SHOULD THIS BOOK BE FINISHED?

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