When I woke up today, I had a thought. Not completely unusual, I know, but it was one of those that struck me as soon as I opened my eyes, and then I couldn’t get rid of it. I thought I might as well write it down here.

Even if I didn’t have any sort of disease to start with, they’ve given me one while I’ve been in here. Loneliness. It sounds stupid, but it might as well be a fucking disease. It’s changed how I look at the world – not that I can properly remember how I did that before all of this, or that my world is much bigger than a room and a corridor, but still.

I sit here, every day, just listening. Footsteps in the corridor, breathing from the room next to me – where I hope Helen still is – and the occasional cough. Mainly just the footsteps, though. I can’t identify whose are whose, because I hardly ever see people in here. Again, the loneliness! I don’t even know what Helen looks like.

Different options have floated through my mind, every so often. I mean, can you blame me? I’ve got nothing else to think about, unless you count the continual dread of wondering what their end goal is with keeping me in here. If I thought about that all day, I’d end up developing an actual mental health problem.

But no, Helen’s appearance is something that I think about. For some reason, she always has long hair in my imagination, although I guess that might be a bit stereotypical of me to assume. She could have a mohawk. She’d look awesome with a mohawk. Dyed bright green, too – that would be something. It’d break up the monotony of the awful, bland colours in here, anyway. Now, in my head, she has vibrant purple contact lenses that shine like the eyes of those deer and rabbits that you see in photographs, when the flash has temporarily blinded them and recorded a moment of pure nighttime panic.

I bet she’s made her own list of demands too. She probably asked for paint – now I’m completely making everything up in the name of colour, but I don’t care – but forgot to ask for paper or canvases. Her walls are splattered in so many colours that you can’t see the horrid eggshell blue beneath them. She’s painted feathers stretching out in impossible colour combinations and patterns that are both geometric and floral. They didn’t give her paintbrushes, so her hands are covered in the same colours, and she tries to peel off another layer every night at the sink, but then gives up when all the shades fade into each other and nearly become brown, realising that a rainbow on her hands is as good as a revolution in here.

She could be boring, of course. Or not boring, per se, but monochrome. Like me. Normal brown hair; normal brown eyes; beige uniform; no paint on my hands. I just don’t know, after all. I could ask her, I suppose, but then…

Wait. You’ve got to be kidding me. Someone in the universe is looking down on me and having the best time of their life messing with mine.

She’s knocking.

Conversation With Helen

-she’s barely had time to knock twice before I’m over at the wall, knocking back, and then she knocks back once, and I feel like a kid in primary school again, for some reason-

Her: Is it still you, Robbie?

Me: Yeah, ‘course. Why wouldn’t it be?

Her: I don’t know. I had… well, nevermind.

Me: Is this another one of those things that you’re not gonna tell me for my own good, or something?

Her: Jeez, are you still thinking about that?

Me: Not like I got much else to do. (obviously not mentioning that I’ve been thinking about her, quite a bit)

Her: Well, it’s not that. It’s just private.

Me: Wow, they still let you have privacy? I’m jealous.

Her: Wha- what do you mean? Are they watching you? Right now? (she goes down to a stressed out sort of whisper here)

Me: It was sort of a joke. I reckon they’re spying on us.

Her: Don’t make yourself paranoid. I think they’re just leaving us in here to rot.

Me: ...because that’s a way more positive spin on things.

Her: Better than looking over your shoulder all the time.

Me: What, at the boring wall behind me? Nah, I think it’s the box on the ceiling.

Her: I suppose thinking about it will keep your mind occupied, at least.

Me: Oh! I need to tell you – they let me go outside.

Her: Heh. How did that go? (sounding like she’s a mixture of bemused and defeated)

Me: You’ve been outside, haven’t you?

Her: Fenced-in square?

Me: Yup. I felt ripped off, only I didn’t even pay for it.

Her: Get used to that feeling. Don’t stop taking the privileges, though. They’re a change to the monotony, if nothing else.

Me: Why, what sort of things have you got? (hoping my prying doesn’t come off too strong)

Her: Well, that would ruin the fun for you, wouldn’t it?

Me: I’m starting to think you just like messing with me. I’ve been remembering more, you know.

Her: ...how much?

Me: Not enough. Just a conversation with my mum, which was just as fucking vague as you can be sometimes.

Her: I’m sorry. I know you probably don’t believe me, but it is genuinely for your own good. I’m glad you can remember your mum.

Me: Not properly. Just that one memory. It’s so weird – it’s like ninety percent of my brain is just fucking gone. Locked with the key thrown away and all that.

Her: You’re getting it back though, even if it’s slow.

Me: Were you the same, at first?

Her: Nowhere near as bad as you. But again, count your blessings. You’ll realise what I mean when you remember.

Me: Jesus, what a lovely thing to look forward to. You’re really reassuring, you know?

Her: I wish I could help you more.

Me: I know. I appreciate you just being here, anyway. Not that you can really go anywhere, unless you’ve got some kickass privileges.

Her: None of them are that good. (she’s laughing a bit, though)

Me: The way you said that makes it sound like there’s a ton of them.

Her: These people don’t really understand the whole ‘quality over quantity’ thing. There’s a couple that I think you’ll find nice, though.

Me: And you won’t tell me about them.

Her: Not yet. Leave yourself something to look forward to, y’know?

Me: I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.

Her: Trust me, Robbie. It gets better. Maybe only by the smallest amount, but it does get a little bit better.