Dietary Privileges Form – Level One

Patient Number: 0619

Patient Name: Robin Stephens

Question One: How Are You Feeling Today?

I really, really don’t see how this is at all fucking relevant to my food. If I say I feel kinda sad, will you give me a big tub of ice cream and some cake? Nah, you’ll probably just keep giving me the slop to match my mood if I say that. You might do that if I’m too bloody happy too, to calm me down. Fuck it – I feel fine. Completely in the middle. You’re not tricking me up with your stupid questions.

Question Two: Do You Have Any Allergies And/Or Intolerances?

Oh damn, it almost feels like you actually fucking care. It’s a shame that whatever you’ve done to me has made me forget literally fucking everything about my life. Jeez, I really hope you don’t give me something that I’m accidentally allergic to and then have the lawsuit of your lives on your hands. That would really be a shame. Maybe if you gave me my fucking memories back then I’d be able to help you out a little bit more. How about that? A trade – memories for information. Sounds good to me, and a lot less expensive than a negligence lawsuit for you.

Question Three: Do You Have Any Religious And/Or Cultural Requirements Relating To Food?

Once again, I’m afraid that I simply cannot help you without your co-operation. Wow, that sounds like a really familiar line – y’know, it really sounds like the sort of thing you people are usually saying to me. Oh, co-operate Robbie, and everything will be fine. Co-operate and you’ll get some privileges. Co-operate and we can help you. You know what would help me? My fucking memories!

Question Four: On A Scale Of One To Five, How Would You Rate Your Current Dietary Fulfilments?

Dogshit. Also, ‘dietary fulfilments’? Seriously? It’s slop. It’d do you lot some good to get yourself down from up your own arses every once in a while and taste some of the absolute shit that you’re serving to me every day.

Question Five: How, If At All, Could Your Current Dietary Fulfilments Be Improved?

This has got to be a fucking joke. Firstly, it would be nice to have some actual food. You serve me slop. Not food. You’d probably get in legal trouble just for calling it food. I doubt it’s got any nutrition in it, no matter what you say about it. I. Want. Actual. Food. Meals. Fucking sandwiches would be better! Have you guys heard of meals? Soup, even! Stew! Pie! Pie and chips! Fuck, now I want pie and chips. You see what you’ve done? Improve the damn slop by getting rid of the shitty stuff and giving me something actually edible.

Question Six: Do You Feel Ready To Gain Additional Dietary Privileges?

I’ve been ready since the very first time I laid eyes on that disgusting slop. I’ve been so ready. I’ve never wished for flavour more in my life. Not just flavour – texture! I want the crunch. Or even something stringy and tough. Something to chew. My teeth will have turned to dust by the time you’re finished with feeding me that shit! Your slop just runs down people’s throats – you should tell rich people that it’s a special diet cleanse where they don’t even have to move their jaw muscles to consume it, and you’ll make bank off them. They’ll eat that shit up – literally. See, I should be in your marketing department. Do you have one of those? Or are we hiding away in the mountains somewhere, just hoping that the government doesn’t find us? Are you official or what? Are you criminals?

Question Seven: Are You Still Willing To Co-Operate With Your Treatment Plan In Order To Gain Privileges?

I’m assuming you mean the pills and the laughably awful mess that you made of the group therapy thing. To be honest, I don’t care too much about the pills. If you’re poisoning me then it’s far too slow and you get a 0/10 for efficiency. I’m not sure if they’re meant to be doing something beneficial, but it doesn’t really feel like that either, except for the energy. I know that’s caffeine, by the way, I’m not stupid. But yeah, I’ll jump through your fucking hoops if you really want me to. I don’t care what I have to do as long as you stop giving me the horrible slop. How’s that for a deal?

Question Eight: Do You Feel Normal?

Again with this shit. If I knew what you meant by normal, then I’d at least try to answer, but going off what you describe as ‘food’, I don’t really trust your definitions of anything. I’ve been in here for weeks and all I feel is bored and lonely and fed up and frustrated. Heh, I guess that’s a lot when I write it out like that. But I’ve felt like that all the time – is that normal? It’s my normal, I guess. Yes, fuck you, I feel normal – as normal as I can fucking get when you keep me locked in a box all day and all night.

I should’ve guessed that the dietary privileges, whatever the fuck they are, wouldn’t kick in until after today. I had to sit there and look at the slop after the psychologist lady left with her questionnaire tucked under her arm. I stared at it. I stared for so long that I thought it grew a mouth at one point, but I didn’t dare to say anything in case they were watching me and thought I was going crazy for real. Then I blinked and it was just a normal gap in the slop.

Bringing myself to eat it was harder today. Maybe because now I know there’s better options, and they’re just choosing not to give them to me even though, may I remind you, I was not the one who threw a chair in that room that I never got to go into, and in fact, I would say I’ve been a model kidnapee this entire time. I’ve taken the pills, eaten the slop, and done everything that they could possibly want me to do, even if I’ve had an attitude – I mean, who can fucking blame me?

I don’t get it. I don’t understand any of it. What the fuck do they want from me?

What the fuck is normal?