Welcome back to Chained Soul, my new serialised novel that I’m releasing right here on my blog, as well as on Tapas and Wattpad. Quick warning: this series does contain strong language, so if that’s not your thing, you’re free to skip this one!
Check out Part One, including a synopsis for the whole series, here!
If you missed Part Twenty-One, you can read that here!
Day Twenty-Two
I managed to ignore ‘Helen’ for a good few hours today before I caved. Do you know how hard that is? Half of me thinks she’s just a figment of my imagination, which would be completely fine to ignore, but there’s still a part of me that thinks she’s a real human being behind that wall. A human being who is in the exact same shitty situation as I am. And I know how lonely it is.
I thought about her sitting there, knocking, waiting for me to respond. I wondered if she’d be worried that I was dead, so I paced around a bit and bumped against my bed to make sure that if she was real, she knew that I was alive. After that, I realised that maybe she’d think I’d injured myself or something, so I tried tapping on the computer a bit so that there’d be some other noises that proved I was okay.
Then the thought that she wasn’t real, and the memory of what psychologist lady said, came crashing down on me again, so I sat down on my bed with my back to the wall for a while. She kept knocking, but then she gave up. So we both sat in silence for a bit, or maybe just me if she’s not real. I guess I ended up taking the psychologist lady’s advice.
I sat, and behaved, and tried to think about the past.
It’s fucking difficult, though. Like, I know I’ve got snatches of memories that I haven’t really told her about, but now it’s difficult to even properly picture those. They keep changing and twisting in my mind until I can’t remember which version is the real version, unless I go back to this journal and read over what I wrote. But then I doubt myself.
If I’ve imagined an entire person living next door, then maybe I imagined the memories too, y’know? Maybe I really am crazy.
I’m sure that’s what they want me to think. I bet they’re just waiting for me to have a proper breakdown so that they can pump me full of the proper drugs that knock you out and make you sleep all the time so that you’re not a danger to anyone. They’re probably itching for an excuse. They might keep a guard outside my door at all times with a syringe cocked and loaded.
That’s probably going too far with it. But I feel like I don’t know myself anymore, and no one’s helping me out. Not even Helen.
Speaking of Helen, as I said before, I did eventually cave. I guess, even if she’s not real, she’s company. Company’s pretty much all I want right now, even if it’s just a reflection of my own brain.
Conversation With Helen
-after lots of quiet moping about, I eventually went over to the wall and knocked, and she started talking pretty quick-
Her: Robbie? Are you okay? I was worried.
Me: (feeling like the most horrible bastard in the world) Yeah, sorry, I’ve been proper tired today. Don’t know what it is.
Her: Have you stopped taking the three-a-days or something?
Me: Nah, I literally just got a warning off my psychologist lady to pack in all my ‘bad behaviour’ and do what they tell me to do.
Her: And have you been doing everything?
Me: As much as I fucking can, being locked in here. I just have to sit here and try to remember, apparently.
Her: Can you still not remember anything?
Me: Just the tiny bits and pieces. Nothing useful.
Her: I know you still won’t like hearing it, but I envy you. Not remembering is the best way to go in here.
Me: But everyone’s always fucking telling me to try and remember shit!
Her: They’re also keeping you in a tiny box, locked away from everyone and everything you’ve ever known. They’re not trying to get you to remember out of kindness.
Me: They certainly make it seem that way.
Her: And do you believe that?
Me: Not for a second. But still, my psychologist lady proper went off on one about how she wanted the best for me and all that.
Her: It’s her job to pretend to care. I bet she practiced that ‘frustrated tough love’ act a thousand times in her office before she did the final performance in front of you.
Me: I don’t know. She seemed genuine.
Her: Robbie, that’s literally her job. She’s part of the facility. She gets paid to keep you here, locked up and drugged up.
Me: Still, she’s gotta be a human underneath that white coat, right?
Her: The worst kind of human.
Me: I’d find it easier to believe you if you actually told me what was going on around here.
Her: I know. But it’s not my place to tell you about that stuff. If you have to remember, you need to do it on your own.
Me: Do you think I’ll ever remember?
Her: You probably should’ve already got way more of your memories back. It didn’t take me as long as it’s taking you. Maybe they’re giving you different medications or something. It would make sense, after all.
Me: What? Why would that make sense? You know barely anything about me. Fuck, I know barely anything about me!
Her: Nevermind. Look, I don’t know exactly what they’re giving you, or if you’re going to have a radically different treatment to me. I don’t really know anything. I’m just locked up in here, the same as you.
Me: Yeah, I know. I’m sorry if it feels like I’m grilling you. I guess I’m just… I don’t know, frustrated? Angry? Confused? Everything is a lot.
Her: I know, Robbie.
Me: And I don’t know who to believe. Maybe that psychologist lady is getting too deep into my head.
Her: Just try to remember what matters to you. Try to hold onto the few memories that you have. As long as you keep some semblance of yourself to yourself in here, you should be able to keep going. That’s all I’ve been doing, anyway.
Even if she’s not real, Helen’s a fucking good person to have a conversation with.
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Oskar Leonard 
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