Work Text:
February 27th, 1960
Against my better judgment, I'm allowing Easterman to drug me. I know it is not my brightest decision, but I feel I'm left with no choice.
When I first arrived, I was supplied with a list of medicines I could request if needed: vitamins, pain relievers, antibiotics, antidepressants, sleep aids... the list goes on and on. There were many, many on the list I wasn't familiar with, and ones I suspected weren't 'real' medications. Easterman claimed he had access to a few experimental drugs and encouraged me to try them. That they would, in his words, take the edge off. He sounded as if he spoke from experience. I passed, suspicious of his inent.
After a few weeks of being here, I reached an unbearable level of exhaustion. Not just because of the overwhelming workload. There must have been close to a thousand drawings waiting on my analysis. No. I was physically exhausted. When I woke in the morning, I felt like I had run a couple of miles the night before. I was either sleep waking or not sleeping at all. Perhaps it's this restricted underground life? Little interaction with other human beings. Limited nutrition. (The meals here are not the best.) A dire lack of sunshine.
I lodged my concerns about these things and how they could be detrimental to the well-being of the patients. Not to mention the staff. Easterman suggested the medicine list again. I balked at first, but he had me speak with a facility nurse, Emily Barlow. She was nice enough, though obviously obsessed with Easterman. She looked at him with that unrequited love usually reserved for teenagers. Or cult fanatics.
She carefully listened to my symptoms and gave me a cocktail of colorful pills. And Lord help me, I took them. Whether it was out of desperation or depression, I'm not sure. I must admit, a few days later I'm feeling much more lively now. I'm not nearly as exhausted. I sleep sound, save for the dreams. I will get to those shortly.
Easterman sought after me, all grins and congratulations over the success of his suggestion. I lightly jested about the chances of him poisoning me, to which he responded:
"Poison? Poisoning is so cliche, my dear. There are far more creative ways to dispose of a problem, don't you think?" Smug doesn't begin to describe him.
It reminded me that we were all just his experiments. Results waiting to be collected by our comptroller.
I only mention the new meds here because they relate to the new page. It's not just posturing on my hatred for than man. I must admit, though, whenever I am around Easterman, I can't help but delight in my secret. Those yellow pages I've come to covet. Nigh on worship! The new one is just as fascinating as the others. Raw and emotional. I get chills thinking about it.
This one is of a woman. Older? Younger? Hard to say. She is either scarred or wearing a mask, I can't tell from the wild linework. The words THAT POOR CHILD are scribbled beside her. I will include it here.
My first impressions:
The deep-set, hollow eyes suggest exhaustion, trauma, or a haunted past. They might be carrying heavy emotional weight - perhaps grief, regret, or paranoia. The jagged, frantic lines around the face and body hint at emotional instability, chaos, or inner turmoil. They could struggle with anxiety, dissociation, or even psychosis. The words “That poor child” imply that this character either sees themselves as a victim or expresses sympathy (or guilt) over another’s suffering. They might be someone who has witnessed or caused a traumatic event, leading to deep guilt or a desire for redemption. Their appearance, including wild hair and intense expression, could indicate someone who has been neglected, abandoned, or ostracized from society. They might be an unreliable narrator, experiencing reality in a distorted way due to mental distress. They could be trying to escape their past, uncover hidden truths, or protect someone more vulnerable than them.
Possible diagnosis:
Post-traumatic stress disorder
Dissociative identity disorder
Schizoaffective disorder
Severe depression with psychotic features
Borderline personality disorder
As if the work isn't terrifying enough, there's more. I loathe to admit this, but she feels familiar. I have seen her somewhere before. Whether in my dreams or reality, I can not comment. You see, my dreams have become a scattering of possibilities lately. Some almost incomprehensible, while others are so real they behave more like memories than dreams. So bone achingly real.
That's the feeling I get when I look at this woman. An ache in my very bones. Painful.
Like a toothache.
I don't know why I just wrote that. Perhaps I am going mad after all?
I should stop taking this concoction of sleep aids and energizers. But I probably won't. I am trapped, and while Easterman is surely enjoying my spiral into whatever madness he had planned for me, at least I will go with a good night's sleep.
Here's to tomorrow and the possibilities it brings. More pages or more madness.
Or both.
Dr Gabriel Walton