Document 1092-RU-1
rating: +16+x

Excerpts from a journal kept by test subject D-[REDACTED]

A cardboard cover on the damp concrete floor. A grey, dingy cell with a hard metal door. My fingers are black with the mold from the walls. No name, only numbers on my overalls. If I wake up tomorrow, I've lived for four weeks, which is longer than any of the resident freaks. When I'm out in the hallway, I see others sometimes, though all their numbers are smaller than mine.

This "containment facility" ain't really a jail, but there's plenty of stuff here to make your face pale; and sometimes in the night I hear bone-chilling screams… But they gave me a bed and they offered me meals.

Weeks ago this strange dude made me read a few words—ever since it's been harder to focus my thoughts. Every evening he brings me a page in his case and he tells me to write. "Write about this place," he will say, "How you feel. Anything is okay." Things are never that simple, whatever they say. Knew a guy here assigned to scrub floors in a cell that would always give off this unsavory smell. There was him and two others, someone winked as a joke… They say something "one-ten" is my buddy's new job…

There are lots of white coats but they're not here to heal, and the look in their eyes can get colder than steel. Though, a nurse came this morning—nice woman, I guess—asked about my dreams, if I felt any stress. Saw her writing stuff down—something starting with "d", then "approved" in her clipboard. What the hell could that be? Am I finally sick? Will they get me some meds?

I'm a throwaway thing, no one cares how this ends.

I've lived for so long, it's ridiculous, really, but I just can't get rid of this terrible feeling… As if I'm a pig, fast asleep in its stable, while the folks at the house are setting the table.

I'm day after day here, it's all been a blur—there's stench in the labs, toxic pools on the floor. My memory's hazy, there's fog in my brains. I see mold on the walls, on my skin, in my veins… I hear soundless singing in the depths of my skull. It's so cold, it's so dark, and the colors are dull. When I'm done with this page, I'll jump in my bed, wrap myself in a blanket that stinks of old sweat, close my eyes, try to sleep, try ignoring the screams… And tomorrow I'll try to remember my dreams.

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