ENTRY 1: ORIENTATION DAY

I knew I was desperate, but I didn’t think I was this fucking stupid.

They took my all my shit, interrogated me, made me sign hours of paperwork and then stuck me in this room with a bunch of strangers. Now they want me to type my feelings into this laptop like it’s some kind of therapy journal. The dumbass doctors said we have to do this the whole time we’re here.

So here I go… my first entry.

I feel bad for whoever ends up reading this. I’m what you might call damaged goods, and it’s going to be a long thirty days until I get paid. And if the Manzoni brothers find out where I am before that happens, I might not even make it that far.

My name’s Jake McCoy. I’m thirty-six, broke as shit, and stupid enough to sign up for an experimental drug called "Formula 35C" because some shady Craigslist ad said they’re paying three hundred bucks a day. Thirty days = $9,000. That’s the kind of money that makes a desperate asshole like me say yes to anything.

I’m here because I need that money. Bad. I owe the Manzoni brothers five grand, and they’re not the type to wait forever. If I don’t pay them soon, they’re going to do a lot worse than break my legs. Nine grand could fix that problem… assuming I don’t blow it all at Foxwoods like the fucking degenerate I am.

I’m sitting in this big common room that reeks of lysol and armpits. The lights are too bright, the chairs are uncomfortable as hell, and I’m craving a cigarette so bad my hands are shaking. The whole place feels like a low-budget prison.

This is all Vic’s fault. He’s the one who told me about this trial at Gamblers Anonymous. Said it was easy money. Looks like they didn’t pick his scrawny ass though, because I don’t see him anywhere.

Three doctors are running this show.

Waters is the bald prick who talks down to everyone like we’re children. I already can’t stand him.

Roberts is the tall, quiet one. He barely says a word, but I’ve seen the way he looks at the women. Creepy bastard.

Nelson’s the older guy in charge. So far he hasn’t told us shit about what this Formula 35C actually does.

I don’t know which one of you doctors is reading this, but I hope you’re not the sensitive type. You wanted honesty, so that’s what you’re getting.

There’s fifteen of us in total. Eleven guys, four women. The ratio already feels like a bad idea. I’m sitting here sizing everyone up and it’s already obvious this is gonna be a long thirty days.

Across from me sits this big, sweaty bastard with greasy hair hanging over his face. He smells like shit and keeps staring at me like he’s sizing me up for dinner. I don’t like the way he looks at people. I’m sure deep down he’s probably a real sweetheart, but where I come from you learn fast not to trust anyone until they earn it.

Next to me is some twitchy guy with bugged-out eyes who slammed his laptop shut and muttered, “What the hell are we supposed to write in these things? Just give us the fucking pills already.”

That made me laugh. He’s not wrong though. Sitting around waiting is already getting old, and this fucking toothache that’s been throbbing since yesterday isn’t helping. I need to find someone who can give me something for it.

Over by the far wall, this grunge-looking guy with stringy hair keeps glancing at me while bouncing his leg nonstop. He looks like he’s dying for a smoke too.

Right next to him is this big dude with a military crew cut and a mustache. He’s got that dead-eyed look, like he’s been through some shit. He hasn’t said a word since we sat down.

Note to self: Try to get on his good side in case this drug makes  people violent.

A little further down is a skinny redheaded kid who looks like he’s about to throw up. His hands are shaking so bad he can barely type.

Then there’s this blonde girl, maybe twenty-five, who’s been bitching nonstop since we got here. She just slammed her hand on the arm of her chair and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “These chairs suck! And why is it so cold in here? My feet are freezing! How are we supposed to sit here for thirty days? This is bullshit.”

A couple people are laughing about it. The twitchy guy next to me leaned over and snapped, “Jesus Christ, lady, shut the fuck up. We’re all sitting in the same shitty chairs.”

She glared at him but finally sat back down.

I can’t believe I’m here doing this.

They haven’t told us shit about the drug. Just “It’s for the brain.” No side effects listed. No warnings. Nothing. Now I’m sitting here with this knot in my gut, knowing tomorrow they’re going to pump something into me and I have no idea if I’ll wake up the same person… or if I’ll wake up at all.

On the bright side, not everyone is getting the real drug. Some people are getting a placebo. I don’t even care which one I get. I just need to last the full thirty days and walk out with the money.

The no-smoking rule is a real kick in the balls though. They took my cigarettes the second I walked in. Then my phone, wallet, and keys. Then they made me run on a treadmill until I thought my heart was going to explode. I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen. I’m pretty sure I coughed up every drag I ever took during those five minutes.

While I was in the interrogation room earlier, I caught my reflection in the one-way mirror. Jesus Christ, I look like shit. Black messy hair, tired eyes with heavy bags, and a scruffy face that makes me look thirty-six going on fifty. I look exactly like I do after a three-day bender at the casino.

I wasn't sure what to expect, but I'm a little disappointed with the set up here. I figured if we’re stuck here for a month they’d at least have a gym or something to do. Nope. Just one big communal area and a hallway full of tiny sleeping rooms lined up like fucking prison cells.

The bathrooms are a complete joke. Four women get their own while the rest of us, eleven guys… are crammed into one the same size. And the showers only give you five minutes before the water cuts off. Like we’re animals or something. What the fuck kind of setup is that?

The rooms aren’t anything special. Just a cot, a small table, and a lamp. I’m not complaining though. My apartment’s got no electricity right now and an eviction notice on the door. It’ll be nice not having to hear those junkies next door screaming at each other through the walls every night.

At least the food is decent. After all the morning bullshit they gave us real meals. Today we ate grilled chicken, veggies, rice and fish. Beats the uncooked ramen and stale donuts I’ve been living on. They even cover toiletries and all that shit, which is good because I forgot everything.

The part that really bothers me about this whole thing though is we’re not allowed to communicate with the outside world. No phones, no internet, not even a way to mail a letter. One of the guys here who’s done trials before had a meltdown about it earlier and said this isn’t normal. The doctor basically told him tough shit, this is what we signed up for.

Oh great… one of the white-coats is calling my name right now.

“Jake McCoy!”

I raised my hand. “Yeah, that’s me.”

It’s the bald one, Waters. Clipboard in hand, permanent “fuck you” scowl. He walks over like he’s doing me a favor.

“Five more minutes on the journal. Then you report to Dr. Nelson’s office for your final intake.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” I say with a grin.

He glares. “Doctor.”

“Yes, Doctor,” I say politely, while thinking, go fuck your own face.

I can already tell I’m going to hate this place. Day one and I’ve already got this arrogant prick on my ass.

I don’t know what Formula 35C is going to do to me. Nobody does. That’s the whole point.

So here I am, typing like a good little lab rat, wondering how long it’ll take before this whole thing blows up in my face.

To whoever’s reading this… I’m here of my own free will. Totally. (They made me write that.)

I gotta go see Dr. Nelson in a few minutes. Hopefully he can give me something for this toothache before it drives me crazy.

Catch you later.

Unless tomorrow’s dose fucks me up so bad I can’t even type anymore.
​
—Jake

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