What is going on?
I have never known terror as I do right now. Having just woken up, I have found myself in an unimaginably cryptic room. After attempting to call for help, I realized that I can’t open my mouth. I’m so scared; and worst of all, I don’t remember who I am and how I got here. I found this pen and paper next to some forms in the corner of the room. What’s going on? I can’t feel anything. Am I on some kind of drugs? Somebody’s coming! I’d better hide these notes until I know more. . .
I suppose you’re going to be my journal until I get out of here. Earlier a psychotic looking person visited. I think he was a man and a surgeon or something. He was covered in dry blood and had his entire face hidden by an extensive protective mask. After entering, he laid a tray by the bed, walked over to me, injected me with a needle and then get this: He removed a muzzle off of my face! No wonder I couldn’t yell out earlier. After removing the muzzle he put the tray in front of me; it was some kind of disgusting looking cold meat. I didn’t eat it; it had the gross stench of death. I wanted to ask him who he was and what I am doing here; but I couldn’t even utter any comprehensible words. For some reason I could only manage unintelligible noises. Because of my inability to speak, I became frustrated and lost control of myself. I threw my meat on the floor and tried to get past the doctor, but then I began to feel hazy and let myself fall to the floor. I still can’t feel anything that I touch, which is probably why I couldn’t tell I had a muzzle on my mouth. Having no sense of touch makes it really hard to write. But I have to keep at it, because this is my only window to sanity. I just want to know what’s going on! Maybe I should write my questions to the surgeon.
These past few hours have been long, dark, and frightening journal. Yet somehow, without the sense of feeling and without a mirror, I’ve still managed to get the muzzle off of my mouth. At least some good has come out of being alone. I’m still not able to speak though. I wonder what they did to me. I’ve been so incredibly hungry journal. I wish now that the surgeon would’ve left that meat on the floor. I don’t know how long I can handle this pain. I wrote a list of questions for the surgeon but changed my mind about showing them to him. If I give him my questions, he’s probably going to take the pen away from me. I think I’m in some kind of illicit secluded asylum where they’re trying to make me lose my mind. I won’t let them take the writing away from me. But having said that, how am I supposed to tell them that I’m hungry? It hurts.
I’M IN TROUBLE JOURNAL!
I just woke up in a pool of blood! As I opened my eyes I found the surgeon dead on the floor and a needle sticking out of my arm! There’s blood everywhere! Somebody help me please! I just want to know what’s going on. Oh no, more people are coming. . .
I give up Journal,
After my traumatizing event earlier, a few armed doctors or whatever they are, rushed in and forced the muzzle on me again. They grabbed my arms and dragged me to another chamber. While in the room, I heard one of those people talking beyond the door. He whispered to another, “Commander said that since she has killed, we’ll have to use her as food for the others.” As soon as I heard that, I ran for the first blunt object I could find to protect myself. I was prepared to fight my way out until I saw my reflection in the shiny metal. I still can’t believe that I didn’t notice sooner. No wonder I can’t remember anything. I’m . . . someone’s coming.
I have woken up again, but now I’m in a new room. This one actually has lights. Upon awakening, I found a document on the wall.
It reads “URGENT: Even though we have proven that the subjects cannot think on a human level, due to the recent losses, outbreaks, and failure of the antibiotics to last the allotted amount of time, operation “Necrogenous” has been shut down effective immediately. All cadavers are to be destroyed instantly. There shall be no trace of any research”.
It seems like I don’t have much time Journal. At least it’s almost over.
I am now with the others in some kind of closed off atrium that’s getting increasingly hot. I’m glad I hid my writing from the doctors. Otherwise they would know the truth; that we CAN think. I’m surrounded by uproarious bouts of wailing from the poor souls. Some of their injections are wearing off and they’re starting to attack one another. I’m just going to lie here and be at peace the way that I have found peace this whole time, by writing.
My fingers are starting to melt. It’s finally over. At least they won’t be able to bring me back this time.