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.