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.