My book is called “Journal.”
Writing Journal has inflicted upon me a certain pain and anguish of mind and soul. Yes, I wrote it — secretly, furtively — in the sanatorium pictured above. But I forewarn you. Journal is a work of fiction. It is not real. Why don’t you believe me?
Nothing happened except between the twisted wires of my tortured mind. I swear it.
Journal is unfinished. Indeed, it cannot be finished — not without your consent; not without your cooperation. Will you cooperate? Will you allow this book to bubble forth from the sewer of my polluted soul?
May I interview you in the privacy of my basement?
Be advised. I’m not normal. I endured twelve years in the psychiatric hospital pictured above. They used me like a lab rat then released me after the Soviet Union collapsed.
Any reminders of that fiendish hell — even those hiding inside the ephemeral anamnesis of a forgotten oil painting — inject fibrillations of fear into my drug-damaged heart.
The asylum is located somewhere inside the old Soviet Republic. I can’t say exactly where, because they never told me.
But they did do things to me. Unusual things.
Today I am free and live inside the United States under an identity created for me by the NSA’s Unusual Persons Division. I am grateful of course to the UPD for my new life. In fact, I couldn’t be happier.
HA!
You see, I am a survivor.
I’m alive!
Sigh… Burp… Oh yes. I’m real.
Free.
Authentic.
Journal is fiction.
Yes, the events I suffered to describe never happened.
You seem to be a trusting sort; young; innocent. May I confess? May I share a secret? Will you keep it and never tell? It means so much.
You can be the very first one to help me. I need your love so bad. Surely, someone understands.
Twelve years in the funny farm…
Guess what?
I’m still insane!
Billy Lee