Recently, my grandfather passed away. Brain cancer. He’s certainly in a better place now. But as I was cleaning out his house, I found this bizarre little black book in his attic, in a box full of stuff from his old job. It doesn’t seem to have been written by him, but it honestly doesn’t make any sense at all to me. Over the last few days, I decided to transcribe the entire thing digitally. There are a hell of a lot of redactions, though. And plenty of ink blotches. Made it a pain and a half to read through and then write out again. But I’ve managed to copy it out to the best of my ability. Maybe someone out there can make head or tail of this.
Personal Journal Of [REDACTED]
January 2nd, 1980
New Year’s is always the hardest. Just beyond the walls of my tomb, rests a world teeming with excitement, ready to usher in the coming of the next year. Festivities abound, all of that nonsense. For me, though, no such luck. The world is static. Routine. The same tasks in the same rooms, day in and day out, while the celebrations of the outside world continue on, oblivious to my existence. Mine and that of everybody else within these walls. It’s not that I don’t deserve such a fate, but it’s disheartening. Particularly when I hear the rattle of the warders chatting amongst themselves just up from my room, discussing their own experiences for the New Year. I heard them gossip over Harkness, one of their juniors, how he was putting in a resolution to go on a diet, how they expected it to last a week. A reminder of how the world outside kept turning, just outside of my reach.
Things have only gotten duller ever since Angel was released, early in November. An unexpected parole, they had said. It appeared that the courts had changed their mind. But with him gone, I was left mostly alone and I found myself missing his presence. It’s not every day that one could say they felt saddened over the loss of a hulking, unreasonable brute who slept beneath them every night, but that serves to show how far things have fallen. And now, I await yet more company. I get the feeling that I may be waiting a while, though. Capacity seems to be at an all-time low, for whatever reason. Perhaps people are just less criminally inclined these days. Or maybe they put a Democrat in office, who really knows?
If anything else happens, I’ll return to this. Doctor [REDACTED] says that noting down my thoughts is one of the healthier ways to process them. I’m not sure that I believe all of this new-age hippie psychology nonsense, but it isn’t like I have anywhere to go or anything better to do.
January 23rd, 1980
It’s been a while since I’ve put anything down here, but there’s not been much to say. That’s the worst part of this kind of life inside, the complete waste of it all. Nothing productive or even hugely stimulating ever takes place.
However, today, something did happen. There was a fight in the common room. I’m still not entirely clear on the details, but I managed to see some of it from where I was near the back of the crowd. After asking around, it seems that George from just across the pod owed Tyson. We all like to criticise Tyson for letting his customers rack up debts, but when he wants to act on them, he can really act on them. He must have lifted a fountain pen from a staff member, maybe during a meeting with the Doctor or something, but however he obtained it, he rammed it right into George’s side and then grabbed him by the neck. George is a tiny guy, smaller than even I, but for what it was worth, he put some effort into fighting back, at least until the guards decided that the fun was over and separated them. Now he’s down in the infirmary with a hole in his side and bruising on his throat and Tyson… Well, only the Lord above knows. Probably in solitary. I can’t imagine we’ll see him back out in the wild anytime soon.
It says a lot about my current position, when a fight between rabid animals ends up as the only interesting event to note in almost a month. In the meantime, I’ve been reading, taking what books I can from the commissary. According to [REDACTED], an appreciation for the arts can go a long way to impress a parole board. If I ever get close to that point, of course.
February 4th, 1980
Today was Officer [REDACTED]’s last day before retirement. And by God, they wanted us to know it. We were all ushered into the main courtyard, made to hear this grand lofty speech by the warden about how he had served his duties admirably for the last three decades. I’m not sure if they expected any of us to actually listen to it; I know I wasn’t. Tuning out after the first few sentences was far and away the most tempting option and I’ve always been one to take shortcuts. It’s how I even ended up in this mess. Still, it was a nice gesture and I’m sure it made [REDACTED] all proud of himself. The guy was a stuck-up prick, through and through. I’d be surprised if even the other guards liked him. Really, the only thing of note was that it allowed me to realise just how few of us there were. In the massive, sprawling yard area, there were maybe a couple of thousand of us at the absolute most. There had been a time when these kinds of “important meetings” would fill up the place, they’d have to have guys stand inside and watch through the windows.
Maybe crime really is falling out there. Maybe they’ve found some sort of perfect utopia.
That aside, it really was dull as dirt. All I could do was look around while pretending to pay attention, and I kept most of my focus on the East Wing. It was an interesting part of the facility, seemingly completely disused and abandoned, even back when I had first arrived. Apparently, it had once housed the execution block before that had been taken out and now, they didn’t really know what to do with it, so it was left there to rot, a testament to hubris. They could probably do something with it if they really tried, but then again, what was even the point? Certainly none with the amount of prisoners in the facility.
February 16th, 1980
I had another of my meetings with Doctor [REDACTED] today. Normally, I wouldn’t mention them, but I really am starved for content and I would rather mention this than have absolutely nothing for what is shaping up to be the entirety of the month, again.
There’s always something pretty soothing about his office. The rest of the facility is cold, hard concrete and steel, but his room is like a whole different dimension, one of wood panelling and fur rugs and gorgeous ornate paintings depicting biblical events. I always feel a little out of my element in there, like I should be wearing a suit and tie, not some scrappy jailbird garb. It’s miles away from what I am used to or even comfortable with.
In terms of questions, he asked me the usual. Am I taking care of myself, following his advice, et cetera. He seemed particularly interested in my writings, even asked to see them. I think he was a little disappointed by the lack of content for a while, but I’m sure he understands that there’s not much I can do if I don’t have any thoughts to scribe in the first place. Sometimes, I wonder if there’s much point in seeing him at all, and I certainly don’t like the idea of taking advice from a Jap, but it’s insisted by the Corrections Authority, so there’s not a whole lot I can do about it.
Towards the end of the session, though, he asked me an odd question. He asked me about life. If I think there’s a world worth living in for me if I ever find myself a free man again. I told him that I wasn’t considering suicide, if that was what he meant. He got a laugh out of that, a kind of prim and proper guffaw that suggested it was at least somewhat forced. He told me no, he was simply referring to what I hoped to make of myself. All I could really say was that I wasn’t really sure; There’s zero chance of me getting back to my old life, even if I do one day flee the confines of this facility, so I just hadn’t spared it much thought. He seemed satisfied with this answer, and advised me to think some more on it.
Something about that has stuck with me, even as I write this a few hours after the fact. Maybe I should lend some thoughts to my future, in the unlikely event that it ever does decide to come. We’ll have to see.
February 27th, 1980
I was planning to take the page space here to talk about my ideas for the future, since I’ve given it a little more thought since that session with [REDACTED], but suffice to say, something far more interesting grabbed my attention.
As I was thinking of what exactly to write, I was alerted by the sound of scurrying feet against the metal catwalk outside, tilting my head to my cell door, just in time to see someone take off past it, a blur of beige. Just a few seconds later, two more figures sprinted past the door, guards. My intrigue thoroughly piqued, I picked myself up and tried to get as good a view as possible of the chase that was evidently in progress. Whoever was doing the runner, I couldn’t tell, but they were certainly nimble. However, sooner or later, the fun had to end and, although it was out of my line of sight, the sounds of shouting, grunting and squealing were enough to tell me that the pure bugger had failed in his endeavour.
So, that was something that happened. I still don’t know who it was or what inspired them, but a show is a show. And in this Hell, I’ll take whatever I can get.
February 28th, 1980
I cannot believe that after everything, it completely slipped my mind and it is only now, at two in the morning, I have remembered what I was intending to write about earlier in the evening in the first place. I Have a feeling [REDACTED] will want to read this part, when I see him next week.
So, the future. If I were to ever again find myself a free man, I think the first thing I’d want to do is find a park. Somewhere with plenty of greenery, where I can just kick back and enjoy the pollen mixing with the coraking grunts of the frogs and the pleasant chirping of the crickets. To be one with nature again. And beyond that, maybe I’d see if Chantal was still out there. Assuming she would want anything at all to do with me. That aside, I’d just be happy to survive, more than anything else. If the whole world just forgot about me and let me carry on with my life in peace, I reckon I would be happy with that.
March 9th, 1980
As it turns out, the brave S.O.B who had made a break for it a few days ago was Payton, whose cell rested a few down to the left from mine. In hindsight, I probably should have seen that coming. He’s a ratty little guy, not strong or imposing or even particularly intelligent, but plenty quick and nimble. Clearly not quick enough.
The really interesting part, and the part that the guys were discussing in the common room today, was that we had simply seen no more of him. An escape attempt like that which didn’t last long and didn’t result in any major damage usually wouldn’t have cost him any longer than a week in the hole, but even now, his cell remained empty. Of course, speculation ran amok. Some of us theorised that a guard had taken out their rage on him just a little too harshly and he was now lying in a mortuary somehow; The more reasonable among us hazarded a guess that he was just being put away for a longer period of time to set an example.
Wherever he is, I can’t imagine I’d want to be him right now. No matter how bad you’ve got it, there’s always someone who has it a thousand times worse, is something my Pa liked to say a lot.
March 14th, 1980
For the first time in what must have been half a year, we’ve had a new arrival. Big guy too. Think he’s Spanish or Mexican or something along those lines. He just calls himself T, that’s it, and none of us are hugely interested enough to figure out what the hell he’s actually called. And of course, he’s ended up in a cell with me.
He’s a weird guy. Not very chatty at all, not like Angel used to be. That guy would talk your ear off about all sorts if given the opportunity, but T is almost worryingly quiet. Even as I write this, he’s just lying on his bed reading silently and occasionally casting glances over to me. I can handle a tough, loud-mouthed son of a bitch, but a guy who keeps his trap shut, who never reveals his intentions? That’s scary.
March 20th, 1980
Writing this from the common room. While I would usually take the desk, if it could indeed be called that, in the cell, I just can’t handle that anymore. The way that T just stares at me while I work away, like he’s quietly judging me. I’d feel a whole lot better about it if he would just openly mock me. But as it stands, I don’t even know if that’s what he’s doing.
Anyway, George disappeared today. For the last couple of months, he’s been a sickly bastard, hobbling around without much rhyme or reason. I think Tyson, who has also completely vanished, really did a number on him. I’d be scared shitless too if a guy like that rammed a pen into my ribs. But now, he’s just gone. His cell is inhabited by some other inmate, another new guy from what I can tell. Then again, none of us really knew how long his sentence actually was, he had probably just served it and was now free. Good for him, I suppose. For the rest of us, the world kept turning.
April 5th, 1980
Another meeting with Doc. I told him about my thoughts for the future, and he seemed decently receptive to it all, for the most part. Told me that thinking forward is good, no matter how small it may seem. I’ll take his word for it. And of course, he asked to see this journal again. I get the impression he’s slightly disappointed by the lack of writing at points, but he hasn’t made such critiques vocal yet. He also seemed to focus a bit on T, like he was positively bent on assuring me that there was nothing wrong with him. I found that a little strange, but I guess he doesn’t want me feeling unsettled or whatever. For as long as I share a cell with that creep, the uneasiness won’t be going anywhere.
April 8th, 1980
I really am beginning to get sick of this. Today, while I was down in the common room reading, I got this tingling sensation down my spine and looked up, only to realise that T was there, staring at me from afar. I wish that he would just leave me alone. His eyes get this odd tint to them whenever he’s watching. Seriously, how long is it until the guy rams a fork into my throat? I’m not in the mood to stick around that long to wait and see; Considering reporting him to the guards.
Then again, what has he even done to deserve that? It ain’t a crime to make someone uncomfortable and nothing else. They’ll laugh me right out of the office. But I just cannot escape the feeling that he’s going to try something.
April 19th, 1980
I don’t know what to think anymore. For what was maybe the first time since we had met, T spoke more than four consecutive words to me, seemingly out of nowhere. And what he said, I’m still trying to process what exactly he meant by it.
To take things from the start, earlier this afternoon I sat down in the chapel. It was a small gathering, no Father in sight and just a couple of us in there under the eyes of Officer [REDACTED]. Of course, a weasel like him had no interest in actually keeping watch and it seemed that he would mostly just leap into action if things got too out of hand.
I’ve never considered myself a religious man. Sure, Ma was always devout, but that didn’t transfer to me. I just didn’t have much time for all that God nonsense. But, something about soending almost a decade in the jug with all signs pointing to no end anytime soon can wear on a guy. Throw in a concerning cellmate and you’ve gotta have something to pass the time, to give you a bit of hope. So, I’d started practicing. Besides, the chapel was one of those places that T never ventured into. I was safe.
That all changed today.
As I kept my head bowed, sitting in the pews, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Ordinarily, nobody, guard or inmate, wanted much to do with me so it was with some surprise that I looked up, to which said surprise evaporated away into horror. There sat T, staring directly at me, eitting right next to me. For a few moments, I didn’t know what to do, what to think. At that point, I was paralysed. And I haven’t forgotten what he said to me, word for word.
”You’re [REDACTED], right?”
I couldn’t find the will to speak so with a throat as dry as the Nevada Desert, I nodded slowly. As if he didn’t know that already.
”Right.” He nodded, those intense eyes of his continuing to scan me like he was peering into my soul. “How long have you been here?”
Finally, I managed to find my voice, as hoarse and croaky as it was, and gave him the date of my incarceration. 1973. He nodded to this in a manner that implied he already knew the answer.
”Not far off ten years, eh? I wonder how much longer you’ve got.”
Unless I had some miracle with the parole board, the answer was until I was buried. I held my tongue on that, however, and let him keep talking.
”Look, man. You’ve had a lot to go through, right? It’s pretty obvious from your face. You speak to Doc [REDACTED], don’t you?”
”Now and again.” Was my reply.
”Well, maybe it might not last too much longer.” He stated cryptically, with almost a tinge of sympathy. “Your time’s coming, man.”
I was thoroughly baffled. My time for what, exactly? But I had no chance to voice my disbelief before T rose to his feet and with a few parting words of mystifying encouragement, left the chapel.
It took a few seconds to pass by, wrapped in confusion and a light dash of fear, before I looked down to see the shank protruding from my gut.
As I write this, I rest in the infirmary bed. The wound wasn’t deep, thankfully, although that just leaves me all the more confused. A man like T would have had no problem killing me in an instant. And what reason would he even have to do that? Was he disgusted by learning of my crimes? That was certainly possible. But if so, why not kill me, or at least give me more than a few days out of the spotlight? And through it all, he didn’t seem angry; More morose than anything.
Sometimes, I just don’t get people.
April 20th, 1980
Doc visited me in the infirmary today. It wasn’t a visit that I had anticipated, so of course I was baffled beyond words to see him stroll up, a guard to each side of him, both of whom he towered over. He asked me a few questions, if I was feeling alright, what exactly had happened, the usual. I attempted to ask him what had become of T, but all he said to that was that it was being looked into. He was either unwilling or unable to say more on the subject. At the very least, he seemed pleased that I was continuing to note down my experiences. I showed him the journal entry detailing what had been said to me. He spent a while looking over it, in pure silence, before eventually turning back to me and stating that T wasn’t entirely mentally there.
I was tempted to ask why he wasn’t in a loon ward if that was the case, but I ended up restraining myself from doing so. I can’t imagine he’ll be sticking around for much longer, though, certainly not in my cell. Because once I get out of here, if he’s still there, I’ll straight up refuse to go in. Angel was one thing, I’m not bunking with a guy who stabbed me in the gut.
???
It’s been so long. God, I don’t even know how long, exactly. The dates have flown out of my head, I’ve managed to lose track of all time down here. It’s maybe been a couple of weeks since last I wrote in here, and I was expecting that I wouldn’t ever do so again. And yet, here I am.
I’ve been heavily encouraged, once again, to write down all of my thoughts and experiences, and I know for a fact that [REDACTED] is checking the book, so I should probably try to the best of my ability.
It was the day after he visited me in the infirmary, so it must have been the early hours of the 21st. I wasn’t sleeping, it was kind of hard to do so with the wound in me, on top of all the thoughts swirling through my head, so I wasn’t getting even a hint of rest. At some point, it must have been after midnight, I was alerted by the sounds of the doors opening. I spotted a few guards walking in and so I quickly jammed my eyes shut and acted as if I were asleep, for I’m sure they would not have been particularly happy to find me awake at that hour. And so, I lay there, darkness surrounding me, as my ears took in each and every last polished footstep with the men approaching, almost in tandem with the heavy beats of my heart. There was something oddly tense about it, like I was a child again, hiding from my parents. The footsteps drew closer and closer.
And then they stopped. Right by me.
The atmosphere was suffocating as I felt their presence hovering by my bed. One of them spoke, asking if “this is the one.” Another confirmed as such, reading out my name. That was what turned my blood to ice. And it only got worse as I felt them round the side of the bed. For a moment, all fell still. Then, I felt a shudder of metal and all of a sudden, I was moving. I kept my eyes shut throughout, so it took me a moment of utter panic to realise that they were wheeling my bed. To where, I had no clue, and no hints were given.
For the duration of the journey, I was shut off to my vision and so my auditory senses became more powerful than ever. The scrape of the wheels on the corridor flooring, the harsh buzzing that signalled the unlocking of a door, the clatter of footsteps, the occasional disgruntled muttering amongst my escort.
And then, soon, the rush of the open air fluttering, the early morning breeze slapping my face gently and toying with my hair. I had been taken outside. And still it carried on. For just a few minutes, I was out in the elements, until we came to a halt. I could hear the sound of thick metal doors being opened and then, the sensation of ascending upwards. In a slip, one eye opened for just a second to see that I was in the central courtyard of the facility, and being taken into some sort of building. The East Wing. For just a moment, I locked gaze with one of the guards escorting me, and I’m fairly certain that he saw me, too. I jammed it shut again swiftly, plunged once more into the infinite darkness.
I’m not sure how long the journey lasted, for how long I was shunted down corridors, with the thick smell of rot and abandonment hanging in the air. The flooring creaked and squealed even more, the guards’ murmurings growing more disgruntled; One of them noted that he was eager to get the hell out of there and leave me to the “nutcase.” That was far from reassuring. It was becoming noticeably harder to breathe, be that because of the environment or simply my state of mind. It did feel like it lasted an eternity, but rest did come. I was finally brought still. One of the guards mentioned something about how I was here and ready.
And then, it came.
”Excellent. You three may leave, you two stay a while longer.”
A voice. The voice.
Doctor [REDACTED].
And then…
”You can open your eyes now.”
The voice was soothing yet also harsh, carrying with it the impression that my best course of action would be to do as was told of me. And so, I opened them, to find that I was in the centre of a large, circular and undeniably grimy room, some sort of old surgery theatre, from the looks of it. And of course, there stood [REDACTED], his pristine suit clashing with the filth of the world around the both of us. Even at this point, I was not entirely sure that I wasn’t suffering from some bizarre fever dream. Surely, that was the most logical explanation.
The Doctor smiled as he saw me, a little, polite smile that managed to demonstrate row upon row of pointed teeth. He reintroduced himself to me, told me that there was nothing to worry about. As I cast my gaze around the decrepit room, I caught sight of a body, a twisted, malnourished thing, more bone than flesh, that lay restrained to the chair, not unlike that which one would find in a dentist’s. I was sure that they were dead. However, I was to be proven entirely incorrect as, with a guttural groan that echoed throughout, they turned their head to look at me with indescribably hollow eyes. It was like staring into a ghoul.
The Doctor must have seen my breathing speed up, for he sought to assure me. “Don’t fear.” He said. “This one is a failure. You won’t be subject to the same procedures. There’s absolutely no point in trying the same thing twice. That, is madness, pure and simple.
I didn’t understand any of this. Even as I write, I still don’t. He could surely tell this from the look in my eyes, for he stated that it was not my place to know the details, that it was thoroughly pointless to worry about such things. He did say, however, that we would be seeing plenty of one another in the coming weeks. Still left in complete bewilderment, I offered no resistance as I was lifted out of the bed and taken out of the room, down through the twisting hallways that filled with decay and the signs of violent plant life cracking through in the dank atmosphere.
I was taken to a series of small cells. I say small, but they were certainly bigger than I where I had been living for the last decade. There were no windows, however, the only light came from a flickering overhead bulb that buzzed and hummed. I had cold walls, a cold floor and a cold bed frame. And this was the room where I have spent the last God knows how long, with only that light to keep me company. I haven’t seen the Doctor since. I received food through a slot in the door twice a day, but that was it. After the first few days, I stopped bothering to keep track of the time. I never did see the Doctor again.
But this morning was different. This morning, I woke up, and found this very journal resting on my desk. The journal I had thought I would never see again. And with that, was a simple note that I have attached below:
Continue your treatment.
That was all it said. And so, here I sit, completely unknowing of what may come next, recounting my experiences. I don’t know what’s going on anymore, what has happened to me. All I know for sure is that this is most definitely no mere nightmare.
???
A day has passed since last I wrote in here. Not even twenty-four hours, closer to six or seven. I have nothing else to do with my time, nothing but write in here. I’ve had plenty of time to think about all of this. I can’t help but feel there is some connection to be had between the recent strange goings-on at the facility and my current situation.
From what I can tell, I reside in what had once been the Death Row Wing. Just behind my bed, scrawled on the wall are the testimonies of the damned. People who are long since gone, whose troubles are over. I share no such luck. The confusion has thoroughly given way to fear. I’m scared. Scared in a way I haven’t been since I was a free man.
Three Days In
I have decided to start noting the date in regards to how many days have passed since I obtained the journal again, in some attempt to reattain my grip on time. Only time will tell if it actually has any effect.
Today, I found a rodent just behind the broken, chipped toilet, a little mouse. He doesn’t look to be in the best of shape, but he’s still alive. I’ve decided to call him Roger. Maybe having a little companion will help make things a little smoother. Even as I write this, he sits atop the desk staring at me, his black little button eyes so warming, so utterly distinct from the rest of the surrounding environment. I gave him a bit of my already paltry meal of lukewarm soup and bread. I hope he appreciated it. I think he has.
Four Days In
For a while, I lost Roger today. It sent me into quite the panic, until I managed to locate him back behind the toilet again. The incident has made me realise just how far I’ve fallen, nearly reduced to tears by the thought of losing a ratty little animal. But right now, he is all I have.
Five Days In
Today was a surprise, and I have quite a bit to say about it. Today was the first day since that night on the 21st that I met the Doctor again.
It was just after waking up, I was stroking Roger by my desk when the door swung open. Cautious, I slipped my friend up my sleeve as I turned to look at the entrant. And there he was. Imposing as ever, his immaculate dress sense and sharp looks creating such a contrast to my own hasself appearance wrought on by a good few weeks of not shaving coupled with the stress. As he stood in the doorway, we stared at one another. And then, he entered, taking one of the seats unprompted.
”Hello.” Was the first thing he said to me, as if he was preparing to discuss the weather. “I hope that all is well for you.”
I didn’t answer; I don’t think I even had the energy if I had wanted to.
Unperturbed, he continued. “You seem to be settling in. That is good to see. I apologise for taking so long to see you here, but I had other matters at hand. I do have a day job, you know.”
I only haphazardly paid attention, putting most of my focus on the guards who stood just beyond the door, as I felt Roger squirm up my arm.
And on he continued. “I’m sure this is all quite startling to you, that doesn’t need to be said. But you are alive and you are well and that is the important thing.” Resting one hand on his lap, he used the other to straighten out his tie. “I’m sure you’re bursting with questions. Many of which I cannot answer; Some of which, I can. So please, if you have any, ask away.”
We stared at each other as the silence hung over us. I made sure to make my glare as full of spite as possible, which was difficult considering how completely exhausted I was.
”Very well.” He finally sighed. “They do say the Irish have nerves of steel, I suppose. I came here because I wanted to check up on how you are doing.” He rose to his feet as the guards entered. “Do come with us.”
I had no choice but to obey, really. Standing up, I pretended to trip to the bed, using the opportunity to sneak Roger under the thin bedsheets before allowing myself to be taken to another room, this one no less dingy than the last, clearly an old infirmary. I was tested for all kinds of things that I don’t really understand, asked plenty of questions too. [REDACTED] must have been satisfied, because he allowed me to be taken back without any issues.
”I wish you the very best.” He told me as I was taken back to my cell. “I shall be seeing you again soon enough.”
As soon as I was returned to the privacy of my own cell, I searched for Roger. Sure enough, to my relief, he was where I left him. This, I couldn’t be more grateful for. From there, I went straight to documenting all that happened. I’m sure he’ll be happy whenever he reads this.
Fifteen Days In
It has only recently struck me that if he has been keeping tabs on my journal, the Doctor probably already knows about Roger, in which case hiding him is mostly pointless. Still, I suppose the fact that he is still alive probably means that [REDACTED] is happy enough to have him around. Or whoever [REDACTED] is working under, at least. Surely, this can’t just be one lunatic. To section off an entire segment of the facility, have guards under his command… No, there is probably more to this than just him. But really, I don’t care right now. It’s not as if the truth can help me in any way.
Eighteen Days In
Today, the meal was slightly different. I had two slices of bread. That probably sounds like absolutely nothing of relevance, but ever since I arrived here, I’ve received one slice per meal. At least that’s something. I can go to bed a little less hungry tonight.
Twenty Days In
Today was the day I saw him yet again. The Doctor returned. As he entered, I was watching Roger waddle across the table. I didn’t even bother to hide him, it was clear that he was caught. And yet, the Doctor seemed not to care, as he took a seat, just as he had before, and talked to me yet again. And once again, he asked me if I had any questions. That was greeted with more silence. I have nothing to ask him. The truth won’t do me any good, and I doubt he would give it to me anyway.
”Well, that is a shame.” He sighed, disappointed. “Do you remember when we discussed your future, Mister [REDACTED]? When you talked about how you just wanted to be able to get on with your life, with no real grand ambitions? That must have seemed a far stretch to you, did it not?”
And it was even further now. But I kept my mouth shut.
”Perhaps one day, it may be closer than you think.” He pressed on. “Everybody deserves a chance at a strong life, do they not? Even those who have taken that of others. Perhaps one day, you may find yourself mingling with society once again.”
I really don’t understand what he was doing, if he was trying to fill me with false hope or what. Either way, I was taken to another examination and that was that. I wonder if this is going to become a routine. And just what is the Doctor getting out of it, when I don’t say a word the whole time?
Twenty-Four Days In
I’ve thought a bit about what the Doctor said today. I didn’t intend to, but that was how it ended up. My future. He must surely have been taunting me. I can’t see any way in which I come out of this the other end. I’m on a predetermined path right now and the scary part is that I can’t see a damn thing ahead of me. If there was really ever a chance of strolling through a park again, of having the fresh air on my face… It all came to a halt when I took the step of the edge and ended lives. And now, there is certainly no chance. None at all.
Twenty-Nine Days In
I don’t even know if I can stomach to write anymore. When I awoke this morning, I found that Roger had utterly vanished. No longer resting on the pillow of my bed, nor anywhere else in the room. I spent hours searching, bloodied my nails scratching at the walls in some desperate attempt to find him. Nothing. He’s gone. He wouldn’t have just wandered off, not after how close we’ve been. No, the Doctor or someone allied with him must have done something. That’s the only option I can see.
That bastard. Now what am I to do?
Thirty-Five Days In
Another visit. I don’t even know where to go. Somewhere deep within me, I feel like losing Roger was the last straw. I’ve gone from feeling nothing at all to swelling up with rage. And as the Doctor entered my cell once again, I felt the rage reach blistering heights. I wanted nothing more than to tear his throat out. But something held me back. Fear, maybe. And so, they continued as usual, with me remaining in total silence. But I couldn’t hold back anymore. And as he went to stand, I asked him a question for the first time.
”Why me?” There was so much I could have added. But I didn’t. I only watched as the smile spread across his face as he sat back down. This was exactly what he had wanted.
”Why you?” He repeated calmly. “Mister [REDACTED], I am sure you are referring to the reason why you are here? It’s simple, really. You have something in common with many of the others we have seen in here. And that is that you have nothing. No family left, not after what you did to your mother. Your girlfriend, Chantal, wants nothing to do with you. You’re serving a life sentence. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, will notice your disappearance. Not for a long time.”
The anger only got hotter. “The state… Surely…” The grin on his face grew more amused. “The state, you say. While I may be at no liberty to make such statements currently, I must ask, who exactly do you think has authorised all of this? Do you believe I’m doing this for my own pleasure?” He shook his head knowingly as he chuckled, the kind of chuckle one would expect from a kindly psychologist. “Now come. Let us have your examination.”
So that was it. I was a nobody. Picked for whatever this demented nonsense was because there wasn’t a person alive who would care much either way. Even now, hours later, I still don’t know how to feel about that.
But the rage continues to burn.
Thirty-Nine Days In
I don’t know anymore. I can’t feel anything but the anger. I want this prick dead.
Forty-Nine Days In
What must have been a week ago, I made a realisation, a way that I can perhaps get around this.
I have come to a conclusion. I do not want to live like this anymore. Not for even a second more. Each moment I spend alive in this fresh Hell reminds me of why I don’t even desire to think for any longer. If I could curl up and die, I would. But I won’t. This is what he wants, I’m sure. And so, I’ve devised my idea. I finalised it last week, but am only writing it down now, on the eve of the plan, so that the Doctor doesn’t have the chance to check my journal prior to it.
What I have realised is that his meetings with me do follow a set schedule. Every fifteen days. It has been nearly fifteen since the last session and tomorrow, I am sure that he will make himself present again. I know exactly what I need to do. I have taken a shard chipped off my soup bowl this evening and have concealed it in my sleeve. Tomorrow, when we meet, I’ll slit the bastard’s throat open and make a dash for the door. The guards will shoot me down, I’m sure of it. But I’ll have killed him in the process. And I’ll go out on my own terms.
This will likely be my final journal entry. I think of everything that has happened. The robbery. How my mother learned of it. How, in a fit of rage and fear, I killed her. My life in prison. My life before it. All of it. I never thought that I would long for a time when I was back in the regular facility, but now I truly realise how those were the good old days when compared to now. I feel that this fate is one that so many other inmates here have felt. I don’t know why. I doubt I ever will. And I don’t care. Maybe there’s a life beyond this. Even Hell will be preferable. And I’ll know to hold the door open for [REDACTED] when I get down there.
If whoever Doctor [REDACTED] is working for is reading this, then fuck him. And fuck you too.
June Fifth, 1980
It has been an interesting chain of events, the previous few months. Subject [REDACTED] showed far more tenacity than I believed. This project has been dedicated towards exploring the lengths that the more deplorable human beings, the very worst of society, will go before they break. For [REDACTED], we attempted a new method. Complete and total isolation. We didn’t do a thing to him, we just left him to himself. And he did not break. He came very close to it, from reading his journal entries, but he fought to the end. He put me in the hospital for a few weeks, and he died standing his ground. This is something I’ve never seen before, none of the researchers have. It is, quite frankly, astonishing. This will definitely be one to catalogue for later investigation.
I am healing well and shall be able to return to work in the next few days. Of course, for as long as the programme remains. The writing is on the wall for most of us. It may well be that Mister [REDACTED] is to be our final subject. Twenty years of work. The human spirit is a truly amazing thing.