CONFISCATED ENTRY

12.12.

i t i s l i k e b r e a t h i n g i n t i m e

e a c h b r e a t h

a c e n t u r y

Bets

Private journal

My colleagues have begun taking bets on which part of some poor animal will be found first here in Quarantine. The head of a hare? Slashed coyote ribs? They are good men, really, and I know none of them would let such trivial thoughts interfere with their work. They are bored; that is all. Still, their conduct makes me uneasy. Boredom leads to a strange sort of desperation; have they not observed this themselves?

Not one of them dares to bet on the sleepers, those humans that wander outside the enclosure. I see the thought in their eyes, but it goes unspoken. Forbidden. Instead, they bet the life and limbs of the desert animals, perhaps in the hope that her tastes, at least, have retained that particular refinement we will call human.

Today, as I am sure has been recorded, blood was found. I wonder if they now curse even those thoughts that went unspoken.

Artifacts

One crumpled-up carton

Four cans, four more cans

A half-empty packet of tawny granules

Two blankets, tied together

The empty impression of an evergreen

Seven bits of foil, some smashed into a ball, some intact

These are the things we have found around the outlets of the tunnels, lately. Today we found blood near the fourth corner, where the desk is wedged. It is dark, dried, and makes a long strip from the edge of the desk leg to the center of the enclosure, about a foot in length. It is approximately four inches from the wall. The subject bears no injury, and no other source has been found. The sleepers come and go as before. We will continue watching the tunnels with special interest.

Hypodermic

The enclosure is not terribly large, but we would not call it small, either; it is the sort of average size that always grows when one feels small and shrinks when one feels large and restless. Erring on the quaint side, perhaps. You must understand how astounding it was, then, that in such a place, we should find a network of tunnels. They took her five days to make. The dirt is packed tight, but even still, they are so close to the surface it is a wonder they do not cave in. Some of them must go quite deep, and we suspect some empty into small rooms, for we have witnessed the disappearance of a good portion of the enclosure's objects and furnishings and where could they have gone but into the tunnels? We do not consider any of this too peculiar in light of the arid climate here.

But here is the strange thing:

As far as can be told, the tunnels do not seem to extend further than the walls of the enclosure. The walls are constructed above ground, so there is no reason they should hinder the underground network's extension; indeed, it would be difficult to ascertain these boundaries once one began digging, I feel. But we have only ever seen entry points within the enclosure (in the interest of variable control, we have researchers posted quite far out along the landscape), an sometimes, when it has not rained for some time and the soil grows brittle and dry, we hear her scrapping about the perimeter, as she often does, though these times, unseen.

We cannot say whether there is something that inhibits her leaving or if she chooses not to leave. These are perhaps not mutually exclusive.

Further, we cannot yet discern the purpose of the tunnels, unless it is something related to the removal of the sight of her (but we are certain she does not know she is being watched), or the shifting and moving of things in the enclosure.

ju ju be

jute lipped

weather brother

chestnut woodfur wedged against

fingernail, dried blood

rust cracked thumb,

ash pushed belly

this, your bondage

this, your season

stalwart

bridgeless

brain

hush now while I grow yah a name

The Medicine Cabinet

In the enclosure there is a medicine cabinet.

In the medicine cabinet there are: two bottles, one orange, one green; a piece of wet cloth; and a three day old mirror.

How do we know it is a three day old mirror?

Because it does not function as a one or two day mirror. But perhaps I should say, instead, 'a mirror that is at least three days old,' as I do not know that it is actually three days old. All mirrors function largely the same at and after the three-day point; the difference is so slight and negligable it is not worth mentioning, but I should at least leave this fact in the notes to avoid the chance of misleading any reader into believing that I know the exact age of the mirror in the cabinet.

The contents of both bottles have gone undisturbed since observation began, though they are occasionally handled. The cloth remains wet, and though we have often seen it removed, we can discern neither its use nor what keeps it wet. She begins fiddling with it at night, you see--the cabinet door has a very particular snap sound that cannot be confused with any other sound in the enclosure-- and so by the time she removes something and, we assume, uses it, we often do not get a glimpse of it. We do not know the strength or nature of the prescriptions, or the other objects; we do not know if those she indulges in are the strongest, or the weakest of the assortment. We keep full watch on the enclosure (it is very tiring), and yet there are still these things that are continually missed. The night observers are several and often changed (I myself have taken the shift), so it is not possible that one researcher has been slacking in their duties. Our books are numerous, but sadly lacking.

Sometimes I wonder if any of the other scientists notice this. Sometimes I wonder if this strange blank, this blind spot in our research has not somehow been crafted by some force determined to keep us from the end goal of our observations. I feel there is some intention out there, whether hers or one of my colleagues or only that of the sun itself, to keep-from-knowing.

It grows dark again. My shift is over.

Unnamed

The constant bending of the fence, as if she could not choose a direction, as if she fears the irreparable and definite damage that will come with choosing a direction, though a similar (is it more? is it less? This question is maddening, and yet, pointless) damage is caused by indecision as well--

Is it possible to wake up in such vastly altered places without realizing how one got there? We do not always remember how we fall asleep, but surely, after that moment of strangeness, we remember it is Friday, we remember, generally, what we did in the week, or what we must have done in the week, because it is what is generally done every week.

Is it possible to forget a whole week? Not the week itself, but a thready progression that runs through it like a smear--

I do not think this thought has any relevance to our subject, though I may have started with that intention. I must remember to tear this page from the study, too.

She moves, sometimes, in the enclosure, as if she intends to forget certain motions, certain actions; and we know she must, because the next day, she does them again, though each time, a little altered in order to forget. There is nothing in the actions themselves that suggest a reason for this peculiarity; it must be some motivation behind it, some thought that must constantly be acted through differently lest its origin be known; there is something disastrous in it, but it cannot be abandoned, and so these motions are cautious encounters with it, the alterations to keep it from knowing itself.

Sometimes she thinks of it as work.

Sometimes as penance.

Sometimes as sanity.

It changes from time to time, but always, it has function, whether one of the three or another to suit. That is why it persists--it is allowed to. It is given reason to, reverse ex nihilo. In return for its services, it is not named.