Who? - complete story (see post below for details of how this started)
Phil: The room around me is cold and musty, the primary colour on the walls seems to be a mouldy grey illuminated by a 40 watt bulb hanging unshaded from the ceiling. Daylight, how I crave daylight. My only solace is being able to sit here at this excuse for a desk and write, putting my thoughts down, trying to drag some semblance of the truth out. They said it might make me remember, that it could be cathartic, whatever that means, but I don't know. Still, I prefer this to their other methods of helping me remember. They've kept me here for what must be weeks now and still I don't know why they're holding me. Hell, I don't even know who I am most of the time! All I know for certain is the routine. Have to do the routine. No question about that. I have the bruises to show for it when I don't follow the routine. There’s someone at the door, the key’s sticking in the lock the way it always does. Jiggle, jiggle, once more, jiggle and, yes, and there goes the ...