Page 25 of Psyop Kings

What is happening?

Did I remember it wrong?

No.

Someone made these changes to mess with me.

I stop at the sink and turn on the faucet. After several greedy handfuls of water, I dry my hands and face with a hand towel and go back into the bedroom to investigate the differences.

The door indeed is still locked from the outside. And, like before, no sounds can be heard from the other side. Just to make sure I’m not losing it, I check the curtains. Still a wall rather than a window hiding on the other side. After I’ve canvassed the entire room, I finally give up and sit back down on the bed.

A smaller bed.

The bed was queen-sized when I fell asleep. Now it’s a double.

I bring my shaky hands to my hair and run my fingers through it. After grasping thick handfuls, I tug slightly. This used to be something I did as a child when I felt like my world was closing in around me.

This is confusing, but it’s real.

I’m not crazy.

Slipping my fingers to my neck, I press down on the bruise that lingers there. How long have I been here? Will they feed me? Am I even remembering the events correctly?

“It was a dream, Romy.”

“Stop making up stories for attention. I’m a busy man.”

“The monster isn’t real.”

Dad’s voice inside my head used to bother me when I’d think about his words as a child. Now they comfort me. They’re so strong and sure.

I need my medicine.

I can feel like I’m unraveling too quickly. Soon, I’ll have to add withdrawal symptoms to my already dire situation. I’m not even sure if whatever Caius injected me with is compatible with fluoxetine. What if I die from a lethal medicine combination?

The room spins as nausea washes over me.

I want to lie down again, but I’m afraid my surroundings will change once again. So instead of sleeping, I commit to memory every detail of this room—mentally measuring from wall to wall, the exact shade of gray paint, the smell of the laundry detergent on the bedding. I do this for what feels like hours until I fall sleep.

A smell wakes me this time.

Food.

My stomach growls angrily. I sit upright, wishing all this were a dream, but I’m met with the same prison bedroom and a pounding headache.

And my socks are gone.

I cry out because the fact another piece of my clothing is gone without my realizing is too terrifying to comprehend. Have I been drugged again? That would explain the sluggishness in my veins and lingering headache.

I hate these monsters.

With tears flooding my eyes, I note that I’m once again in a queen-sized bed. The room size is exactly the same as is the paint color. I can’t smell the laundry detergent on the bedding because the food smell overpowers it. Slowly, I slip out of bed, the cold assaulting my feet the second they’re on the floor.

First, I rush over to the curtains.

No window.

I leap past a silk robe lying in a heap and shudder. The other two were chenille. This whole situation is really starting to freak me out. I next run into the bathroom and there’s no loofa or washcloth or any shampoo or conditioner or bodywash. The fixtures aren’t nickel but instead a cream-colored porcelain.

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