Welcome to Case Closed. You're listening to Sometimes I Lie by Alice Feeney, narrated by Stephanie Racine. Let's pick up where we left off last time.

Now, Thursday, 29th December, 2016.

Someone was in my room.

He listened to the messages on my phone, deleted them, and then told me it was my fault that I'm here in the hospital.

It wasn't a dream.

I can't sleep now, I'm too afraid.

Scared of what I know, scared of what I don't.

I'm not sure how long it has been since his visit, but at least he hasn't come back. Time has stretched

into something I can no longer tell. I wish someone would fill in the gaps. There are so many,

as though I'm trapped inside the body of someone who lived a life I don't remember.

Here's an interesting end to our morning rounds,

who can tell me about this case.

I hear them gather at the end of the bed.

The chorus of doctors all sound the same to me.

I want to tell them to get out.

Just fix me or go away. I'm forced to listen while they talk about me as though I'm not

here. They take it in turns to share how little they know of what is wrong with me and when I'll wake up.

I have to tell myself when.

The thought of it being if isn't an option I'm willing to consider.

As soon as they run out of wrong answers, they evacuate my room.

I must have slept because my parents are here again now. They sit either side of the

bed, barely making a sound, as though there is nobody there at all. I wish that they would say

...