The Last Imaginative Diary of Dr. Freyburg

Submitted into Contest #206 in response to: Set your story in an eerie, surreal setting.... view prompt


Speculative Fiction Crime

This story contains sensitive content

Disclaimer: Contains themes of abuse, suicide, and physical violence

Hour 1

There is not a drop of ink in the room. As white as a polar bear's backyard. I am dressed in ice-cold tuxedo as well. It is madness. But I know I can breeze this like a SEAL would do BUD/S. In fact, this is vacation for me. I always craved some quiet time after my Wall Street buzz wore off from back in the days.

I know plenty of food will be here. I can also do pushups. Of course, I have to get used to the light to sleep.

Hour 3

I am craving some information. Just had the omelettes and oatmeal. Funny they were served without any labels.

Hour 4

My mind is wandering back to childhood. The time I punched Eddie in the face for mocking Julie. I wanted to play a hero. Heck, to think back I have always been that A+ type. That is why I was once even shortlisted for NASA trip after graduating from Harvard magna cum laude.

Hour 5

My mind begins to hallucinate. I think of colors in the air like Kandinsky painting symphonies. My mind veers to Heidegger and Schopenhauer and I ponder what Time really is. How long has it passed? Whole 9 hours right? I can't look at any clock. Also, I try to talk to Stephen, but as promised I instructed him not to tell me the time.

Hour 6

Suddenly it is not fun anymore. The dopamine of novelty effect starts to wear off. I think of Claudia and my daughter. But my memory betrays their face like prosopagnosia. I feel like if I knew all the artifacts of numerals I could solve Schrodinger's equation if I had papers due to infinite time.

Hour 8

I wake up after two hours of forced slumber. I couldn't sleep a 'wink'. Which verse of what play did Shakespeare mention this? I am not hungry, but I find the food dry and cardboard due to lack of any color.

Hour 12

I am craving for color. Any color. Heck, I could even stare at a pile of dung now which might as well be like Matisse!

Hour 13

Why is it that when you have infinite time to ponder your mind always revert back to your guilt and shameful events? I try to shoo away the thought of Eddie and high school and how Claudia stood me up before we ended up together. How blessed I am to have Maryam! Now that I realize. Wait... Maryam or Miriam. For some reason, I just can't seem to recall if her name is... Any way.

The food is there every 4 hours. It is to ensure at least I won't die of starvation. But I feel like stringing coherent sentences together is difficult. My mind wandering like random light spray of a Nirvana cover!

And did I really need to slap Claudia when we argued if to take Uber or drive to Disneyland? She didn't talk to me for 5 days I know... But I can never forgive myself for that on that night. It was even our anniversary right? Wait...when was it... Was it on September 12th, 1953? Hmm... why am I thinking of 1953. Wasn't I born on 1982? I mean.. wait. Is 1982 a leap air? I feel so muddled. Where am I? Why am I writing all these!

Hour 20

I tried to get some sleep but it is impossible! This should be against Geneva Convention. I covered my eyes with the patch but the ear loop made it only uncomfortable. I would rather just keep me eyes closed and sleep.

I know people will have hard time reading these jumbled words replete with typos and I hope some editor publish this.

My earnest request if I choose not to return to resume my daily activities of la conditione humaine that the board forgives such form of imprisonment!

This is inhuman. This is torture at the worst and purest form. This is hell akin to Sartre's Huis Clos. No civilized society deserves to inflict such pain unto fellow human being.

I feel writing Claudia and Maribel again and again and again... for I feel only their presence via such syllables will comfort my soul.

Wait... was it agreed upon that I can just turn the doorknob and exit the building at any moment?

Hour 25

I am well fed. But my mind is craving for stimulation. ANY stimulation. I need colors. My imagination betrays me. I am at a loss to which part of space-time am I in now. It feels like I became swallowed in some wormhole after ingesting some forbidden substance. Is that what really happened? I can't take it anymore. Thank God for the bedsheets! Only if I can tear them somehow.

Hour 32

Deepest, darkest thoughts imbibe me. May be such form of punishment and torture IS justified. I couldn't even make a pindrop hole in the bedsheets! As if the authority figured it out and designed the synthetic material otherwise... What if someone is a pedophile or a serial rapist? I say yes. Hell yes. Succumb that bastard to such succubus!

Is murder justified? I ponder such and other philosophical conditions. What is killing? What does it even mean to kill a being? What constitutes a life life? Is a bacteria life? Is a microbe life? What about abortion?

Hour 35

I know all I have to do is turn the knob clockwise and this will be over. But I refuse to do it. I know I can easily obliterate this block of time. A year will pass by easily and the 10-million nifty will be enough to pay off the debt and mortgage leaving enough savings for a 'F--- You' money.

Hour 36

I don't think I can make it one more second. I am getting out.

Hour 37

I somehow changed my mind. My head is swollen. I banged it forty times but all I did was bruise it. I was desperate to see color - any color.

My mind traverses underground to an aquatic realm full of squids and other creatures with radial symmetries and algae and sea urchins with occasional sightings of oysters as well as a Spanish dancer or Hexabranchus sanguineus spotted like a gypsy which slowly clouds up with billions and billions of bubbles as I hear the gasping noise.

The woman begs. She is dressed in a red dress as if about to audition for West Side Story. Her entire body resists to no avail as she writhes and squirms with the last iota of spirit and finally submerges down the bathtub with her red skirt ballooning up.

[Hey 43. Keep it down. A warden bangs the iron grid of portcullis with the keyhole with his baton.]

All I have to do is turn the knob and I can just leave this sh--hole right?

As the individual tries to rotate the knob, he finds for some reason it wouldn't budge. He thinks it is jammed and vigorously starts twisting it. He frantically shakes it but the door just wouldn't open.

Suddenly the whole matrix of whiteness disappears only to return back at his bunk bed with the metal toilet. He is dressed in orange and for the first time he feels relieved to see such color.

July 13, 2023 02:27

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