ENTRY 1: ORIENTATION DAY

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

They took my shit, ran me like a dog, interrogated me, and now… they want me to type my feelings into a fucking laptop.

Seriously, they just shoved this laptop in front of me and told me to start typing my thoughts and feelings like it’s some kind of therapy journal. The dumbass doctors said we gotta do it the whole time we're here. I feel bad for whoever's reading this because after today, I feel like I might be fucked in the head.

My name’s Jake McCoy. I’m thirty-six, broke as shit, and foolish enough to volunteer for an experimental drug called ‘Formula 35C’ because I read an ad on Craigslist that said they’re paying three hundred bucks a day. Thirty days. Nine grand. That’s the kind of money that makes a dumbass gambling addict like me swallow his pride, bend over, and say thank you.

I’m sitting here in this big common room that reeks of Lysol and feet. The bright-ass overhead lights are drilling straight into my skull and I can’t get comfortable on this flimsy plastic chair that’s digging into my back no matter how I shift. The whole place feels like a low budget prison and I’m craving a cigarette like a motherfucker.

I’m here for the money. Nine grand could fix a lot of shit. But the truth is... I might blow it all down at Foxwoods Casino like the pathetic degenerate I am. What I really NEED to do... is pay off all my back rent and the five grand I owe those asshole Marzoni brothers before they decide to smash my face up, or worse.

You know what? This is all fucking Vic’s fault, my buddy from Gamblers Anonymous. That bastard is the one who told me about this drug trial and it looks like he didn’t make the cut. I don’t see his scrawny ass anywhere. Typical Vic.

There are three doctors running this show: Waters, Roberts, and Nelson.

Waters is bald, and a serious fucking prick. He treats us like we're a bunch of dumb kids who have to be bossed around. Roberts is the weird one, kind of lanky, awkward and barely says a word. He just stands there watching us like some kind of mute robot. I did notice his eyes linger a little too long on the girls though, the creepy bastard. Nelson’s the older one with gray hair, who so far, hasn't told us jack shit about the drug we're going to be taking and is clearly the one in charge here.

I don’t know which one of these doctors is going to be reading my journal, but somebody definitely will. So let me just say it now... I’m already an unhappy customer.

There’s fifteen of us in total. Eleven guys and four women. The ratio already feels like a bad accident waiting to happen.

Across from me sits this big, and I mean big, sweaty bastard with oily hair hanging in strings over his creepy face. He smells like shit and keeps staring at me like he’s sizing me up for dinner. I swear the fucker is thinking, “You’re first.” He’s got serial killer vibes all over him.

Next to me is this teddy bear looking guy with shaking hands and bugged-out eyes who just slammed his laptop shut and muttered, “What the hell are we supposed to write in these things?” Before I could answer, he added, “Just give us the fucking pills already.”

That made me laugh a little. He’s not wrong. The waiting is already killing me more than this damn toothache that’s been throbbing in my jaw since yesterday.

Over by the far wall, this grunge-looking dude with stringy Kurt Cobain hair keeps glancing at me. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, fidgeting with his fingers like he’s dying for a smoke, and his leg won’t stop bouncing under the table. Shit… I might be doing the same thing for the same reason. No wonder he’s gawking at me, we're practically twins.

Right next to him is this big-ass dude with a military crew cut and a mustache. He looks like the security guy who kicked me out of Foxwoods last month after I went broke and kept bumming smokes. Arms crossed, dead eyes, hasn’t moved or said a word. Something about him stresses me the fuck out. I’m glad we have separate rooms, because I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with that motherfucker standing over my bed.​

A little down the table there’s a skinny redheaded kid who looks barely old enough to buy beer who’s hunched over the table, hands shaking so bad he can barely type. He looks like he’s about to puke right there on the floor.

Then there’s this blonde girl, maybe twenty-five, good-looking in a stuck-up kind of way. She’s been bitching nonstop since we sat down. And man, it’s bad.

She just slammed her hand on the arm of her plastic chair and snapped loud enough for the whole room to hear, “These cheap chairs are uncomfortable! And why the hell is it so cold here? My feet are freezing! Hello? It’s winter outside, like… turn up the heat! How are we supposed to sit here for thirty days? This is bullshit. Somebody better tell them we’re not animals."

Well, at least we have one person in the group who says what we're all thinking.

Sounds like she’s got a few fans and a few haters already. I hear a couple of people chuckle about it. The Cobain guy gets this wide shit-eating grin like he’s been waiting for some drama, and the crew-cut guy just shakes his head in disgust.

The twitchy guy next to me leans over and yells, “Jesus Christ, lady, shut the fuck up. We’re all sitting in the same shitty chairs. Quit your bitching before I lose my shit.”

The blonde just glares at him and sits back down.

I can’t believe I’m here doing this.

They haven’t told us shit about the drug. “It’s for the brain,” they said. Really helpful, assholes. No side effects. No warnings. Nothing. Now I’m sitting here with this knot in my gut that won’t go away, knowing tomorrow they’re gonna pump mystery shit 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 plus side, not all of us are getting the real drug. Some are getting placebo. I don’t even care which one I get. I just need to last the full thirty days and walk out with every dollar.

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, keys... everything. Hell, they practically took my life when they stuck me on that treadmill and cranked it until I thought my heart was gonna explode. I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen. I’m pretty sure I coughed up every drag I ever took in those five minutes. My legs were shaking, my lungs were burning, and all I could think was how bad I need this money… and how fucking out of shape I am.

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 that I haven’t combed in days, tired-ass eyes with heavy bags underneath, and a scruffy face that makes me look thirty-six going on fifty. I look exactly like I do after a 3 day bender at the casino.

To be honest, this place isn’t what I expected it be. I figured if we’re locked up here for a month they’d at least have a gym or a rec room. Nope. Just one big communal area and a hallway with a bunch of tiny sleeping rooms lined up like fucking prison cells.

The bathroom situation sucks too. Two toilets, two showers, five-minute timer on the water. You can try cheating it by waiting for it to come back on, but then you’re just standing there cold and pissed off. Or sprint naked to the other shower. Yeah, no thanks.

At least the food is decent. After all the morning bullshit they gave us real meals, grilled chicken, veggies, rice, 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 sleeping rooms are basic. Cot, tiny table, lamp. But I’ll take it. My old place has no electricity right now, an eviction notice on the door, and walls so thin I can hear the crackhead couple upstairs screaming at each other all night. When they go quiet I get nervous because that usually means they’re doing something even worse. At least here the heat works and nobody’s trying to stab me in my sleep… yet.
​
The weirdest part is we’re not allowed to communicate with the outside world while we’re here. There are no phones, internet or even a way to mail out a letter. One of the guys here who’s been through trials like this before had a hissy fit about it earlier and said it’s not standard for trials like this. The doctor basically told him tough shit, and 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 and 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 that’s flaring like a bastard.

Catch you later.

Unless tomorrow’s dose turns me into something that can’t type anymore.

—Jake

NEXT ENTRY

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