Confession

204 finds me in the common area during afternoon free time. Settles into the chair across from mine with unhurried movement.

"That thing you read about me online," he says. "The attempted murder charge."

"It's true."

Except I haven't found anything about that.

"Bad neighborhood," he continues, apparently unconcerned whether I've actually read about it. "You know the story. Substances, crime, the usual trajectory downward." He shrugs. "I left it all for my daughter. She needed a father, not a statistic."

The confession lands with no particular weight. He could be telling me about his commute.

"I was here last year too," he adds. "Few months after I got out, someone contacted me. Writer, journalist, something like that. Wanted me to write a book."

"About what?"

"This place. What I did before I came here." He gestures vaguely at the ward, the other patients drifting through their prescribed routines. "My work. The things I saw inside these walls." A pause. "You should read it. It's online."

That evening I search. Small publisher, digital only, self-published maybe. No reviews, no marketing, just text existing in the void of the internet. The cover is generic stock photo, institution corridor, harsh lighting. Professional enough.

I start reading.

The prose surprises me. Clean, direct, no embellishment. The voice feels authentic though, carries his rhythm.

I was a state killer.

Opens with that. No preamble, no context-setting, just fact.

Eliminated threats to its interests. Never looked back, never questioned orders. You don't question. You execute.

Never knew my father. He disappeared before I could form memories of him. Met him only in my late twenties, after I'd already built my career in violence. Real son of a bitch, turned out. Manipulative, cruel, exactly the kind of man who abandons his children.

Then someone shot him. Clean through the forehead. Professional work. Another specialist, someone like me who understood angles and exit wounds and how to drop a body so it doesn't twitch.

Finding who did it, that's all I think about now. Not justice, not closure. Just identification. When I find him, I'll kill him the same way. Professional courtesy.

So I quit. Told my handler I was done. The state doesn't just let you walk away from that kind of work, but they're practical. They found me alternative employment, stage rigging, concert venues, building temporary structures. Far from spotlights, physically demanding, keeps you tired enough not to think.

Then I checked myself in for detox. Needed to clean out before I could hunt effectively. Couldn't track someone while my brain was swimming in substances.

Came here.

The paragraph break holds weight. "Here" meaning this ward, these rooms I'm sitting in now.

Management seemed off from the start. Public money supposedly funding psychiatric treatment, but no actual treatment happening. Money for beds, not for care. Everything loose, everything permitted. Patients having relationships with each other, staff looking the other way. People smuggling alcohol, sharing it openly in common areas. Complete lack of oversight.

I tested it. Started sampling other patients' medications. Antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, whatever they left lying around. Tried them systematically, documenting effects. Nobody noticed. Nobody stopped me. Moved on to other substances when I could get them. Psychedelics, stimulants, the full spectrum.

The place operated like an experiment with no hypothesis. Just observation of what happens when you remove all constraints from damaged people.

I pause reading. Look around my own room. The ward he's describing sounds identical to this one. Same loose management, same absence of actual therapy. Which means either the system hasn't changed in a year, or the system is designed this way.

When I got out, someone contacted me. Man I'd never met, no name, no identification. He had particular work. Operated exclusively in the sewers underneath the city. Had whole operations down there, apparently. Infrastructure no one monitored.

He'd hidden a mare underground. Don't know how he got her down there, don't know how he kept her alive. But he did. Fed her, cared for her, kept her secret in tunnels beneath the streets.

When he disappeared, the mare stayed. I inherited her. Still take care of her, visit the tunnels, bring feed and water. She's thriving down there, somehow. Adapted to the dark.

The book ends there. No resolution about the father's killer. No explanation of the sewer operations. No detail about how a horse survives underground.

Just: the mare exists. I care for her. She breathes in spaces that shouldn't support life.

I close the browser. Sit in the dark of my room.

The mare in the sewers. A killer searching for his father's killer. Psychiatric wards that function as unmonitored laboratories. Underground infrastructure where impossible things persist.

Morning arrives with the thought already complete, like it formed during sleep and I'm only now becoming conscious of it: I killed his father.

The logic assembles itself with that particular crystalline quality that usually indicates either genuine insight or complete delusion. Unconscious operative. High-value targets. Professional execution, forehead shot, clean angle. The state uses people like me for exactly this kind of elimination. Someone who wanted out, who knew too much, who posed operational risk. They'd send someone who wouldn't remember, couldn't testify, had no conscious motive.

The timeline works. His father killed, what, five years ago? Six? I was drinking heavily then. Blackout drunk multiple times weekly. Perfect window for deployment. Wake up in my apartment, no memory of the previous twelve hours, maybe some unexplained bruising, maybe residue under my fingernails.

Standard procedure, probably. Dosing me wasn't even necessary if I was already unconscious from alcohol. Just point me at the target, let muscle memory handle the mechanics, wait for the blackout to erase everything.

His father wanted to reconnect after decades of absence. That alone might have triggered state concern. Rekindling relationships means unpredictable information flow. Can't have former operatives suddenly developing emotional connections, sharing histories with estranged children. Someone decided the risk outweighed the benefit.

Sent me.

The certainty grows structural integrity throughout the morning. By lunch I can barely focus on anything else. Keep running the variables, checking for holes in the theory. Finding none. Every piece supports every other piece. Self-reinforcing logic, beautiful in its terrible completeness.

Afternoon. I find 204 in his room.

"Finished your book," I say, sitting across from him.

He looks up, exhales smoke. "That was fast. Most people take a week, if they bother at all."

"I read quickly when I'm looking for something specific."

"And did you find it?"

"Need to ask you something." I watch his face. "But I'm afraid of the answer."

His expression shifts into something almost playful. "Oh, this should be good. Let me guess, you want to know which patient I had the relationship with?" He grins. "Everyone always wants to know that part. Like it's the most interesting detail in the whole mess."

"No." I take a breath. "I want to know if you found who killed your father."

The grin dissolves. He stares at me for several seconds, smoke curling between us.

"Didn't expect that question." He taps ash. "No. Not yet. Still looking. When I find him, I'll kill him. Same method, same precision. Professional respect."

"I also worked for the state." The words come out steady, factual. "Like you. Except I was unconscious when I did it. Drunk, blacked out, no memory formation. They used those windows. Bigger operations, massacres, state-sponsored terrorism, bombs on trains and airplanes."

He doesn't react with shock. Just attention, the kind you give when someone's revealing tactical information.

"I understand," he says.

"Forehead shot," I continue. "That's clean work. Requires precision, close range, specific angle. Exactly the kind of thing they'd use an unconscious operative for. No motive, no memory, perfect deniability."

He's still watching me. Processing.

"I was drinking heavily five or six years ago. Blackout drunk several times a week. Perfect deployment window." I meet his eyes. "It's possible they made me do it. Especially if they'd heard you wanted to retire. Eliminating your father would accomplish multiple objectives. Remove someone who knew too much, warn you about emotional attachments, demonstrate operational reach."

Silence. He takes another drag, thinks.

"I know about the unconscious actors," he finally says. "The Fractioned program, apparently. State asset management. They dose you or wait for you to dose yourself, then activate protocols while you're offline." He considers. "There are medications. Pharmaceutical interventions that can block the amnesia pathways, let you remember even when you're supposed to forget. I found mine, you read about it in the book. Took some trial and error, has minor side effects. Visual distortions sometimes, slight tremor in my hands. But I've been clean for six months. Can actually reconstruct my timeline now. Remember where I was, what I did."

"You think I should take something like that?"

"I'm not a doctor." He stubs out the cigarette. "But I'll tell you this, you don't seem like the medication type. You seem like someone who needs to remember everything, process it completely, integrate it. Medication might just bury it differently."

"They haven't offered me anything like that here anyway."

"Yeah, that tracks." He lights another cigarette. "This place isn't about enhancement. It's about management."

We sit quietly. Two state operatives, one conscious and one not, comparing notes on violence and recovery and the strange mathematics of guilt.

"For what it's worth," he says eventually, "I don't think you killed my father."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I know approximately when and where he died. I've been reconstructing the operation, examining patterns, checking which other operatives were active in that region during that time frame. Your profile doesn't match. Wrong skill set, wrong deployment zone." He exhales smoke toward the sky. "You're probably responsible for other deaths. Maybe many. But not that particular one."

The relief I feel is complicated. Glad I didn't kill his father.

"Thank you," I say. "For checking."

"Professional courtesy." He almost smiles. "We're all trying to figure out what we did while we were switched off."

Back in my room the bathroom situation begins.

Not urgency exactly. Frequency. The kind where your body informs you every forty-five minutes that waste management is required, even though you haven't eaten enough to justify the volume.

I evacuate. Solid, healthy, normal consistency. Textbook bowel movement, the kind doctors would approve of.

Forty minutes later, I evacuate again. Same quality, same quantity. Impossible given caloric intake.

I review my meals. Toast at breakfast, barely touched. Half a sandwich at lunch, maybe three bites. No dinner yet. Maybe 400 calories total for the day.

Yet my intestines are producing like I've been eating for three.

Third trip to the bathroom. Fourth. Fifth. Each time, substantial results. No cramping, no distress, just reliable production. My body performing manufacturing operations independent of input.

I sit on the edge of the bed, thinking about 204's book. The sewer operative. The hidden mare. The underground infrastructure that nobody monitors.

The pattern assembles with that same crystalline quality from this morning.

Engineered intestinal flora.

The hypothesis forms complete: my gut bacteria have been modified. Not for health benefits or digestion optimization. For chemical synthesis. Producing precursors for psychotropic compounds, the full spectrum of substances currently circulating in illegal markets. Amphetamines, opioids, hallucinogens, dissociatives. Everything.

Collection method: sewage system. Specifically targeted collection from this facility, these pipes. Someone downstream with equipment sophisticated enough to separate my waste from the general flow, extract the compounds, process them into final products.

Activation mechanism: specific dietary triggers. Certain foods or additives that turn on production when I'm at designated locations. Here it would be something accessible, something everyone consumes without question.

The coffee machine.

I'd bet actual money there's a compound in either the coffee grounds or the water filtration that activates the bacteria. Probably tasteless, probably cleared from the blood within hours. But the flora responds, increases production, generates precursors.

I've had three cups of coffee today.

The mathematics works perfectly. Consumption triggers activation, bacteria synthesize compounds, I evacuate carrying maximum precursor concentration, collectors downstream extract and process. Efficient, elegant, completely deniable. I'm producing controlled substances inside my own body without consciousness or consent.

The precision of it is almost beautiful. Horrible, invasive, exploitative, but technically beautiful.

I go find the duty doctor.

She's in her office, writing notes, looking harassed. Standard Tuesday evening energy.

"I need to report something," I say.

She looks up. "Yes?"

"Drug trafficking. Using my body as production facility."

She sets down her pen slowly. Professional composure holding. "Explain, please."

"Intestinal flora. Engineered, probably while I was hospitalized during one of my earlier breakdowns. Modified bacteria producing precursors for psychotropic compounds. Someone's collecting from the sewage system." I speak clearly, laying out the evidence. "I've barely eaten for two days, maybe 400 calories today, but I'm evacuating five, six times daily. Substantial volumes. Production without corresponding input."

Her face maintains neutral interest.

"They activate the bacteria with dietary triggers. Something in the food or drinks here. Most likely the coffee machine, compound in the grounds or filtration. I've had three cups today and the production increased dramatically afterward."

"I see."

"There's probably an operative inside the facility. Or at minimum, someone downstream monitoring collection. The book I read mentions sewer operations underneath the city. Underground infrastructure for exactly this kind of trafficking."

She watches me for a moment. "Let me assure you, nobody here is using you for drug production."

"But the timeline matches perfectly. The volume is impossible to explain otherwise. Basic conservation of mass"

"I understand you're making connections between different pieces of information." Her voice carries that particular gentleness that means she thinks I'm delusional. "I understand you've been reading material that suggests underground operations and exploitation. But this specific theory isn't supported by evidence."

"The evidence is my excessive bowel movements despite minimal caloric intake."

"Which could be explained by numerous other factors. Stress, medication side effects, dietary changes, gastrointestinal infection." She stands, signaling end of discussion. "I want you to focus on eating more regularly. Stay hydrated. We'll monitor your digestion and check in tomorrow morning."

Dismissal. Professional, kind, absolute.

I walk back to the ward. The theory still holds complete logical coherence in my mind. Every piece supporting every other piece. But I recognize that explaining it makes me sound exactly like what I probably am: someone whose pattern-recognition systems have exceeded their designed parameters.

The thing about being potentially delusional is you can't tell from inside. The logic always feels airtight.

The ward corridors carry news the way water carries current. Information flows person to person, distorting slightly with each transmission, but maintaining essential shape.

Tonight's transmission: someone discovered an empty beer bottle hidden inside a toilet tank. Not in the bowl, in the tank itself. High up, behind the flush mechanism, wedged into a space that requires both knowledge of plumbing and gymnastic flexibility to access.

I hear it from three different sources within twenty minutes. Each telling includes verification, multiple people have seen it, nurses are investigating, nobody can explain how it got there.

Impossible logistics. They search everything at intake. Bags, clothing, body cavities. Random room inspections happen weekly. The communal bathrooms get checked daily by cleaning staff who specifically look for contraband.

Yet the bottle exists. Physical object, verified by witnesses, occupying space that should be sealed to patients.

I think about the mare breathing in tunnels underneath the city where horses can't survive. Medications that erase consciousness while bodies complete complex operations. Intestinal flora that may or may not be synthesizing compounds in darkness.

The bottle proves something. Either security has gaps large enough for determined creativity, or someone on staff is complicit, or the whole facility operates with looser rules than officially stated.

The ambiguity refuses resolution. Every explanation sounds equally plausible, equally insane.

I close my eyes. Somewhere beneath this building, waste flows through pipes toward processing plants.

The bathroom calls. I get up, evacuate normally, return to bed. My intestines continue their mysterious productivity.