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