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.