Six days into the new year and I still don’t know where I am. This is not some sort of metaphysical discussion–I don’t know where the hell I am. The room itself is long… maybe 53 feet (I’ve deluded myself into wearing size 9 shoes, but really my feet are closer to size 8.75, if there were such a thing; all that would be of some use if I actually had my shoes–as it is, I’ve had to measure without them). And narrow. Like a hallway. But there’s very little light in here. I can discern the subtle outlines of my own appendages and I’ve been able to feel my way around. Five full days is a lifetime to explore an enclosure like this. There are no seams. Not even corners. The floors gently curve into the walls, which in turn, gently curve into the ceiling with no discernible change in texture. Everything is smooth and clean–highly polished steel or plastic. I can’t tell. No edges, no cracks. No divisions of any kind. And yet, at infrequent intervals whose rhythm–if there is one–I cannot determine, liquid or food manifest. Whatever jumbled sense of faith I might have cobbled together during prayers of desperation (“Please, Lord, just help me out of this bind and don’t let the cop look in the trunk of the car… “), I am now a believer in Ether, Spontaneous Creation, and not listening when talking to one’s self.
Day 7. I think. I left out a little detail. I said everything was clean and smooth. It was. Before I got here. One end of this tubular cell now functions at a repository for what little excrement I pass. Someone or something is still feeding me and cleaning up after my meals, but I am never aware of any coming or going. In fact, no sound seems to reside outside of this structure. None that I can hear. There might be solace in routine had I some reference point from which to base it. I tell myself this. I do sleep but it’s irregular and uncomfortable and almost as disorienting as being awake. The smell in here… I try to breathe through my mouth.
Day 18 or 21. I retrace that last night again and again. New Year’s Eve. One of my least favorite days of the year. The most arbitrary of holidays. Once again, I let myself be talked into going out. Nothing fancy. I abhor fancy. Abhorred. Everything feels past tense now. It was some downtown club. Warehouse. Lots of lights. Loud pulsating music. Champagne doled out in plastic flutes. Everyone hooting and cheering and kissing at the stroke of midnight. Except I was in the alley. Needed some air. I’ve always liked to be outside when the calendar flips. I thought I saw a blue glow from behind an adjacent dumpster. I walked toward it. That’s it. That’s all I remember. When I came to I was here. The human species was not designed for light deprivation.
Day 1. Apparently none of the above happened. I did go to that club. I accidentally downed my friend’s drink which contained some sort of acid-mescaline-mushroom-ectasy mashup. I hallucinated the whole damn thing. My friends took me home and I woke up on my own couch, the cushion nearest my chin darkened by a thick pool of my own repugnant drool. I hate New Year’s Eve.