Fiction Fragment Friday
This week is a story told in the form of journal entries. You should know by now I like having fun with different methods of telling a story. How much world building and foreshadowing can I add into a journal entry? Challenges like that are fun for me.
The topic of the story was inspired by a writing prompt, but so loosely it would barely be recognizable.
Journal Entry Number One
I feel the need to label the entries in this new journal, but I don’t know the date to include in the label. I feel like once I start a trend though I need to stick with it, so instead of dates I’m just going to number these. As long as there is some kind of label, they can stay organized. Organization is important. I don’t know why, but I feel deeply that it is.
My doctor says that keeping this journal will help me get my memories back. I hope he is right because I feel so lost right now. It doesn’t help that my room is sterile and lacks all color. The nurses that bring me my meals and medications won’t talk to me about anything. They barely acknowledge me at all, giving only yes and no answers. My doctor is the only one since I woke up without any memories to treat me like a person.
I’m so sick of this place. If they didn’t keep my door locked, I would leave. I just don’t know where I would go.
Journal Entry Number Two
Maybe this journal is working. I remembered a lot today. My name is Evan Brooks, and I grew up in Murphysboro, Illinois. I know I don’t live there anymore, but college and life after is still out of my reach. Doctor Chambers seemed to be so excited by my breakthrough. He must really care about me. These nurses could certainly learn from his bedside manner. As much as I hate not having any privacy, I hope someone is watching the video feed from the camera in the corner and it leads to disciplinary action against these nurses.
Journal Entry Number Three
Ok I’m done. If one more nurse comes in and sticks me with a needle or demands, I swallow a giant pill, I’m going to scream. I’m a Ph.D. and I deserve some answers. Nothing else is going into or coming out of my body until I get them. No more treating me like a child, incapable of making informed decisions. As my memories come back, I’ll know more about how to treat myself than they could ever hope to. As it is, things are not adding up.
Journal Entry Number Four
They were drugging me to keep me docile. I recognized the pills finally. Since I’ve been palming and flushing them down the toilet, I’ve been a lot more aware of my surroundings. The nurses are studying me, not treating me. I don’t know what tests I’m being put through, but that’s why they won’t talk to me. I’m not a patient; I’m a test subject. A specimen to poke and prod instead of another human being.
I’ve realized that my doctor must be part of this. He might very well be in charge of this whatever it is. I’ve trusted him and shared way too much. That’s why today I’ve started lying to him about what I remember. A plan is starting to form, but I need a bit more time to work out the details.
Journal Entry Number Five
I’m out. When the nurse came to give me my shot, I hid behind the door, slipped out, and locked her in. The building was not a hospital like I thought. They were keeping me in a very high-tech medical laboratory. I must have caught them off guard because I managed to get out into the city before they could stop me.
I’m not proud of this, but I stole some clothes from a Goodwill donation dumpster. If anyone is in need, it certainly is me. What I really need is somewhere to go. I remembered where I live, but I’m afraid they will be watching it when they realize I’ve escaped. I could go to the police, but I don’t know what to tell them yet. What was the experiment? Did I agree to be part of it?
Also, why did I bring this journal with me? I tell myself it was because I didn’t want them to know what I wrote in it, but that doesn’t feel right.
Journal Entry Number Six
There is someone living in my house that looks like me. I watched him leave in a hurry this morning, kissing my wife goodbye on his way out. My kids left for school soon after. Everyone is exactly like I remember them except myself. In a gas station bathroom, I finally saw my first mirror since waking up. Finally saw my face, and it was much younger than I remember. I look like I’m in my twenties instead of my forties. Who am I?
Journal Entry Number Seven
I think I might be a clone.
Journal Entry Number Eight
This morning, I snuck into my garage and hid in the back seat of my car. My doppelgänger got in and started the drive to work. Of course, work was the laboratory I had been a prisoner in. That isn’t where we went, though. I popped up and held a knife to his throat, demanding answers. At my direction, we pulled into a parking lot and got out.
He was scared and I was waving a knife, so it didn’t take long for him to start telling me everything. I am a clone of him, but only aged to his prime. His brain had been mapped and imprinted on my own. The only memories actually mine were those after waking up in the lab.
I was so angry and confused about who I really was. Before I knew it, I was lashing out and punching my older self. I guess he was more my DNA donor than an older self. My body in its prime vs a middle-aged man with arthritic knees was not a fair fight. I punched him in the stomach repeatedly until his blood coated the ground beneath him.
So much blood. It was not my fist that I had hit him with after all. There, gripped in my hand, was the knife now covered in blood. My first instinct was to try to stop the bleeding, but there were too many cuts. The gasping breaths stopped coming. He was dead. I killed him. Is that who I am? A murderer? I took his wallet. So, am I a thief as well?
Journal Entry Number Nine
My wife deserves answers, even if she won’t ever believe them. This will be my last journal entry because I’m going to leave this journal with the body. I started writing to jog my memories. Now that I have them, I realize they are not even my own. Please, whoever reads this, make sure she gets a copy. Tell her I’m so sorry.
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