ENTRY 2: INSOMNIA

I can’t fucking sleep.

It's almost midnight and I'm practically clawing at the walls for a cigarette. Everyone else passed out, sent to bed at 9 pm like we're in kindergarten. I've been wide awake ever since.

The whole no-smoking thing is killing me. Smokers without smokes are like low-grade crackheads without crack. Jumpy and slightly murderous.

It's been almost 7 hours since I last ate. Dinner at 5 pm, seriously? We had pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans. The college chick Stephanie and some metal head guy named Kyle got veggie burgers. I felt kind of bad for them, not for what they were fed, but for the fact that they’re vegetarians. How can you look at a perfectly cooked steak and say, nah, I’ll eat this boring fucking mushy thing instead? What the fuck do I know though? Look at me, I was eating uncooked ramen noodles and cheap donuts for a month.

After today, I gotta say, this place feels like a damn prison.

We have almost no freedom. We’re confined to the common room, our little dorms and the bathroom. The common room has three exits: one to the dorms, one that opens into the rest of this huge building where Dr. Nelson’s office is, and one that leads straight to the testing room for our daily dose of who-knows-what.

It reminds me of that shitty group home they stuck me in when I was fourteen. It’s got the same cold hallways, same locked doors, same feeling that somebody else is completely in control of my life and I’m just fucking stuck dealing with it. Aka, prison. Oh, and did I mention my dad is in prison right now? Runs in the family, I guess.

I went and saw Dr. Nelson earlier. Two security guards escorted me out of the common room, because like I said, I’m a prisoner here. The door is made of heavy metal with a keypad and thumbprint scanner, straight out of a heist movie. They walked me down a long hallway and parked me in a tiny office in front of a cluttered desk.

I sat there in my stupid white scrubs, twiddling my thumbs. Oh, didn’t I mention that part? They made us strip out of our regular clothes the second we got here. 

Anyway, I was sitting there when finally, Dr. Nelson appeared. White hair, goatee, lab coat, the whole deal. He sat down and sighed like he was already annoyed talking to me and hadn’t even said hello yet.

Then he smiled at me. I smiled right back.

We just sat there having this awkward fucking smile-off like two idiots who didn’t know what else to do.

"So, how are you doing so far, Jake?" he finally asks me.

I’m a’ight,” I said, like a dumbass who was clearly not a’ight.

Dr. Nelson dropped my folder on the desk like it was trash. “Subject 15.” I guess I was the last one they picked. Lucky me.

The old man started asking how I was adjusting to this wonderful fucking experiment and if the other doctors were treating me okay. I bit my tongue about that bald dickface Waters and just nodded.

Then I asked if he had anything for my toothache.

He reached into his drawer, pulled out a handful of pills and slid them over. “I really shouldn’t be doing this. Here’s some ibuprofen. That’ll hold you over for a few days.”

I looked at the little white pills, then back at him. “Seriously? That’s it? I feel like someone’s banging into my jaw with a fucking jackhammer and you’re giving me the same shit my mother takes for her arthritis?”

The old bastard just shrugged, completely unfazed.

But then my nicotine-deprived brain had other priorities. "Wouldn't it be fantastic if I could also have a smoke right now?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

“No smoking during the trials, Mr. McCoy,” he said, like he was happy to ruin my fucking day.

"Why wasn't that mentioned in the ad?" I shot back. Maybe a little too aggressively because he looked startled.

His old lips let out a long sigh. Not a good sign.

"Jake, the compound we're testing is complex. We can't risk anything interfering with the results."

"But you just gave me ibuprofen. Won't that mess with the results?" I thought I had him cornered.

"They'll clear your system in a few hours. No issue for the trial," he said, sounding a bit bored.

Well, I tried. Round one to the doc.

“Alright, Doc,” I said, “what the hell is Formula 35C supposed to do? Cure baldness, make us geniuses, or just turn us into fucking zombies?”

The doctor's face lit up and he gave this weak little chuckle. “Great question. We’re working on a treatment for Alzheimer’s. You know… when older folks start losing their memories?”

“Yeah, memory wipe-out,” I muttered. “And of course this 35C shit only works on people who don’t smoke, right?”

Dr. Nelson's wrinkled face suddenly tightened up. “It targets the memory centers of the brain and leads to a total loss of self.”

I wondered if he had a personal connection. "You've seen it up close, huh?" I guessed.

He cleaned his glasses. "You're sharp. Yes, my father, when I was a boy. It's why I'm in this line of work."

"So, this drug we're taking will make us remember a bunch of shit?" Why do I make myself sound do dumb in front of smart people?

"That's the goal," Nelson said, but I caught a flicker of anxiety in his eyes. Uh-oh. Does he even know what this stuff does?

"Don't worry, I'm overseeing everything. Been doing this for ages," he reassured me. Then he stood up.

I stood up with him, thinking we might shake hands or something, but he was already flipping to the next folder.

The security duo returned with one of the other subjects, Michael, the cheerful Hispanic guy with the accent, and I was hustled out. Before leaving, I squeezed in one last question. "Are we going to have these daily chats?"

"Not likely. But I'll read your laptop entries, so be honest and thorough," he said.

"Yes, Doctor," I replied. He’s nice. I actually don’t feel bad calling him Doctor.

Walking down the long hallway, I felt creeped out. The closed doors along the way back seemed strange to me and I wondered what they could possibly lead to. Then I realized, no one actually knows where the fuck I am. Except maybe Vic, but he only knows I’m in the trial, not where the trial is. When we got picked up they put us into these windowless vans and drove for a long time, so we’re definitely not in Boston anymore. Jesus Christ, if anything happens to me, who the fuck is going know?

Dr. Nelson, I hope you get that I'm being honest. You said to tell everything, right? I hope this is confidential because who knows what I will write while I'm stuck in Nexus Mind Research Prison.

Time to try and sleep. Tomorrow, they pump the first dose of Formula 35C into us.

After everything Dr. Nelson said about restoring memories and maybe curing Alzheimer's, I'm starting to wonder if this drug is going to bring anything back that I don’t want to remember. Or if it's going to take something away that I won't even notice is gone until it's too late.

I hate my fucking life.

Next time I write will be after I’ve taken the first dose.

Good God… why did I do this?

-Jake

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