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.