I awake. Gosh I must have dozed off. I open my eyes and I almost go blind by the light. Shit, I forgot the night vision was still on!
[Night Vision deactivated]
Seeing normally again I realize it’s morning. The sun creeping through the blinds, children playing and morning bladder. After doing what I have to do I step onto the balcony. Looking over the area I saw that I had a very nice view. I open my worn bag, withdrawing a cigarette case in stainless steel. It was custom made with my initials and a cute sketch of Bambi and Thumper. Unnecessary, I know, but it was just something fun I picked up in Malmö. I open it up and there they are in a neat line. I pick one that is long with a white filter. Closing the case I put it between my lips and light it with my lighter. Also (unnecessarily so) custom made. Though just with my initials.
Taking in smoke, then puffing it out. I repeat this for a few minutes, savoring it.
Oh, there’s the moving truck. Stubbing it out on the railing I go back in to change.
I chose a simple pair of underwear and kept everything else on for today. Then I go out to direct the movers.
By lunch they were already done. I hadn’t brought with me much anyway. Like I had told Fredriksson: A television set, a bed and a wardrobe. The TV being by far the most expensive thing I had the honor of owning. It was one of the newest models and I had spent my last crowns on it.
The apartment was fully installed. My life as a recluse could finally begin. I have planned thoroughly: Every morning I’ll wake up and eat breakfast, sandwiches and milk; then go for a walk, then the rest of the day I will watch TV till I so unexpectedly fall into a deep slumber – and then repeat repeat repeat.
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And that’s what I did the following month of August of 1964. Not unlike my plan, my routine went along like this: In the mornings I wake up in my bed and transport myself to the kitchen to eat breakfast. A dry sandwich and a cup of coffee. After breakfast I turn on the radio, cranking up the volume really high so that I can hear the monotone news voices and the singing Italian Donnas all the way out to the balcony, were I listened to the monotone voice talking about nuclear annihilation and with the opera, with its mesmerizing daze coming soon after, while I smoked. so so so surreal
Then I took on my clothes, nothing about the style was different from day to day. Same look, different clothes (of course). Ordinary underclothes, a white jumper and dark blue jeans. My socks were the only thing that differed in color.
Walking into the bathroom I take a look in the mirror. If someone would see my apartment they would notice that I didn’t own makeup. That is the more wonderful side of being a cyborg. I don’t need any because my skin colors itself automatically in the way that it looks made. A useful spy technology constructed by the Organisation, rest their bastard souls. My hair formed, untangled itself like I wanted, looking beautiful.
I love looking beautiful. But I don’t have much use for it now. Well everything's set on automatic.
First the pink lipstick, then eyeliner, etcetera etcetera.
After brushing my teeth I put on my trenchcoat, my scarf, and my boots, slinging my bag across my shoulder, the last being my black leather gloves. Locking the door behind me I stride down the corridors and down the stairs. Before going out the front door I pass Fredriksson’s apartment and sometimes my eyes catch him looking at me through the peephole. He creeped me out immensely.
From the building which I had moved into I started to walk. The walks would vary from each day. Especially the first few days, since I was new. Usually going on for six hours straight. Either taking the tube towards the Stockholm inner city, looking at the shops there, going to cafes and observing the castle. Never having lived in the so-called “Venice of the North”, I digested everything I saw. Sometimes the cinema could show something interesting, I remember liking the latest Bergman film, other times it was ordinary American and British pictures. Eating popcorn, being transported to a reality far far away. When I’m on the subway back home the time is 8 o'clock pm. And at 8: 45 I am back at home, watching TV. I don’t own a watch but I always know the time exactly to the slightest second, most likely because of the computer in my head.
The computer in my head. The computer in my head. doctor scott what did you do to my head it hurts it hurts it tells me to kill You made me machine you
And I awake. The time is?
[09:11]
The same each day. My daily routine is the same in every detail, even by the minute, suggesting my inhumanity. Damn my brain.