Story debate.

It was not going to be a good morning for Arnie. It began with Arnie waking up the same way he did every morning: arms at his sides bent at the elbow ninety degrees with his hands resting comfortably on his stomach, which rose and fell in perfect tempo. His breath always entered steadily through the nostrils and exited with equal measure through relaxed lips. Arnie did not move in his sleep. Ever. He wouldn't allow it. Nothing escaped Arnie's perfect control. He was, by his own admission, a perfect example of the human specimen. He exercised perfectly, not too much and not too little. He counted every calorie to two decimal places and weighed his portions in milligrams. He took a twenty-two minute nap every day at precisely 2:22 in the afternoon. He took mental breaks every ninety minutes to ensure his brain worked at peak efficiency. Arnie was not married. He was not interested in variables he could not control or predict. A spouse would disrupt the routine. A spouse would require children. Children would make a routine truly impossible. Family life held no appeal to Arnie. Going to bed at exactly 10:10 every night and waking up every morning at exactly 6:06 every morning was far more stimulating. Arnie did not have need an alarm. If Arnie awoke one minute late or one minute early on any giving morning you could be rest assured the clock needed adjusting. Yawn first, stretch the limbs, and open the eyes. That was Arnie's perfect routine for returning to consciousness, and he did exactly that on this most unusual morning. Yawn. Stretch. Open. The room came into focus. He sought the familiar constellations of his popcorn ceiling. They had names, all in Latin. They were all missing. Porcum. Cane. Horologium. The others. All gone. Only a dull, flat ceiling greeted him. A twinge of panic attempted to force its way into Arnie's physiology, but Arnie resisted. Control. Arnie was always in control. A ceiling was nothing. He could handle a flat ceiling. Arnie permitted an additional deep breath, unscheduled though it was. Extenuating circumstances must be allowed sometimes. Arnie closed his eyes and allowed his other senses to take stock of his environment. The weight of the covers was incorrect. The bed was much too firm. The room felt much too small. He allowed his ears to work. He heard people talking from various distances and locations. Their words were not distinguishable indicating the place was large. Footsteps could be heard echoing throughout the place, and he calculated that the walls were a bare, hard material. The panic stirred again and this time Arnie could allowed it. Heart pumping, Arnie opened his eyes and sat up. Cement walls surrounded him on all sides but one. One wall was not cement. That one wall right in front of him set his anxiety into full roar. One would think that one non-cement wall would be a relief. One would be wrong if that one non-cement wall was a wall of bars. Arnie's pulse immediately increased to cardio-vascular-workout speeds. His brain kicked into overdrive scanning his memories for the events that led him to here, but nothing in his gray matter explained this phenomena. He went to bed, in his own bed, at precisely 10:10 last night. He was sure of it. His memory never failed him. Right? He was always in control, right? Arnie stood on wobbly legs and jerkily walked to the bars. Not far down the hall, three officers in uniform stood shooting the breeze"water cooler talk without the water cooler. "Excuse me?" he called through hyperventilated breaths. The officers rolled their eyes and seemed to telepathically play a quick game of ro-sham-bo to determine which one would have to actually do their job for a few minutes. The unspoken loser dawdled over to the bars. When he got there, he crossed his arms and cocked his head. Clearly, acknowledging Arnie with words was far too much to ask. "Why am I here?" Arnie asked. The cops burst into laughter, a raucous which seemed to have no end in sight. After a few eons, the laughter subsided and the teary-eyed cop said, "Arnie, you're always good for a laugh." Arnie nearly passed out at the sound of his name. He had heard his name in many different tones: condescending, ambivalent, and occasionally jovial. Rarely did he hear his name spoken with such familiar regard, even from this own mother. "Do I know you?" he asked the cop. "Arnie," replied the officer. "You really are a card." "No, seriously," said Arnie. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I has home last night, I"I went to bed at home last night and woke up here." The cops' smiles faded. "Damn," said the officer at the bars. The other cops nodded knowingly." I suppose the crazies hit everyone after a few years. I was holding out for you though, Arnie. You seemed to have it together upstairs, more than most." "A few years?" gasped Arnie. " I d"don't understand? What am I doing here?" Arnie stumbled backward and sat hard onto his bunk. "W"what have I done?" The cop's demeanor turned to one of pity. "Hey man, just take it easy. Every prisoner in here has their days, alright? The docs have some mumbo-jumbo term for it, but I just call it a case of the regrets. Sometimes a guilty conscience just needs to forget, you know?" "Forget what?" panted Arnie, now in a fully-fledged panic attack. "Arnie, relax," urged the cop. "You need to calm down. You know why you're in here: the same reason as everyone that ends up in this hell hole." Arnie began to cry. "Please, just tell me." "You killed them, Arnie. You know you killed them. Stop pretending different." "Killed who?" "Your wife, Arnie. You killed her, remember? And your kids? They're gone Arnie, and that's why you're here." Arnie's panic was instantly replaced by confusion. This couldn't be possible. Arnie was in control. He was always in control. He was mechanical. He was precise. He had no wife. He had no kids. This was not right. The cop scuffed his feet along the floor as he left Arnie in peace. Arnie closed his eyes tight and let his scrupulous brain work. He isolated the variables. Variable one was binary: either his memory was accurate or a delusion. Surely delusions could be overcome. Arnie was an expert at self-control. He just needed to find a hole in his memory to prove it faulty. He searched for any recollection whatsoever of a wife, of a child. Nothing. Not a name, not even a vowel. His mind was completely blank. He decided to ask the guards. Arnie opened his eyes. He was sitting on his bed in his own room. No bars. No cement walls. No guards. Everything was still and quiet except for the rush of blood through his veins. "What is going on?" he said aloud. Arnie buried his head into his hands in exasperation. His hands were warm and wet. He pulled them back and looked at them horrified. They were covered in blood. It was not going to be a good morning for Arnie.