longer, as well, and like she actually knew what was going on; it must be a pretty big damn secret if she chose not to tell me, unless she’s just being difficult. But why would she be, if she’s just as annoyed and frustrated about this whole thing as me? If anything, it would make sense that we should be proper allies, who tell each other everything, because that weird lady and everyone pacing around outside definitely aren’t on my side.

I suppose, even if she refuses to tell me what I’m here for, I can narrow it down a little bit. There’s still the possibility that I’ve had some sort of mental health crisis and this is a ward of some sort, I suppose, although I really don’t trust that psychologist. There’s also one basic I can get out of the way for sure: it’s not because I’m a dude, considering Helen is a woman. I could try asking her some more questions, if she ever reappears (is that even the right word, considering I can’t see her?), but until I remember anything about my life, that won’t be of much use.

It could be something to do with politics, I guess, or maybe my job, but I can’t imagine that I was a secret agent or anything like that. Are they actually real, anyway, or just a thing you see in movies? I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of time to think about stupid stuff like that. To be fair, it’s not like I can do anything else with my time. Banging on the door is useless, now, because I don’t have anything to demand except my freedom, and I know they won’t give me that. Besides, I don’t know if that psychologist lady will come back – and I definitely don’t want that to happen.

I don’t care if this is a mental health thing. I don’t want her prodding around in my brain, unless I can use it to my advantage and get some memory of my life back. But even then, I’m not convinced that co-operating with her would work. She’s involved in this, somehow; she’s employed by whoever put me here, or connected to them, and that makes her suspicious. I can’t trust her.

It might be stupid, but I trust the voice behind the wall – Helen, she’s got a name, I have to remember that – more than the psychologist. Yeah, maybe I’ve actually seen the psychologist, so I know she’s definitely real, unless I’m now hallucinating which is just another muddle to add to everything, but Helen seems like she’s on the same level as me. If she is real, which I dearly hope she is, then she’s stuck in a cell just like I am, so she’s going through exactly what I’m going through. And, more than that, she knows.

The fact that she won’t tell me what she knows is concerning, of course, but she at least seemed to think it was for my own good. I don’t like that whether or not it’s actually worth me knowing or not is not up to me, but I guess I can’t expect to demand the world and just receive it in this place. I’m a prisoner, plain and simple. I’ll have to claw everything out of the hands of the people who put me here – and I don’t even know who they are. I think that stings the most. They’ve stripped me of pretty much every liberty a human being can have, and I don’t even know the first thing about them.

An Inventory Of My Room/Cell – Because Why The Fuck Not?

1 x the worst boredom I’ve ever felt in my life, although I can’t really remember any other boredom so I don’t know how much that statement is worth

1 x the most uncomfortable bed ever – see previous item for why that statement is worthlessly hyperbolic

1 x toilet, which I suppose I can’t really complain about except for the lack of privacy

1 x door slot, through which the slop comes, although sometimes I wonder whether I should try to stick my hand out through it and catch someone by the ankles, just for fun

1 x me, having the worst time I think anyone could ever have

3 x somewhat faded red marks on the wall, in various sizes and colours, from the quest for paper and pen

1 x stack of paper, haunting me with the thought of being completely left with no entertainment when it runs out

1 x weird ‘safe’-seeming pen, which has reminded me that drawing and writing on walls is not just for children, but also for adults bored out of their minds

1 x attempted pen mark on the wall, new, although it doesn’t say anything decipherable… yet

4 x walls, relatively boring and unremarkable, except for the small new addition and smudges of blood

1 x floor, excellent for lying on and looking up and wondering where it all went wrong, and wishing that I knew what the fuck went wrong, because at least then I would have some semblance of understanding, but having nothing at all is excruciating

1 x ceiling, which I often stare at, although it changes nothing

1 x weird box on the ceiling, which sometimes, weirdly, I hope is a camera, because then at least someone would be on the other side, and I can imagine that they care, and they’re at least sympathetic to what I’m going through, and maybe planning some way to get me out of here, because fuck, I need rescuing

1 x me, average adult male, wondering what the point of all of this is, reduced from fury to plain misery, and seriously considering just giving up at this point

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 Three

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 Two, you can read that here!

Day Three

That weird psychologist lady hasn’t been back today, thank God. I mean, it’s not all great, being stuck in here on my own, but at least I didn’t have to fill out any stupid forms. Everything is so fucking vague, too – would it kill these idiots to tell me why they’ve locked me in here?

I bet it’s illegal. Some sort of kidnapping deal, or something like that. That ‘psychologist’ is probably just a hired thug trussed up in a professional-looking outfit, intended to keep me calm or whatever while they work out my ransom. Then again, I don’t think I’d be important enough for a ransom. I might not be able to remember a damn thing, but I feel like I would just… know, somehow, if I was important.

I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror again, trying to work out any details that I can, but nothing crucial is coming to mind. I’m just average. Sweaty and scruffy, sure, but otherwise normal. Why would anyone want to kidnap some random dude off the street? And, more than that, I’ve noticed that my skin is pretty much completely clear of any prominent imperfections. There’s no bruising or scarring anywhere – the closest I can find are the freckles rippling over my shoulders and cheeks, and they hardly count. My nose doesn’t look bent, my eyes are free of any purpling and the only actual injuries I have are what I’ve caused myself. My knuckles are still a state.

There should be something. I don’t know why, but I’ve decided that, just the same as I’ve decided that I must be a normal guy. If I didn’t have literally nothing better to do, I’d consider calling the way I keep staring myself down and scouring my body for signs of something before obsessive, but to be honest, it’s becoming more of a hobby. Besides this journalling – if it can even be called journalling – there’s not much to do here except sit quietly, or scream and shout and bang on the door. If I stare at the walls for any longer, I think I’ll go insane; maybe the psychologist lady will finally be useful, then.

Remembering stuff – or trying my fucking hardest to, anyway – has also been a habit. Today, I tried out sitting cross-legged on the bed with my eyes closed, just searching for anything in my brain. I wanted a thread to pull, like knowing that I have a mum and that she has a house that I used to live in, so that the rest would unravel, but I’ve had no such luck. The lack of any details isn’t helpful either. Maybe if they served something other than slop, the taste would remind me of something, or if I had words other than my own to read, then I could recognise something that I read as a child, or just before. It’s all so fucking frustrating.

Hold on.

Conversation With The Wall

-I’ve heard some sort of tapping on the other side of the wall, travelling around until it lands on a spot that looks ever-so-slightly different to the rest of the bland whiteness, and then there’s some sort of freaky voice-

The Voice: Hello? Are you alone?

Me: The fuck?

The Voice: Are you alone? (all insistent-like)

Me: Are you a ghost or something? I could do without being fucking haunted right now.

The Voice: Chill out. Just tell me you’re alone in there.

Me: Nah, I’ve got a full-on party going on. You should come over.

The Voice: Hilarious.

-there’s a soft sound from the other side of the wall, and I’m guessing that means the owner of the voice has sat down, or that I’m just making up some really complicated shit in my head to accommodate the utter boredom of being locked in here-

Me: Are you real?

The Voice: As real as you are. And if you’re here, I’m guessing Amendment Eight is still going strong.

Me: I’m not gonna lie, I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re going on about. I can’t remember a fucking thing.

The Voice: You- you- are you serious?

Me: Some weird lady said I was some sort of patient, and something about protecting the public, but I’ve been reckoning that’s all bullshit.

The Voice: You think so?

Me: This can’t be legal. There’s no fucking way.

The Voice: Christ, you are green.

Me: What, are you tryna get me to believe that I’m some sort of mastermind criminal or something? Or a terrorist, or what?

The Voice: If you genuinely don’t remember, I’m not going to be the one to tell you. Hell, it’s refreshing to talk to someone who doesn’t know what’s going on around here.

Me: Hold on a second – I deserve to know what’s going on. How long have you been here? What did you do? Is this a prison?

The Voice: Calm down and stop screeching before they figure out we can talk to each other.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry – you see, it’s my first time being locked up for no good reason, separated from my family and forced to talk through a wall to some random voice who might not even exist, so I’m not exactly used to all of this shit. (Said with all of the sarcasm I could throw at the wall)

The Voice: Look, I understand. I had a bit of a gap in my head for the first few weeks-

Me: Weeks?

The Voice: -but I got my memory back, eventually, and I wish I didn’t. Forget I said anything about that; let’s start again. I think we’re both pretty desperate for pleasant company, right?

Me: You can say that again. Alright, nice to meet you, weird voice through the wall. I’m Robbie.

The Voice: Helen. Although… can I ask, did your ‘psychologist lady’ use a different name for you?

Me: Yeah, ‘Robin’. Freaky shit. I think it’s some sort of brainwashing thing, y’know. Like they’re trying to reprogram me – us, I guess. Don’t know why they’d bother with such a similar name though, unless that’s just a part of the mindfuckery.

-here, the voice goes quiet for a bit, and I worry for a couple of seconds that it was all just in my head, but then it starts up again-

Helen: I see.

Me: Did they call you a different name?

Helen: No. Must be a new thing they’re trying out. Everything is experimental in here – you must’ve noticed that, right?

Me: I kinda got that feeling. I’m pretty sure they left me in my own clothes, no hospital stuff or inmate jumpsuit or anything. And that woman said something about ‘developmental stages’. But they haven’t given me any drugs or anything, that I know of.

Helen: It’s not drugs you have to worry about. (She sighs pretty heavily after saying that)

Me: Then what the fuck are they doing to us?

Helen: It’s not for me to say. I’m going to get some shut-eye now, but I’ll tap again soon – when it’s safe for us to talk. Don’t respond if anyone’s in there with you, and don’t mention me to that psychologist.

Me: You’re not helping yourself sound less like some sort of hallucination, y’know.

Helen: Good night, Robbie.

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 Two

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!

Day Two

Patient Intake Form – Mood Evaluation

Patient Number: 0619

Patient Name: Robin Stephens

Question One: How Are You Feeling Today?

First of all, you stupid fucks got my name wrong. It’s Robbie, not Robin, you absolute idiots. If you’re going to kidnap random people and then hold them hostage and then give them stupid questionnaires – which is ridiculous, by the way – then you should at least stalk them well enough to get their names right. Like seriously, it’s on my ID, in my wallet, which I assume you must have pinched because I don’t have it. Mr Robbie Stephens, right there in bold print just in case you can’t read very well, which you clearly can’t. Oh fuck I’m running out of room one minute

Question Two: How Much Of Your Life Prior To Intake Can You Remember?

Okay I’m not done yet – secondly, how am I a patient? I’m not ill and you’ve certainly not given me anything that I’d call medical care, unless you’re putting drugs in that slop that you call food. If you are, then I’m pretty sure that’s illegal and you should definitely stop. I know I can’t call the police or anything but if I ever get a phone, the first thing I’m doing is ratting you in. And I can’t remember anything, if you really need to know, which I’m guessing is because of you doing something to my head, so fuck you for that.

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

I don’t think me harming myself is what you need to be worried about. If anything, I’m pissed off enough to – oh fuck, I just saw the next question.

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

You’re trying to trap me here. You’re gonna get some sort of confession out of me for some stupid crime I haven’t committed and then you’re gonna keep me here forever. You guys are sick. For the record, I can’t remember anything since I woke up here, but I’m damn sure that I haven’t hurt anyone. I’ve managed to restrain myself from punching your stupid psychologist person in the face, even though she keeps smirking at me while I’m writing this, so I would like to have it known that I am not a violent person and I have never done a crime. Ever. So let me out. Now.

Question Five: Do You Experience Uncontrolled Anger, In Short Bursts Or For Prolonged Periods?

I’m not falling for your bullshit. Same comment as above. You’re not pinning shit on me, thank you very much.

Question Six: Are You Having Any Trouble Sleeping?

I reckon you would have some trouble sleeping too if you were locked in a room where the lights are never fucking turned off. How high is your electricity bill? Rich twats.

Question Seven: Do You Find It Hard To Concentrate Or Focus?

Unsurprisingly, when there is literally nothing to concentrate or focus on, it is a bit hard to concentrate or focus. What a shocker.

Question Eight: Do You Feel Irritable Or Overly Annoyed?

I think victims of kidnapping can probably be forgiven for feeling irritable and overly annoyed. Personally, I think it’s quite reasonable that I want to be let the fuck out of here, and the fact that you’re keeping me here is just making me more ‘irritable’, so it’s your fault, fuckers.

Question Nine: Have You Been Struggling With Loss Of Appetite Or Overeating?

Trying to force myself to choke down that tasteless slop does mess with my appetite a little bit, y’know. Can’t possibly think why. Proper mystery, that one.

Question Ten: Do You Feel Normal?

If anyone felt normal in this place then I would be seriously questioning their state of mind to begin with.

Intake Form Submitted: XX/XX/205X

Intake Form Signed: Robbie Stephens

Conversation With The Stupid Psychologist Lady

-for context, she knocked on the door, although I didn’t know it was her, obviously, and then I started shouting and banging, and then she asked to come in, and I was just standing there thinking ‘well I don’t have a key to let you in, do I?’, and then she came in anyway-

Her: Hello, Robin. May I sit down?

Me: The fuck you calling me that for?

Her: Robin is your name.

Me: My name is Robbie, lady.

Her: May I sit down?

Me: I ain’t gonna stop you.

-and here, she sat down on the bed, so I was just sort of awkwardly standing next to her because I didn’t wanna sit next to some weird lady who just walked into Hell-

Her: Thank you, Robin.

Me: Robbie.

Her: I’m sure you’re feeling a little bit confused about everything right now.

Me: Well, you have locked me in a room for days. No one’s told me anything. I’m pretty pissed, yeah.

Her: I’ve got a form for you to fill out. Well, more like a questionnaire, to be honest.

-this was when she took that stupid questionnaire out of her bag, and put it on the bed-

Me: I’m not filling in no stupid form for you. I wanna know why I’m here.

Her: What do you remember?

Me: Nothing, that’s the fucking point.

Her: Sometimes, it’s best not to remember.

Me: Jesus Christ, lady, I might not remember anything but I’m not stupid. I gotta have a family out there – I remember my mum. I wanna see her.

Her: That isn’t possible right now. I can promise you that you’re here for your own good, but that’s all I can tell you. If you’re willing to co-operate, then there might be something I can do in the future.

Me: In the fucking future? How long am I gonna be here?

Her: That depends. It varies from patient to patient. This isn’t an exact science, Robin.

Me: Robbie. And the fuck you mean, science? Am I being tested on? Isn’t that illegal?

Her: This treatment process is in the developmental stages, but it’s perfectly safe. You’ll be taken care of while you’re here, and your family have been informed.

Me: Do I even get a phone call?

Her: Further privileges will be dependent on your co-operation.

Me: This is twisted. You’re sick.

Her: No, Robin, you’re sick. This is all for your own good, as well as the protection of the public.

Me: The fucking public? Have I got the plague or something?

Her: I can see that you’re getting over-excited. I need to supervise you filling in the form, but I can bring someone in here to quiet you down if needed.

Me: Listen to yourself. You sound insane. Quiet me down?

Her: Robin, it’s your choice. Fill in the form, or I will call for security.

Me: Fine. Give me the stupid form. And stop trying to rename me, it’s freaky. Is this a brainwashing thing?

-here, she gave me the form, which had a stupid little green smiley face logo in the top right-hand corner that made me want to vomit-

Her: Please, just fill in the form.

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Chained Soul – Part One

We’ve got an exciting new development this week! Welcome to part one of a new serialised novel that I’ll be releasing right here on the blog! You can also read this series at Tapas or Wattpad, in case one of those is your preferred reading platform – I’m open to any other suggestions, too! Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one! Here’s a quick synopsis to get you interested:

Waking up in a locked room with amnesia is never a good sign, and even though Robbie Stephens is pretty sure he hasn’t committed a crime, it certainly feels like he’s in some sort of bizarre prison. Fighting even for access to a pen and paper, he is determined to battle against a system that refuses to tell him why he’s been locked away, or when he’ll be released. But can he maintain his resolve through constant isolation, mentally-scarring ‘assessments’, and a war with his own mind to pull back his memories, or will he be forever forgotten in an unknown cell?

Intrigued? Awesome! Let’s get straight into part one…

Day One

This is a sanitised version of Hell. You’d think – damn, I thought – that Hell should be fire and brimstone and all that crap. No. It’s eggshell blue walls, a white floor, and a white ceiling. Bleach white, mind. Not normal white. This is sting-your-eyes, make-you-want-to-piss-yourself white. Fiery to the touch. Toxic to the tongue.

Not that I’ve gotten desperate enough to lick anything yet. They still feed you in Hell. Bland stuff, reminiscent of hospital food. Once a day. I’m guessing it’s in the middle, or at least that’s how I’ve slotted it into my ‘routine’ of eat-shit-sleep-repeat, but I don’t know for sure. Hell doesn’t have windows. When the door swings open, I get a snapshot of the corridor outside: more God-awful white and eggshell blue, masked-up figures stomping about in battle gear with batons and tasers in their belts, and doctor-y looking people swishing about in lab coats.

This isn’t even fucking ‘Day One’. I don’t know why I wrote that. I’ve been here for… I don’t know how long, but I’ve slept a lot. Eaten a bit. Pissed all around the toilet they stuck in the corner of this cell to see if it would piss them off – don’t mind the pun – only for the bloke with the food to take one look at it, shrug, and piss right off – again, sorry about that. Had to clean it myself. The most response I’ve gotten out of them was from my most recent trial: bang on the door and scream about wanting paper and a pen until they give me paper and a pen. Not the most catchy of titles, but it was Goddamn successful.

I swear this is some sort of kids’ pen, though. Chunky enough to not be swallowed or accidentally pushed into any child-sized face holes. Nostrils and ears, that sort of thing. I guess they don’t want me deciding I’ve had enough of this place and offing myself, which is fair enough, given that they’ve created the perfect recipe for someone to want to do something like that. Shove them in a box with a bed and a bog and only feed them once a day, with the lights on all-the-fucking-time so sleeping gives them a headache and so does waking up.

I wouldn’t even mind if I was here for some good reason. That’s the fucking kicker. I don’t know if they knocked me about too much on the way in or if I’m just going insane, but I can’t remember anything before waking up here. I remember the moment: I opened my eyes to that stupid ceiling and thought I was in my room at my Mum’s, and then the memory was gone. I know I have a Mum, and I know I had a room at her house when I was a kid, but I couldn’t tell you her name or the street she lived on. It’s a big fucking blur that gives me the shits whenever I think about it for too long, so, for the sake of my nose, I’ve decided to just focus on raising as much hell as I can in Hell, for the duration of my stay. However long that is.

There’s noise, at least. I’m not in complete sensory deprivation. Lovely screams every so often – really adds to the atmosphere – and footsteps, up and down, constantly. Everyone’s moving outside, in that corridor. Sometimes I hear metal clinking and wonder if it’s handcuffs, and if I’m in some sort of new-wave jail, but I’ve never been cuffed in here. Not that I remember. Having a massive gap where my recent memories – and my distant memories, to be fair – should be is really fucking frustrating.

There is a mirror on the wall by the door, a long rectangle. I can see my entire body in it, and there’s something disquietingly unfamiliar about it. The scraggly beard doesn’t surprise me; after even a couple of days in this state, without a razor or anything, there’s not much I can do in terms of personal grooming. I assume they’ve left me in my own clothes, just dark jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt. No extras, though, and I’m starting to notice the greyed sweat patches under my armpits and across my back, if I twist enough to see that. My socks are feeling disgusting too, and I don’t even have shoes to hide them in.

The rest of the room is boring enough. Bare-bones bed with a mattress and a blanket, no pillow. Toilet, as I’ve mentioned. No shower – though I really wish they’d put one in. I don’t even care if that little rectangle box up on the ceiling is a camera. They can livestream my boring daily washes to the world, if they want, as long as I actually get the fucking daily washes.

It’d be nice to know who ‘they’ are, too. I’ve been thinking maybe I’m some sort of experiment. Either I did something stupid when I was drunk and got thrown in here as a test of a new type of minimum-security prison sort of thing, or I accidentally signed up to some weird medical trial… probably also while I was intoxicated. Still, I wouldn’t describe this as ‘minimum security’ and there’s been no sort of medical things going on. I haven’t had bloods drawn or anything.

Regardless, I’m going to be the most annoying guinea pig they’ve ever had. If it is a voluntary thing and I’ve just been the stupidest twat on the planet, then I’m sure they’ll let me out after enough banging on the door. Well, not exactly sure. My palms are still bright red from the trial for the paper and pen, and it feels like heat is constantly rushing out of them. Maybe I should’ve punched the door. Nah. Something tells me that my knuckles are more delicate than my palms, at least when it comes to slamming on metal.

Hold on – speaking of. I swear someone’s knocking on that door. Not me, I mean; someone from the other side.

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Frost In Summer

This is just a quick little poem today – I’m not really sure where the inspiration came from, except perhaps the cold weather outside, but I hope you enjoy this little bundle of contradictions melded with some deeper truths. They are hidden in there somewhere, I promise!

Frost In Summer

I don’t want flowers in summer,
singing my praises, telling me
everything I must be, I am, I will be–

no, I beg for light snow in summer,
stinging yet true, reminiscent of… well,
of other things, not friends but others.

Those role models you do not name
in award ceremonies; the backbones
of every sun-tinged memory.

Frost is daring, darting–never perfect,
and not claiming to be–icicles break,
fall, clatter, smash, and yet they are.

Their existence is not shattered by a fracture
nor revealed by a glint of mislaid light;
this cold is brittle, yes, but true, also.

Summer may be a realm of honey, so thick
the truth becomes obscured, but it can be fought
through, and it can be won over, in time.

Introduce the elements of the others to it
and show it, to its face, that you know of its designs.
It cannot charm and lie the informed, you know.

And who took the time to inform you, to teach you
and guard you from the soft tongues, the softer curses?
Well, winter, of course.

Find out some more about my poetry collections (a lot of them are free!) here!

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The Inspiration Behind Twisted Bloodlines

In honour of the recent re-release of Twisted Bloodlines (the revamped and extended second edition is now available for free at Smashwords, for 99p on Kindle and £9.99 as a paperback) I thought I would go back… back to a time on the cusp of the pandemic, when I was in college and had the idea to write up the very first draft of Twisted Bloodlines.

The Background

I’ve always been into vampires. From a young (probably too young) age, I was devouring my mum’s Twilight books and at some point during the transition between high school and college, I took on the challenge of reading Dracula – it was a huge task, but I found myself absolutely loving the epistolary form and its combination with the gothic and supernatural, leading me to have a fascination with both. I’ve been trialling a few different epistolary forms for some projects, so definitely look out for something like that in the future from me!

The Beginning

For Twisted Bloodlines, I did a lot of borrowing from real life – not for the vampires, obviously (!), but many of the characters, especially in the first edition, were named after my friends, and in some cases friends of friends. The most prominent character is Kassidy, the main character, who is named after one of my best college friends (we shared our Media Studies class), and as a fun sort of Easter egg, she’s also who the entire Cats Collection is dedicated to! With the second edition, I cut out some of the more minor characters, but people like Skye and Charlie have still kept their names inspired by real-life people.

The Writing

For both the first and second editions of Twisted Bloodlines, I wrote their first drafts during NaNoWriMo – the first edition of Twisted Bloodlines was written during the main NaNoWriMo event of 2019, and the second edition was written during Camp NaNoWriMo in April 2021. Obviously, there was a lot of editing and revision to be done for both of them, but I found with the second edition that working from the original framework of the first edition and then tweaking and extending it to create an overall chapter plan worked really well. Ending up with an 80k manuscript compared to the first edition’s 50k was a little overwhelming, but I couldn’t be prouder of how it turned out.

The Synopsis

Wrenched from the world of the living, Kassidy is transformed into a vampire by crazed second-generation Sai—and polite sixteenth-generation Teddy. Struggling with the reality of becoming a monster and enduring her uniquely split bloodline, will she be able to survive in a modern world plagued by the undead?

An Excerpt

Concrete slapped my back. Air rushed from my lungs, erupting in a cloud I would’ve called ‘dragon’s breath’ years and years ago. Her hands—claws, they felt like claws carved from ice—latched onto my arms. Nails gripped my flesh.

She was a maniac. I was a maniac for ever following her. This was where kindness got you. Flat on your back, winded, with your skin getting shredded to bits by some lunatic.

Mad. Insane. She had to be. This wasn’t normal.

Thoughts flashed through my mind quicker than I could recognise them. My chest convulsed, stabbing pains ricocheting across my ribs. Her fists flashed in front of my vision, accompanied by dancing specks of red which could have been her nail polish or my blood, the blows becoming blurs. What had I ever done to deserve this?

My gaze was already vague and hazy, maybe from my head smacking the ground or the rapidly growing nausea expanding like a cancer in my stomach, but her ceaseless assault was just dragging me closer to the brink of unconsciousness. I tried to flail around and defend myself. Pulling my shoulders to the side, I fought to recover control over my arms.

I failed.

And Now… Your Role?

The original, first edition of Twisted Bloodlines sold just 23 print copies, and wasn’t available as an ebook. The second edition hasn’t sold any print copies at all as of yet, although 25 free ebook copies and 1 Kindle edition have been downloaded. The first edition has just one review on Amazon (from my mum) – the second edition, as of now, has none. Even if you don’t want to splash out 99p or £9.99 for the paid editions, I would love nothing more than for you to experience Twisted Bloodlines through the free ebook and leave a quick review of your honest thoughts and opinions. It would mean the world to me – and it won’t cost you a thing.

So if you’re willing to take a chance on a modern vampire narrative, then consider giving Twisted Bloodlines a look over. Thank you so much for your support!

Twisted Bloodlines – All Versions Available!

If you’ve been following my progress on Twisted Bloodlines, you’ll be happy to hear that the free ebook on Smashwords, the Kindle ebook and the paperback on Amazon are all now available!

As a quick reminder, here are the details and links:

Twisted Bloodlines – Second EditionCheck out the amazing difference between the first and second edition covers!

Synopsis:

Wrenched from the world of the living, Kassidy is transformed into a vampire by crazed second-generation Sai—and polite sixteenth-generation Teddy. Struggling with the reality of becoming a monster and enduring her uniquely split bloodline, will she be able to survive in a modern world plagued by the undead?

Kassidy is young, alone and without a home – the perfect target for ‘shadow-queen’ Sai, an ancient vampire drunk on blood and blinded by egocentric fantasies. One fatal night brings them both together in a dark alleyway with no way out. Sai wants a pet: someone with her venom running through their veins who will dote on her and feed her visions of a world where she is master and they are a humble companion.

But fate disagrees with Sai’s conceited plans. Fate sends Teddy, an esteemed member of the Hardy bloodline, to Kassidy’s rescue. However, she has already been embraced by Sai’s venom. Not enough to turn her into one of them, a vampire, but certainly enough to kickstart a terrifying half-transformation. The end result will be an agonising death.

A last-ditch effort to save Kassidy’s young life leads to her veins being flooded with venom once again. This time, the venom is Teddy’s and it causes a phenomenon the vampires of the Hardy bloodline have never experienced before: a ‘half and half’. Two generations of the vampire curse now fill Kassidy’s immortal body. Ancient Sai gives her incredible power, while Teddy’s newer venom forces a rational mindset which the Hardy bloodline prizes. They live humanely, feed humanely and try to be ‘civilised’.

Newly-dead Kassidy knows none of this. She wakes up horrified by what she’s become. Terrified of the ‘monsters’ around her and ignorant of their peaceful ways, can she resist the alluring pull of her atavistic sire Sai? Or will chaotic clan wars and her inner turmoil send her back into the arms of the manipulative matriarch of the first bloodline?

Twisted Bloodlines is the first entry into Oskar Leonard’s Bloodline series, setting the stage for a devastatingly dark world full of cursed vampires and their complex, blood-fuelled conflicts. It explores a brutal modern setting with unsettling supernatural elements, interlocking reality and tragic fantasy. Loyalty, trust and the ability to fight internal, animalistic urges are tested to their limits within the Bloodlines universe.

Free ebook link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1472337

Kindle + Paperback link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0CM28WT51/

Twisted Bloodlines – Second Edition Excerpt

Are you as excited as I am for the release of the second edition of Twisted Bloodlines on Friday? I certainly hope so! I’ve poured a lot of love and effort into this revamped (I’m using that pun so much, haha) edition of the book, with a completely rewritten story, improved characterisation, extended worldbuilding and a full 30k more words than the first edition! Today, you can get a sneaky peek at the new edition with this excerpt from Chapter One!

Chapter I – Insanity

Night dressed her in an eerie yet glamorous glow as she descended those concrete steps and stood, teetering, on the pavement. The building she’d left might have been a factory. Or a warehouse. I couldn’t read the sign above the door—the words were just symbols that turned to mush in my brain.

For some reason, I stopped. On any other day, my motto was ‘keep walking, keep walking until you drop’. ‘Dropping’ usually meant sleeping in the nearest, safest spot, which wasn’t always near or safe at all. Life on my own, as a teenage girl who should’ve been studying and fawning over celebrities instead of wandering the streets of Dreswell alone, was hard. There was nothing I could do about it, though.

Shivering, I tried to walk right past her—the strange woman coming out of a strange building on a strange street in a strange industrial estate—but I couldn’t. My legs wouldn’t move. Frozen to the spot, all I could do was look at her.

She was an oddity, though, so looking at her wasn’t some boring, mind-numbing task. Every time my eyes flickered to a different part of her body, they discovered something new. A stately red gown, like you saw on movie posters for films set in the 20s and 30s, covered her body, but it was ripped and torn. It looked like a fox had got at it. Some of the foxes around Dreswell could be vicious, ratty little things. All teeth and mangy fur, rattling through rubbish bins like there was no tomorrow. I could imagine one of them sinking their teeth into her dress.

Still, not while she was wearing it. She didn’t seem like the type to leave her clothes lying around in alleyways, either. There was something to her face—the roundness, the carefully-applied makeup which painted her in shades of pink and red, the way her skin seemed to almost shimmer—that screamed gentleness. It declared to the world that she wanted for nothing, and never had.

It could’ve lied, obviously. Many things did. I’d learned that lesson over and over, enough to remember it for a dozen lifetimes. But there was definitely something off about her, whether her face told the truth or not. She swayed on the spot, looking awfully off-balance in a pair of tiny black heels, her eyes flickering from side to side.

Again, that was odd. While her body moved slowly and clumsily, her eyes were sharp. Darting. Careful. Calculating. They were the eyes of a spy, not a rich woman who’d had too much to drink. They were the eyes of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. But the body disagreed, and that was confusing enough to keep me staring.

I stared until those piercing eyes found me on the pavement, just by the building she’d left. A brilliant smile yanked at the corners of her mouth, showing off a smearing of messy red lipstick. A date gone wrong, I thought, instantly. Sympathy hit me.

‘Oh, darling! Darling,’ she slurred the words—drunk, or maybe high—taking a faltering step towards me. Without thinking, I moved forwards and caught her arm before she fell and cracked her skull open on the kerb, attempting a smile back. ‘Oh, you are a star, my darling!’

‘Do you wanna get home, miss?’ I asked, a little wary of how she clung to my arm like a baby monkey holding onto its mother for dear life.

‘Home. Home! Oh, my dear, that would be something, if you could get me home.’

For a moment, those careful eyes became a little misty, their exact colour hidden by the darkness. More sympathy tugged at my heart. She wasn’t a threat. Drunk? Almost definitely. Lost? Probably. But dangerous? No. I knew danger. I’d seen it in so many forms that I was sick to death of it. She couldn’t be dangerous.

‘Which way is your home, miss?’ I spoke softly, trying to be kind to a stranger who seemed like she’d had a worse night than me. Maybe even a worse life. Kindness cost nothing, after all.

‘Ah, you are a darling, my dear!’ She grinned, the expression making my stomach ever-so-slightly uneasy, before dramatically waving her hand down the street. ‘I live down there, darling, only a little bit away! It’s not far, really, not far at all!’

With that, she lurched forwards, half-dragging me down the pavement with her. A little bewildered, I held onto her arm, near-frozen to the touch, and marvelled that she hadn’t formed goosebumps despite the revealing nature of her dress.

To dance under dead moonlight, crystal

We paused so abruptly that I found myself falling towards grimy cobbles, seeing their criss-cross pattern explode in size. She stopped that. Jerking my arm backward, she kept me on my feet and pulled me a little further down the worryingly dark alleyway. My insides shivered. Logically, I knew I wasn’t in a horror movie or a thriller novel, but my heart threw a fit in my ribcage anyway. Blood spurted through my body as if it was afraid of never being able to rush around my veins again.

Before I could blink, she released my arm. I staggered a little, reaching out to a damp brick wall for support and feeling dirt cling to my fingers. I didn’t care. This was one of the oddest nights of my life.

I held onto that wall and breathed deeply, just to remind myself that I could. Best case scenario, this would all be an interesting story that I could tell someone, some day. Worst case scenario?

I didn’t really want to think about that.

‘Here we are,’ she said with a sigh, her voice seeming instantly different. Tiredness seeped through it. Every word sounded like it had been said a thousand times before, or a million. A different sympathy attempted to enter my mind, but I blocked it.

Staring back at her intelligent eyes, my mind came to a slow, dawning realisation.

This woman wasn’t drunk. Or high. She might have been rich, or poor, or mad, but she wasn’t drunk. There was a flip, a switch, something which marked her as sober and—and pretending. Lying. Trying to gain my trust… but why?

To lead me down a dark alleyway. To get me alone. To do whatever she wanted to in a dodgy place devoid of any witnesses, or potential saviours. She wanted to create a victim, by playing one.

She’d succeeded.

‘This is your home?’ I took a step backwards, my gaze fixating on her face. Smooth. Gentle. Nothing like the eyes which stared back at me. She seemed to be a patchwork of different parts, put together by someone else for some strange goal.

‘The act has been dropped, darling,’ she said, laughing, but the noise froze my stomach and echoed hauntingly around the alleyway. ‘We can stop playing pretend. I’m too old for silly games. I need you, my dear—what is your name?’

Transfixed, I couldn’t even answer her question. My mind blanked. In that moment, I had no name.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, no… You’re like little Cleo, aren’t you?’ She mused, before shaking her head and smiling widely. ‘Yes, you are Cleo. Cleo, my sister, you will become my pet tonight. My dearest, closest pet. A companion, if you will.’

I wanted to tell her to shove off. I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to say something, anything, but my tongue died in my mouth. Thick and useless, it blocked off any words I wanted to scream at her.

‘All you need to do, pet, is come a little closer.’ She stepped forwards, her grin widening and becoming nearly unnatural. ‘Close your eyes, and trust me.’

She moved forwards again, closer, but I couldn’t move back even though every fibre of my being was screaming at me to. I was helpless—and she had effortlessly switched from prey to predator.

‘Oh, you’ll make a wonderful pet.’

The original Twisted Bloodlines can be purchased here, if you’d like to support me!

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