"If I could fill up all these voids,

if I could be the only choice,

if you could once just hear my voice,

then I could change it all."

------

DECEMBER 14

 

The doctors here are liars.

 

And they're trying to make a liar out of me. But I'm not a liar. And I won't pretend.

 

I don't belong here.

 

Stephen Strenga. My new doctor. He says he wants to "help" me. But I hear what he isn't saying; he wants to cure me. As if there's something that ails me. My only demon is my past -- and there is no curing the past.

 

My first doctor, a Mr. Basil Hu, was sent to the emergency room mid-way through our first session.

 

He'd asked the wrong question.

 

I can still taste his blood in my mouth.

 

Strenga's asked me to keep a journal of my experiences here, confined within my padded prison. With Papa Legba's blessing, I conceded. The first day of my so-called rehabilitation, I've already been prescribed three medications: lithium, risperadone and trazodone.

 

I haven't swallowed a single pill.

 

What I have done is hid the medication in the pockets of other patients, some flushed down the toilet. I've played with myself eight times within the course of five hours, and twice, I caught the guard outside my room staring through the small, glass window of the door. I let him watch. I wanted him to watch. I thought of Voltiel. I thought of Charlie. I thought of threesomes. Twosomes. Handjobs. Blowjobs. A tongue inside my pussy. Gay sex. Straight sex. Vaginal. Anal. Slapping. Biting. Scratching. Screaming.

 

I wish I had my vibrator.

 

I don't know how long I'll be here, but Papa Legba tells me that everything is going to be okay.