The Bottle

I did take it home with me, but I still haven’t opened it. There’s a letter inside—just like the ones I’ve been putting into the bottles I’ve sent down the river. Who could this letter be from?

Devil purs. Lately, he’d rather curl up asleep in a corner than keep me company. It’s getting dark slowly, and I don’t hear the neighbours. The bottle is green —but the paper inside won’t come out.

Stay here I say to Devil. The bottle shatters on the floor, the hallway is empty. I listened and waited to see if anyone heard the noise. If they’ll ring the doorbell. I listen and hear nothing from the basement either.

Oh—it turns out to be a little roll of several sheets of paper. When I unroll them, they’re blank. There’s nothing written on them at all. I hold them against the light. What is this? I look at my two bottles still standing by the sink—two more bottles to fill. No one has come to help me.

Hey—does it sound like I hear noise in the house? It remains quiet. I don’t know if I want to write any more diaries. I think I’ve said all I can and there is to share.

No one has come to help me.
Nothing has changed.
All I’ve done these past days is shower and go outside at night to the river.
The drawing I made on the wall is gone. Someone whitewashed it —nothing left to see.
Sometimes I doubt I ever painted on it at all but there is proof! I swear there was.
The potato sacks lie by the back door, and I can’t remember putting them there. Didn't I put them in the basement, and order them for the cut-off limbs?

Devil?

The cat doesn’t react and stays curled up asleep in the corner.

21.4.25 - 11 o’clock

I still remember that day I went down to the cellar—yes, that hole where I… I don’t know how long I sat there tied up, chained to the wall, shackles around my wrists and ankles. Even now, as I write this, a piece of chain still clings to my wrist—I couldn’t pry it loose.

That basement. The old man. That filthy bastard. He deserves it to be buried under the rotten potatoes—the laboratory. It's a torture chamber.

For a moment... I listen and wait—are the neighbours knocking on the wall? Is no one ringing the front door? Are there no footsteps on the stairs?

I can’t stay here anymore. It’s too much.

I don’t remember if the paint was white or red.
I don’t remember if I used all the paper or someone took it.
I don’t remember if I chopped off fingers.
I don’t remember if I was chained.
I don’t remember if I stood guard on the stairs or fell asleep.
Did I shower?
Am I still alive?

I take the knife and carve a line into my right thigh. My finger traces the other scars one by one—each one a person who came into my life and left again.

Is there still someone who thinks of me?
Does anyone even remember me?

The laboratory

“You’re my assistant,” he said. “Hold this.” He pushed a strange mask into my hand. He’d made it himself. The idea was to protect my face or his or maybe to change me. He put it on me and said I should keep taking the magic drink he'd prepared. I paid and paid and it was never good enough.

It’s hard to remember that I was ever someone who walked the streets clothed. That I was ever loved. That anyone ever cared. That I was ever even born. What’s left of me is just a ghost of something I never was.

I saw pelicans. The road was a pink sea—nothing but pelicans. Or was it orange? I’ve forgotten what clothes look like. I think my eyes are getting worse. They hurt and can't face the light. I squeeze them shut and peer through the cracks. In the dark, I sit under the table.

I don’t know if I’m scared.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been scared.
I don’t know if I should stop.
Or if I just want to sit here and wait until it’s all over.
I should check on that bastard.

No one answered my letter.
No one has ever come to my rescue.

How many years was I in that hole?
How many years was I chained to that wall?
I don’t know. I haven’t even lasted a month marking the days. Not even a month.
I remember exactly how I carved them one by one with the stub of a pencil. Then it became blood. Then it stopped. Then time stood still.

Every day, he came down to the cellar to conduct his experiments. And not just experiments. It never ended.

It was never good enough.
I was never good enough.

Did he go mad? I don’t think so. He was always like that.

The father who never wanted the child.
The deranged husband I never asked for.
The one I couldn’t refuse.

What was there to refuse?

I vaguely remember my sister. Suddenly, I know I have a sister. Or... Was it a friend who acted like one? Who asked how I was when I was in pain? When no one else looked at me?

I still wonder where she went.
Why didn’t she come back?
Why did she abandon me too?

I was a cheerful child—I think I was a cheerful child.
Now I’m a shadow, a nobody a ghost.

I write on half the sheets I found in the bottle, roll them up, and put them inside. The other half—the blank ones—I’ll fill tomorrow. Or the day after.

I wonder if I can still draw.
If I’ll survive this night.
If I should keep my eyes squeezed shut.
If I should just give up.

How long have I not been safe?
A weapon?
Floating wood.
Planks?

Is Dylan a killer? Who are they? The strange men who keep appearing out of nowhere, asking what I’m doing.
The figure who always seems to be following me is a profiler.

Where is the woman who helped me at the bottle machine?

23:00

She’s here again. The one who smells like soap and summer. The one who hums when the silence gets too loud. I don’t turn around, but I know she’s standing in the kitchen doorway. Am I crazy?

“You’re bleeding,” she says. Her voice is mine, but softer. The voice of someone who still remembers how to care.

I look down. My thigh bleeds.

She steps closer. “Let me,” sweety. Her fingers are warm. Real. Or real enough.

She presses a clean cloth to the cut, the way a mother would. A sister. A friend, a neighbour perhaps.

For a moment, the kitchen looks lighter. Devil lifts its head, ears twitching—but he doesn’t hiss. He knows her too. When did they meet?

It's 1:01, and she’s gone.

Was she ever here?

No one has come to help me.
Nothing has changed.

Painter: JOHN COLLIER
Picture: The Laboratory (1895) - public domain
Date: 23-4-2025

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