The stupid ‘dietary privilege’ thing was salt. Fucking salt! They gave me a little paper sachet of it on the tray next to my slop, like the sort you normally get in a fast food place or something like that, but this one didn’t even have the decency to be labelled as ‘salt’. It was just white. I had to rip it open and sniff at it for a bit before I trusted it enough to put a tiny bit on my tongue.

Maybe that was stupid of me, but it did turn out to be just salt. Well, I guess, I hope it’s just salt. If there’s no more entries after this one, then you can just assume that the salt wasn’t actually salt and killed me. Kind of a shitty way to go, but I guess I’ve already found myself in the shittiest situation I could imagine, so maybe a shitty death would fit.

Okay, I’ve written ‘shitty’ far too much now. Anyway, my point is that the privilege sucked, but I guess I don’t know what else I expected from this place. Maybe I just wanted some colour – some variety. I would have been happy with blue slop, or green slop, or slop with sparkles in it. Maybe the salt counts as sparkles. Nah, fuck that. I’m not giving them any more credit than they deserve, and they don’t deserve any.

Thinking of salt as sparkles doesn’t even make me feel any better. I think I would’ve felt better if I got some slip of paper letting me know about the new privilege. A certificate saying that I earned some salt would be better – at least I could rip that up. I could sprinkle it on the slop as another topping. Salt and paper – what a combination.

I’m going to go mad in here thinking about salt and slop and paper. Is that what they want? They’ll let me out for a day in ten years and I’ll get thrown straight back in when I start asking the nearest person I see about slop. That’s their master plan.

God, what am I saying? I’m already mad. I would swear I wasn’t mad when I got put in here, but I guess can’t even say that for certain. I just don’t fucking remember. Do you know how infuriating that is? Fuck, why am I talking to you like you’re something more than a piece of paper again?

You’ll run out soon. The paper, I mean. I guess I can scream at them to give me some more, but that’s not guaranteed. Maybe they’ll give me post-it notes next time, or tiny pieces of paper, as big as a fingernail. I wouldn’t put it past them.

I don’t know what to think about what Helen said. Maybe I should chase the privileges, like stupid achievements in a video game that mean nothing. Is the feeling of ‘getting something’ enough for me? Nah. I already know it, before going through all the trouble. If they’re going to mess me around, like with the outside area and now this new thing with the salt, then what’s the point? They would be hollow victories.

Speaking of things that are hollow and have no worth, there’s someone knocking at my door. Hold on.

Conversation With The Psychologist Lady

-she comes in and has the audacity to sit down on my bed before I can even say anything, settling herself in all comfortable like it’s some sort of hotel room instead of a prison cell-

Helen: Hello, Robin. How are you doing today?

Me: You’re still fucking persisting with that name thing?

Her: Look, this will be a slightly longer visit today. We’re going to have a session together – normally, this would take place in my office, but we’ve been on fairly high alert recently and I thought your room would be an appropriate substitute.

Me: You mean my cell?

Her: Please, Robin.

Me: Robbie.

Her: If it will make you feel more comfortable, for now, I will address you as Robbie. I suppose it’s a nickname for Robin?

Me: No… it’s a name-name. My name. Always has been.

Her: How do you know that, Robbie? (she leans in a bit here, and pats the bed beside her – again, the absolutely audacity of inviting me to sit on my own bed!)

Me: I just do.

Her: I thought you’d been struggling with your memory.

Me: Yeah, everything before here is a blur. I only remember… (thinking better of it) … well, fuck, I don’t remember anything at all.

Her: Not even the name ‘Robbie’?

Me: I know it’s my name, alright. Stop pestering me about it. What’s this fucking session you want to do, anyway?

Her: We’ve already started, Robbie. It’s talking therapy. It’s designed to ensure that you’re comfortable here and making progress during your time in this facility.

Me: I gotta be honest, it doesn’t feel like it’s doing me much good.

Her: You have to give me some time, Robbie! (she’s laughing – I’m not laughing with her, and she stops, thankfully)

Me: Seems like time’s all I got. Why do you want some? What do you gain from this?

Her: Firstly, it’s my job. Secondly, we are trying to ensure that you go through your treatment plan successfully.

Me: Yeah, the pills and slop. How revolutionary.

Her: You recently received your first dietary privilege – surely you’re uplifted by that?

Me: By… salt? Are you fucking serious?

Her: Please, keep yourself calm, Robbie. Anger during these sessions may lead to the revoking of your privileges, or further consequences.

Me: Like whatever ended up happening to whoever trashed your group therapy session thing?

Her: Yes… like that patient. He was properly dealt with and is undergoing some more concentrated treatment now.

Me: You’re drugging him up so he won’t throw more chairs at you?

Her: That is not what we’re doing here, Robbie. The pills are enabling you to get better. They give you energy and set you on the right path.

Me: What the fuck is the right path? Maybe if I knew what it was you wanted me to do, then I could fucking do it!

Her: The treatment will work, Robbie. You just need to give it time, and co-operate fully. The privileges are just small rewards in the meantime – the true reward is your recovery.

Me: My recovery from fucking what? What the fuck is wrong with me?

Her: Okay, I’m disengaging now, Robbie. This is clearly going nowhere. I will be in touch to discuss your next steps. (she gets up and starts leaving now)

Me: Fucking fantastic.