My name is Jeremiah. Jeremiah with a last name, certainly, but as of now that last name is not within my cognitive reach. Whether the winds have brushed it aside to the corners of my mind, or if the government has finally found me for all the sins of my long life, I cannot tell. So for now, you and anyone you may talk with regarding my stories and I may refer to me as Jeremiah, or Mr. J, or Jay. At times you may call me Vizzle. These are the names given to me by my family and friends, though I cannot recall their names at this time either; but I am certain I will at least once throughout this book, so remember to keep your eyes focused on it. It’s no matter to me if you know my last name or not, and at some points of my life I would probably have been much opposed to giving out such incredulous details associated to my well-being. These logs are for history, and for the suits to finally understand what they have so long sought, and what they have missed regarding the stories of Jeremiah Isaac Duberman.
I lie here in my fortress of solitude, where the younger men and women fear me, all races included – white, black, Asian, and darker Asian. My notes are scribbled on pads of paper and tissue I have meticulously stolen and kept under my pillows, from the many food trays they bring me daily. Their food is hard, however, with usual assortments of bread and meat most probably grown from their labs. They have kept me sedated for more months than I can remember, for their charts on the wall continue to fall whenever the letter X’s fill the boxes. What does it mean?
Alas, their poisons keep my mind blank, as every time I begin to connect their many dots and tied strings of plans, I forget it all again. They give me looks, with shadows under their eyes etched in secrets, and I know. I ask them what they’ve done with the older man who used to lie beside me, the one with the grey hair and the wrinkled skin. They say they’ve moved Mr. Mirror to the other room. He never told me his name was Mr. Mirror, and many times I read the name “Dubbman” on his wrist. Their lies have grown sloppy.
A man passes by outside, whom I only see due to the adaptation my eyes have developed over these many months. For a plastic curtain hangs over the glass window, grey and white in color and always stiff, but even then my vision passes through its solidity. I watch them, from dusk ‘till dawn, walking back and forth with their many charts. When they look I turn my head, for this is my only advantage at this time. For now, until they discover.
“Dubbman!” I shout at the passing man in the blue scrubs. My voice is like the roar of my childhood youth, and for that I am proud; but it is too strong, it seems, as the man’s face shows only fear. His gait quickens as I shout again, “Dubbman!” just as loud as before. They do not need to tell me the truth of what horrors they have committed upon the old man, for they show it with their fear.