My name is Eddie Blakenship, and I think I’m losing my mind. I woke up only a few hours ago, and already I’ve started writing in this journal. Although this is my apartment, this is not my home. The walls are keeping me in, and I can’t leave. Jesus Christ, I tried for over an hour. I found this journal beside the bed I woke up in; I guess it’s my bed. I decided to log my thoughts in it. I don’t know what’s happening to me, or even how any of this is possible, but I figured at least there’d be some document of it. So this is it: I partied hard last night, harder than usual. Must’ve drank a fifth within an hour. I wandered back into my apartment somehow. I don’t have any recollection of what happened after a certain point, it’s just a blank now. When I woke up, I was here. All of it looks like my apartment, but it’s not. I went into my living room, and there was my roommate. It’s not him, though. It can’t be him. Looks like him, sounds like him. But it can’t be him. He didn’t seem to know anything about the situation we’re in now. I got angry, I screamed, but he didn’t react to any of it. He didn’t seem to give a s**t. That’s when I gave up trying and came back in my bedroom. I found this journal, and here I am, writing this to nobody in particular. I’m going to stop for now; I’m not fond of writing.
I went to sleep, hoping that all of this was a nightmare, but here I am, still locked in this façade. I tore through the house a second time; flipping tables, throwing chairs, you name it. The windows are unbreakable. I smashed one with a f*****g hammer, and it just sat there. The doorknob won’t twist. I kicked and screamed, but all that answered was deafening silence, mocking me. I ran full speed into that f*****g door. It didn’t even crack. My arm hurts like hell now. I’ll probably be sore for a long time. My roommate sat the entire time, never uttering a word. He won’t speak to me unless I ask him something. I noticed something else; he won’t look at me. I sat down directly between him and the TV, and his face was suddenly turned away. I couldn’t see his face, regardless of where I stood. I almost ripped him up from the chair, but I can’t lose myself. He can’t get us out. Whatever’s locked us in, it’s from the outside. Either way, I smashed the TV. He pulled out a book and started reading it like it was nothing. I gave up at that point. I’m f*****g exhausted and sore. I can’t believe I even slept last night, but I slept like a baby. Whoever’s keeping me here must be using some kind of sedative or gas. As high strung and panicky as I am now, there’s now way I could sleep. I’ve got to, though. I need all the strength I can muster for this.
It’s been a few days since my last entry. I’ve given up smashing s**t. Nothing works. Nothing gets me out. It all comes back when I wake up anyway. Now I know I’m losing my mind. I’ve smashed that damn TV twice, but there it is the next day, untouched. My roommate doesn’t move from his chair. He’s so f*****g polite, but I’m on to him. He knows something. I asked him today, “What the hell are you watching anyway?”
He just stares ahead, and says in a soft, quiet voice, “Oh, this old show. Always takes me back.” I looked at the T.V. and you know what I saw? F*****g static. This guy thinks he’s so f*****g clever. Whatever. I don’t have the strength to break his s**t anymore, or to even bother with him. At least the food always replenishes. It’s always the same: canned beef noodles and peanut butter with bread. Exactly what I had before I got trapped here. I’m starting to think this room is just a loop of the day before my night of partying. Goddamn, what I wouldn’t give for a shot of Jack now. Might take the edge off. I’m always on edge now, and it’s making me sick. Sick and exhausted. I know I’m losing weight. Stress will do that to you, you know? Of course, you do. Well, I’m getting tired now.
Today, I sat and watched T.V. with my clever f*****g roommate. He doesn’t talk to me unless I initiate conversation, but that’s fine with me. Since I’m trapped here, I guess a talkative guy would get old really quickly. I watched T.V. with him all day, and after a while, I could see something moving in the static. I was mesmerized, but after a few hours, my head started hurting. My nose bled too, but I used to get nosebleeds as a kid, so maybe it was just one of those things. Anyway, my head hurt so badly, I went to lay down. That was when my roommate started laughing. He hasn’t laughed since we’ve been trapped in here, so of course, I went to see what had happened. He just chuckles and slaps his knee. Doesn’t acknowledge me until I ask him what was so goddamn funny. “Oh, this old show. Always cracks me up.” F*****g deadbeat. I was watching the same show he was, and I can’t make heads or tails of it. It definitely wasn’t funny. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
I thought I heard a knock on the door today. I flew out of bed and ran to the door. I sat with my ear to the grain for over an hour, but there was nothing else; no other sounds outside of the room. I told my roommate to turn down the volume, and he did. He really can be quite considerate. I think I’m starting to appreciate his company more and more. I just wish he’d look at me. I asked him to look at me, and he just apologized. When I asked him what he was apologizing for, he said, “For not being a better friend.” Can you believe that? He’s locked in here with me, and never complains or bothers anyone. He’s a good roommate and a good friend. I told him so. He said I was his best friend. He wouldn’t look at me, but I could tell he was smiling. He has a nice smile when he shows it. I’m sure he’ll come around. He’s always been shy.
I made dinner tonight for the both of us. I don’t know how many days we’ve been trapped in here; probably a month now, but we may as well eat like civilized human beings. I can’t recall the last time I’ve cooked for another person, but I made my favorite tonight: beef noodles! I asked my roommate if he liked them, and guess what! He did! He ate them so fast; he must have really enjoyed them. I asked him afterward if he liked them, and he said they were the best beef noodles he’s ever had. If I ever get out of here, I might become a chef. He has faith in me, and I know I could do it. Afterwards, we sat and watched his favorite show. It was quite funny. Unfortunately, my nose started bleeding again, but it was right at the plot’s climax, and of course I couldn’t miss it. My shirt is definitely ruined, but it will be alright. Everything will be fine tomorrow. Everything will be alright.
Paul! That’s my roommate’s name! I’m still kicking myself for never asking before. We’re best friends, and I didn’t even know his name. I was so upset at myself, I punched the wall. It was an interesting feeling; it almost felt familiar. I hope my hand isn’t broken. Paul said I should soak it in ice. It felt a little better, but when I told him it still hurt, he said that it might be bleeding internally and that I should let some of the pressure out. He told me to heat a knife on the stove so that it would be sterilized, and then to make a little cut across the palm. It bled a lot, but after awhile, it stopped hurting. Paul is really smart. When he gets out of here, he should study to become a doctor. I’ll be the chef and he’ll be the doctor! We’ll be famous! Maybe we could start a show together, and help people with all their problems. I can’t believe we’re locked in here when we could be helping the world. I’ve always wanted to help people.
Today, I opened my journal from the beginning. I wanted to see all my thoughts, but every page was blank! All my thoughts are gone. Erased or torn out. I was so mad. Paul had to have done it, who else could it be? I didn’t talk to him almost all day, but finally, I cracked. I started crying and screaming. He wouldn’t answer me unless I asked him questions. That just made it worse. It’s so hard to express yourself when the other person just sits there like a stone wall. I was confused and upset; why would he do something like that? He said he didn’t do anything to my journal, but he has to be lying. He’s never lied to me before, but sometimes you just have to face facts. I’m not cooking for us until he decides to come clean. When he starves, maybe he’ll think twice about being dishonest.
I went ahead and rewrote all my old entries, but it was hard. Paul and I have forgiven each other; there’s just no use crying over spilled milk. I keep rereading the old entries, but they feel wrong. There’s too much me in them. No matter how many times I rewrite the sentences, I can still feel me in the letters, and I don’t like it. My journal was perfect before, but now its tainted. I can’t get me out of it. I would ask Paul, but his favorite show is on. It’s on right now actually. I should go watch it. I can always write some later.
Paul did something to my journal again. I flipped to the beginning, and the first entry was changed to something else. Now it says, “Kill him.” What does Paul think he’s doing? Is he telling himself to kill me? Why would he write an order to himself in my journal? It must be a joke. I’m afraid to ask him; he might get mad that I read his journal. The curious thing, though, is that it looks just like my handwriting. How did he do that? Paul is smart, much smarter than me. Maybe he’s trying to trick me. I’ll just sit back and watch him for now. I can’t believe he would do this to me.
Things are not going well between Paul and I. He’s hiding something from me. I know it, I feel it. It’s eating me up inside because I feel like I’ve known him my entire life. He’s my whole world. Today, though, I felt truly afraid. I was making myself some noodles, and when I looked at the microwave, I could see his reflection on the window. He was looking at me. It was his eyes. They were dark and empty, and they stared at me while my back was turned. I froze. He was looking at me like I was a freak, a monster. Finally, I turned to look at him, and he was looking at the T.V. Like nothing was different. But the way he looked at me, I could tell. Everything is different now.
More of my old entries have been changed. They all say the same thing: “Kill him.” I feel weird, sick. I don’t talk to Paul anymore. He just sits there, laughing every now and then. He thinks I’m stupid; that I think he’s just laughing at his dumb show, but I know he’s laughing at me. My head hurts almost constantly now, and I go to bed with a bloody nose almost every night. I can still see his empty eyes watching me every time I turn around. What is it that he sees when he looks at me? When will he make his move? I can’t take this stress much longer. Maybe…Maybe I should do something first? If I do, then he can’t hurt me. I guess I’ll sleep on it.
I’m getting scared. Not of Paul, but of myself. Every single entry in my diary has been changed now, but I put my journal under my pillow. Maybe Paul isn’t changing the entries. Maybe it is me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but today, something happened that made me realize that something might really be wrong with me. I put my noodles in the microwave, and then as I was waiting, I looked at the kitchen knives next to the sink. Suddenly, I felt good. Better than I’ve ever felt. Like soaking in a bath with rose petals and scented candles. The handle of the knife was calling to me, singing. The curves of the wood were so exotic and exciting. I didn’t want to look away, never. Then I smelt it: burning. I woke up, and the microwave was smoking. I had been standing there for who knows how long. I felt so embarrassed. I bet Paul was watching me the whole time. He can judge me all he wants, but I’ll show him. It’s just the room playing tricks on me. I’ll show him I’m not crazy. Not crazy, not one bit.
I found you. My little journal. It’s been a long time since I’ve written to you. Little notes for me to read later. It’s like talking to a friend. A friend that understands me. Let’s see, what’s new to tell you about me. Oh yes! Paul is dead. For so long, I felt his eyes on my shoulder, watching me. He was going to hurt me, but I got to him first. My nose started bleeding as I killed him with my star chef’s knife. It will be my secret weapon when I show the world my cooking talents. Tonight’s special! Beef noodles in tomato sauce! I don’t think a single person could resist. But my nose, it wouldn’t stop. I thought cutting Paul some more would help, and it did! His eyes don’t stare anymore, and now I feel better. The more he bled, the less I bled, so I spread him everywhere. The walls were such a subtle color before, but now, it’s like walking into a brilliant room of red satin! He had so much to give; I put it all over every wall. A little here, a little there. Finally, my nose stopped bleeding. The T.V. is off now too. It’s so quiet. So peaceful. Perhaps now I can get some rest. It’s nice to write again after so long. Now, Paul can’t change what I’ve written.
My name is Eddie Blakenship, and I think I’m losing my mind.
From: Jackson, M.E. MD
To: Broadwell, T.R. MD
Subject: Blakenship, Eddie
Patient Suffers from acute schizophrenia and intense psychological trauma from Incident 21-A from 26 Feb 2014. Following a series of interviews, patient displayed aggressive behavior and verbal threats of violence when deprived of paper and one (1) red crayon. It is believed that until further diagnosis is approved, patient should be placed under lockdown and surveillance with said items only. Three (3) meals should be administered daily; only cans of beef noodles will be accepted by the patient.
In regards to the sheets of paper and red crayon, it is theorized that the patient is “reliving” the incident through physical association. Each day, the patient carefully fills the page with red, until the entire sheet is covered. The sheet is then placed to the side, and never touched again. It is currently unknown if the patient forgets the filled sheet, or is merely waiting to use it for some unknown purpose. Further information will be supplied when made available.