From the diary of Richard Ashcroft, circa July 19, 1993:
It’s been seven weeks since I entered the Dome. I think. I haven’t seen the sun in so long. Seven weeks without food. I’ll be dead in eight, doctors say. I’ve been licking ice off the floor for sustenance. I don’t even know if it’s real ice. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore. I keep seeing things. People playing hockey, mostly. Except I’m like this camera, floating and zooming around the rink. Oh, it’s so fast, pulling in and out like an elastic band. I feel like throwing up. I always feel like throwing up, but I can’t. There’s nothing left to chuck, just stomach acid bubbling and burning against the back of my throat. It’s like, every fibre of your being wants to scream, and then you realise: you have no tongue.
Are the others still in here, alive? I’m convinced I’ve gone quite mad. I can see me down there, shuffling and tripping on the ice, but I’m not in there, I’m not! I’m still here and all I can do is watch. Watch them thresh about with sticks in their fruity colours.
What am I even doing here? Is this some kind of sick practical joke? What if everyone else has already gone home and forgotten about me? When I signed up for the Mode 7 program they told me it would be a simulation, just a bit of a lark. They never told me it would be like this. All I wanted was the hundred quid they promised in the advert. Oh well. Just one more week and it’ll all be over, one way or another.
I wrote a pop song yesterday. I might record it if I ever make it out of here:
The Devil has a new number. It’s my number: 7.