PLAN 9 - Abduction. DAY 4 IS ON !!!

Plan 9 - Abduction

Hello, welcome to the empty room. You’re just in. It has four walls, a ceiling and a floor. The ceiling is painted white and a there’s lamp, a white lamp. The walls are white as well as the floor.

You are wearing some sort of overall like doctors and nurses do - Quite white dare I say.

You can’t see it, but you’re as white as a sheet. The walls look thick.

You see no windows and no door. It’s a closed room.

Day 1

You can barely see, who are you kidding? It’s all a blur and you have no idea why the hell you were brought there nor how.

There is a pile of white boxes and white cans all piled disorderly in one of the white corners of that white room.

You are feeling woozy and after stumbling about around the room, you let yourself drop heavily on the mattress laid on the floor; White mattress, white sheets, white blanket. You’re hooking up fast on that point. Goddamn white.

You’re sleeping like a mollycoddle, smiling comfortably at the smooth touch of your white pillow on your rosy white cheeks.

You don’t recall being a fagot; neither will you ever remember sleeping like one. It’s the drugs kicking in while you’re asleep. It must be.

Day 2

It’s morning, at least for you. Rise and shine. You pick out what seems to be people singing on the outside of your room. They’re repeating the word white second after second in some sort of psychotic religious chant. You’re not sure it’s real. You still feel kind of stoned. That stuff must have hit you pretty hard.

Or is it just that maybe you’re still stuck on that dream you had last night before being brought here?;

“Fooling around like crazy with a red wig on your head. Wearing white stockings, drinking heavily from a glowing bottle of red whine and sucking smoke from a hand-rolled cigarette. All that, on a white room with that fancy white and red lamp on the ceiling.”

Given that they drugged you to the bone, no wonder would you think anything but you were still sleeping.

The voices have stopped. You feel quite awake now despite your slight vegetative state. No cup of coffee, no scrambled eggs, no bacon, no goddamn cereal. You’re starving. And your sour dry mouth, gosh.

Your brain is kind of slow and so are you. Slow in your movements, slow pace.

There’s no breakfast but the possibility of a poisoned one.

You stare both at the boxes and can piles; If only they weren’t so white. If only there were labels on them… With that you could let your cautious mistrust aside and pretend it was safe to check them out…

Gosh, are you thirsty. You were thirsty even before you were hungry, you just don’t remember it. It’s not only logical, but biologically logical. What does it matter what you remember when you’re stuck on a bloody white room.

By the way, you’ve fallen asleep in a flash again. You were hit by a tranquilizer dart, yet had no time to realize it.

Day 3

“Just woken up from another fucked up nightmare.”

Your forehead is pouring water like a cascade and you’re desperately looking for something that isn’t white. An awkward feeling of anguish and fear strikes you on the chest and runs up your spine. The meds have developed on you some kind of paranoia (you think), and it is certainly coming clearer to you as you are completely into freaking out about white stuff.

Everything is so damn white. You’re delusion is forcing you to and fro around the room along with that “Lucy in the sky” dizziness. You’re conscience is now speaking, you hear a voice in your head. “White ceiling, white floor, white feeling, What for? How come?, How do? How crazy are you? “.Wow.

Nausea strikes you down to a cosy white corner of the room. You stand still, but still white as a white sheet.

It’s been about 5 minutes since that last breakdown. You calmed down but you don’t feel hungry anymore. Maybe they fed you while you were logging Z's a few hours ago.

Though fed, you’re fed up about the tunnel vision on your retina. It is also taking part on your freaking out process, that’s for sure. It seems your notion of the time is distorted in some way.

You spend the rest of the supposed day sat down against those two white walls, they make a corner.

Day 4

“Dear diary, I am suffering from blurry vision”

No dreaming this time, at least that you remember. That White plastic box you’ve been using as a toilet is starting to impregnate the room with a vicious putrid smell. Even though you’ve on drugs, you’ve been being smart enough to put it next to the ventilation on top of a pile of boxes. The smell is …. It’s crap for God sakes!

You’re gluey carved eyes are wide open yet they’re not frightened anymore. Neither are you.

“ I be , passion for myself”

This “soberish” zen mood has just shown up now and yet it feels so good. Maybe you’re apathetic, maybe just tired, whatever… You’re feeling better than you were.

This still doesn’t mean you're in a see of roses. If only you had something you could use in order to keep trace of your sanity, if only a cheap newspaper to peruse… a cup of coffee, ah that brownish dry taste of coffee…

Maybe talking to yourself would do the trick, you. Well, thought and done, you begin having strange monologues imagining whatever you’re imagining and you end up laughing on the floor.

It’s no use, they must have kept drugging you while you were asleep। You don’t make no sense at all, but you aren’t even near to realize it.

Fact: You’re soberer than you’ve ever been in this room. How about that for a change?

“I want something to feel the real deal, you know, to squeeze my loneliness and to live together with the sharks and the whales and the dolphins and the cats. Mice! Mice! Mice!All these goddam nice mice, ha haha hiha, hahahaha”

And so another day goes.

Duarte