By Mike Wishart
The following transcript comes from the journal of Fairfield University student Michael Wishart, as recovered by Fairfield University’s Department of Public Safety. WARNING: The following content may be disturbing to some readers.
Friday, January 29th, 2021
Today my townhouse seems a lot bigger than it usually is, and my bed feels just a little bit colder. That is because all of my roommates have been moved into quarantine at the illustrious Trumbull Marriott due to contact tracing. I am now the only one left, kinda like Mark Wahlberg in that movie. Ah I forget which one it is. Ted 2? Or was it Transformers 4? Oh I remember now, it was Boogie Nights. Anyway, also like Mark Wahlberg I fear that there is something lurking in the shadows seeking to end my existence. Whereas for Wahlberg it is his past hate crimes, for me it is COVID-19. As I write this the totality of my isolation is becoming increasingly clear. With nobody to tuck me in, it is time to conclude my first day in solitary confinement.
Saturday, January 30th, 2021
The day has consisted of me walking around my house in my underwear, singing miscellaneous passages of songs one after another. I bounce between the Backstreet Boys, Celine Dion, the Sesame Street theme song, and everything in between. Despite this, I feel that my mental state remains strong.
As I write this Townhouse 52 basks in the light of a setting sun, signaling the passage of another day in solitude. When will I again make contact with my comrades? Only time will tell. Yet I hold out hope, for it is the cow that takes the longest time to milk that yields the sweetest cream.
Sunday, January 31st, 2021
A man never knows how lonely he truly is until he realizes he’s out of toilet paper. But God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers.
Monday, February 1st, 2021
I fear that I am finally starting to lose what little sanity I began this imprisonment with. But the man that lives inside the walls tells me he thinks I’m doing just fine. To try to regain my composure I have turned to accomplishing various tasks. I used the surplus of rotting bananas left behind by my associates to make a banana bread, it’s the man in the walls’ favorite. Though he won’t eat any. I don’t know what I did to upset him. To make matters worse I burned my hand pretty severely taking the bread out of the oven. My right hand is pretty much useless, and typing this entry has taken me three hours. I think the man in the walls hears me typing. He doesn’t like it. Gotta go.
Tuesday, February 2nd, 2021
2 feet of bright snow has fallen. They say that white is the color of purity. I can’t help but chuckle at the irony as the white snow piles higher and higher on this house of sin. My sanity diminishes with every falling inch, for I know it signals less time with my dear friends, and more time with my demons. Travel out of here is impossible and supplies are running low. Lord give me strength.
Friday, February 5th, 2021
The voices haven’t stopped for days now. They say the most terrible things, “You’ll never leave this place!”, “Morgan Wallen isn’t racist!”, “They’re never gonna make National Treasure 4!”
It’s becoming more than I can handle, and I need to end the constant yelling. I’ve decided to burn this house to ground, to cleanse it of the demons that inhabit it. This is the only logical conclusion I have for having spent eight days in isolation in a reasonably appointed apartment. This may be the last bite of banana bread I ever have. Which is a shame because it’s super dense because I didn’t have baking powder.
See you on the other side.
This transcript and the laptop it was recorded on were recovered from the remains of Townhouse 52. Michael Wishart was found burrowed in the snow nearby with bits of drywall stuck in his hair, wearing nothing but a loincloth made out of rotten banana peels. He is expected to make a full recovery though the doctors inform us he will never be able to make banana bread again.