Man's Laughter (GX)

[Dominator / Mortimer]

OOC: This is an RP submitted for a 'Royal Rumble' format match in a fed back in January of this year. I am genuinely proud of how it turned out. The sequel to this roleplay almost shut the site down due to the graphic content.

THIS STORY IS DARK!

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED


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“Huh… what?”



“Where am I?”



“Why can’t I move?”



01/0X/201X



DAY ONE



Your most recent visions belong to the colourless surroundings that encase you. Thick fog rolls in from afar, leaving a monotonous canvas of gloominess across your line of sight. The very day is in mourning. A grand monolith stands in front of you, a building that looks so decrepit from the outside that it must surely be inhospitable. Gargoyles judge you from their perches. Even the trees seem to be recoiling at your very presence. So stained are the windows of the building that, combined with miasma, you are barely able to make out the light shining from the inside. You try to move your head, but it does not budge. You feel pressure against your forehead as you try to look in a different direction. It is being restrained by something.



Given that your physical motions are restricted, you instead endeavour to recollect exactly how you arrived at this predicament. Even your memory fails you. You cannot remember yesterday. You cannot remember the last week. Your name? Yes… you know your name. It’s you. It’s definitely you. At least your amnesia wasn’t severe as some cases. You remember your family and your friends. You remember all of your favourite activities. Somehow, you even remember that one dirty little secret that you’ve never told anybody before; that one little regret that you carry shamefully with you wherever you may go. To say that you don’t have one, you’d simply be lying to yourself. So how is it possible to remember all this, yet be unable to remember… the very last thing you remember?



What is this place doing to you?



Approaching you through the murkiness come several figures. You are unable to determine exactly how many. Not due to their volume, but rather the coloration of their clothing; dark, camouflaging themselves perhaps unintentionally. Yet, you notice a glint of light reflect of metallic objects held in their hands.



Are those… guns!?



What the fuck is going on?



Two individuals make their way through past the sentry, both dressed in lighter clothing, yet it is still as colourless as those around them. One of them is resting a clipboard on their forearm, using a pen in their right hand to scour whatever phraseology covers it.



“This is Patient 003078,” a man in a white jacket assertively states. The number means nothing to you, although you do seem to note the methodology of the man’s speech; “Double-O, Three, Zero, Seven, Eight.” You find the erroneousness of his speech patterns amusing, yet you are unable to force yourself to laugh in spite of said entertainment. It would seem that you are incapable of much. Only now do you notice the restrictive choice of attire which most would refer to as a “straightjacket.” You try to protest, yet your words are muffled through a mask that engulfs your entire face, but more so the lower portion. You can make out the Hannibal Lecter-esque slats of metal that shield your mouth from causing potential harm to those around you, yet an inner layer of fabric that acts as a gag impedes your speech. Upon noticing this, you try to mumble a protest. It is unheard. Or rather ignored.



“Interesting,” his much older colleague, most likely the other man’s superior, hums with a stroke of his wispy white beard. You are unable to see the whites of his eyes, the reflective lens in his spectacles acting as a barrier of sorts. You notice him look you up and down, perhaps admiring your peak physical condition. “Welcome to Markmill Asylum; your new home.”



Asylum!?



Your feel your eyes bulge in shock. Immediately, you stifle a scream, thrashing around to try and free yourself of your shackles, or, more ideally, wake yourself up from this nightmare. They do not relent. The straps around your wrists and shins dig into your skin, causing the sensation that suggests you would have to slice off your own limbs in order to free yourself. Your pleas are utterly in vain. The guards aim their weaponry at you, but the senior doctor dismisses them with a wave of his hand, not even looking back to face them. You can only assume that this man is a ‘doctor’ based on the logic of his underling referring to you as a ‘patient.’



“My, aren‘t you a feisty one,” the doctor says derogatorily, unimpressed at your feeble bid for freedom. “I suggest that they are allocated to the…” he pauses to lean in further towards you, as if to speak directly to you rather than his associate…



“Intensive… Treatment Unit.”



He spaces each other these three words individually as if committing them to haunt you for the rest of your days. Your eyes widen once more, the doctor’s intentions fulfilled.



“Dr. Siegfried,” the man in the white jacket says in dispute, “I hardly find that to be necessary given the lack of information we have on this individual, nor the extend or the nature of his psychosis…” This earns the younger doctor a stern and displeased glance from his superior, who changes the tone of his voice based solely on the sheer venom of the Medusa-like stare. “Y-Yes, sir,” he stammers apologetically. “Guards, escort our guest to the ITU.”



Two of the patrolmen step forward, one moving either side of you. As an act of graciousness, the strap keeping your head secured is loosened. Cautiously, you move your head from side to side. You give a thankful look to the guard responsible, but he takes no heed of your gratitude. You suddenly begin to move jerkily, but involuntarily. Your legs do not move. Instead, you seem to be the cargo on some form of trolley. The brick path beneath you is uneven, making the ride incredibly uncomfortable. There never seems to be a moment where all four wheels make contact with the ground, heartlessly jarring you. You feel the sort of spasms that would be associated by a high voltage shock.



Fortuitously, after an even jerkier ascent up a small sequences of steps, the floor evens out, making your welcoming tour to the facility all the more smoother, but by no means more settling. The senior doctor referred to as ‘Dr. Seigfried’ walks just a couple of paces in front of the trolley, the guards in control of your transportation keeping to his speed.



“Only our most severe cases are sent to the ITU,” he says to you from over his shoulder, the acronym referring to the place where you will be calling ‘home’ for goodness knows how long. “And considering our track record of underestimating past patient’s capabilities, I’m afraid we can’t afford to take any chances. I’m sure you understand.”



You don’t.



“Sir!”



You grind to a halt. Another doctor bursts through the doorway, causing the practitioners around you to twist their heads in line with the source of such a loud and excitable noise. Before Dr. Seigfried can vocalise his discontent with such an entrance, he is cut off by the news which this new figure delivers. “We’ve got him, sir! Patient 000259 has been secured.”



Dr. Seigfried clamps the wire rim surrounding one lens of his glasses and slides them down the length of his nose. Finally, he cracks something akin to a smirk, exhibiting an amalgamation of joy, relief and triumph that would look more comfortable on an Olympian winning gold.



“So we’ve finally tracked that sick bastard down,” he mutters seemingly to himself. “Do we have an ETA?” he enquires with a louder voice so that it is heard across the room.



“A full police convoy is rolling towards Markmill as we speak, sir,” the messenger replies. “I would approximate he will arrive any minute now.”



“In which case, I suggest we heighten security right away,” he says as a suggestion, yet means as an instruction. His staff take note of his request, those whose duty this falls unto scatter in various directions, leaving only the individual who had analysed you upon your own entry to the facility along with Dr. Siegfried himself. “We’ll throw a little welcoming party for him.” He turns to the doctor stood directly next to you. “Prepare additional transportation to the ITU.”



“Yes, sir,” the young consultant acknowledges, making haste to comply with Dr. Seigfried’s demand by withdrawing a communication device resembling a walkie-talkie and speaking into it, his words are inaudible as a result of the distance he has placed between himself and Dr. Seigfried, who once again is leaning right into your guarded face. You notice a stench of stale cigar smoke and whiskey transfused with the impure aroma of failing dental hygiene, combined with that inimitable smell of ‘old people’ that comes from his Santa-esque white beard, the concoction of which makes you feel nauseous.



“This is a high security inmate that we will be transporting,” he says to you ominously, filling you with dread. “You are not to engage him in any way. Do not look at him, do not speak to him, do not even acknowledge him.” The churn in your stomach upon hearing this warning makes you wonder how Dr. Seigfried’s natural scent had perturbed you before. You wonder why, if such an inmate were so dangerous, the facility would jeopardise your health by keeping you within his vicinity, or rather why you are not transported separately.



The sudden activation of a klaxon startles your grievances back into the cracks of your mind. A rolling red light illuminates your face momentarily, blinding you every second upon a complete rotation. There is abrupt commotion from nearby. A voice on a tannoy can only be faintly heard over the electronic wail that fills the corridor, yet you cannot make out the exact warning that it speaks. Whatever trolley you are strapped to begins to move backwards. A hoard of personnel suddenly pour through the doorway ahead of you like a flash flood, ranging from doctors and consultants to police officers, some armoured with riot shields and helmets, others simply armed with batons and guns.



“Keep your eyes trained on him at all times,” Dr. Siegfried orders, his eyes wander back to you to ensure that your motivations remain absent. He waves over the doctor who had completed preparations for your transportation to stand watch over you along with some of his colleagues that have joined him amidst the chaos. You do not notice the doctors take your side, instead you are focused on what is transpiring ahead of you; the disorder that Dr. Seigfried has left you to take control of. A second trolley is carted through the corridor, flanked by the armed personnel you noticed swarm in earlier. The klaxon ceases as the troupe approach you.



“Eddie!” a slightly stifled yet distinctively grating voice calls joyfully. “So good to see you, again! Did you get the Christmas present I sent over the holidays? I thought it was bloody good!”



“If you’re referring to a dismembered hand with the diamond ring on it, then yes, it was certainly… bloody,” Dr. Seigfried states grimly.



“What?” the new patient shrieks, aghast, “do you mean to say that… you don’t accept my proposal? Oh, Eddie! I really thought we had something! Just give me a chance, Eddie! I promise, I don’t bite.” While insinuated sarcastically, there was a certain amount of conviction laced in his voice, as if he truly was crushed that his actions were not given the attention that he so clearly desperately craved.



“That’s a lie and you know it,” Dr. Seigfried snarls. The patient chuckles wickedly to himself.



“That’s true,” he cackles before letting out a vicious sneer. “How do you think I severed the hand?”



He was joking, right? More to the point, how was he capable of speech? If this inmate was supposed to be such a hazard to society, why has he



Clearly vexed by these thoughts, it is immediately noticed by the new arrival.



“Mmm…” he hums hungrily to himself, licking his bulbously thick lips with a pointed tongue that flaps between jagged, stained teeth. “Fresh meat.”



You are unnerved, although you notice a young female doctor stood between the two of you is also taken aback by his comments, yet somehow she remains a greater deal more composed than what you do. She looks towards you and flitters a smile towards you; the most kind hearted gesture anyone has given you since this ordeal started. Your eyes meet. You smile back, yet it is still hidden by the mask smothering your face.



Such a beautiful girl. Surely she must be an intern, no older than eighteen years of age. It is difficult to ascertain her exact heritage. She could be of Asian descent, yet her voice seems to have more of a Western twang. Her very appearance is somewhat “moe.” Her hair is cut short, not even reaching her shoulders. It barely hangs any lower than her chin. You notice the colour of her hair. You find it unusual… something between a light brown and a pale red, or a mauve type of pink? Does that even make sense? Is it a natural colour? Before you can deliberate any further, you notice a perfectly tied red bow knotted into her hair lopped to one side, standing pristinely as if held by superglue.



She continues to look at you all the way to the entrance to the ‘Intenstive Treatment Unit.’ Bold lettering above a doorway that looks far more secure than any other you have traversed through up to now makes this apparent. She only breaks the exchange to insert a key into a console before entering a code into a keypad. You cannot make out what combination of buttons she presses. A mechanical hiss is heard as the doors open upon authorisation.



“Don’t even think about trying anything with them,” Dr. Siegfried cautions this Patient 000259 character, ‘them’ referring to you, “if I see even a bruise on their skin, I’ll ensure you receive plenty more.”



“You really DO care!” Patient 000259 yells like a schoolgirl who had just been asked to the prom. Heeding Dr. Seigfried’s early caveat, you jerk your head away. You can feel your heart pounding inside of your chest as if trying to break free and escape whatever horrors this psychopath might have in mind for you.





DAY FOUR



Four days into this form of sentencing, you were no closer to obtaining any factual evidence as to why you had been incarcerated. You had been surrounded by the same walls for all this time. Whoever drew up the blueprints to design such a facility deserved to be locked inside of their own creation. Three of the walls, the ones to either side of you and behind you, are brick walls clad with thick, white padding intended to reduce self harm. Directly in front you are a series of unforgiving parallel bars of solid iron, more running vertically than horizontally in a typical ‘prison cell’ layout. So too are the bars directly above you head. If the intention is to reduce the risk of suicidal tendencies, why only make the room three-quarters of the optimum efficaciousness?



Still, at least the door leading to and from your cell had been designed appropriately amongst the iron bars. They had been designed so that they could only be unlocked from the outside. Closing them would cause them to lock automatically. The means to do this was similar to the method of entering the ITU itself; a keypad on a console of sorts on the door itself. However, the metal was so thick around the door that it would be near impossible to reach around from the inside in order to make a bid for freedom.



So yes… at least the doors were designed properly, not that it helped your plans to return to whatever life you had prior to arriving here.



Your facilities were minimal; a bed, a toilet, a sink, a chair and a table, all of which were bolted securely into the ground and walls.



Directly opposite you, only around ten feet away from your position, was the insecurely-minded patient that you had been forced to share this wing with. Out of all the patients held in this asylum, it was only the two of you that occupied this particular department. You found this to be out of the ordinary, although it had quickly settled in that the way things worked in such a penitentiary would not be what you would expect.



Out of sheer boredom, you look at Patient 000259. Properly. You had only glanced at him before, but only now do you take the time to make note of his distinguishing features. His skin is pale; practically albino. It is also particularly wizened, yet it does not appear to be a curse of age. The multiple scars about his person suggests he has been through many wars, but the reality is more probable to be that he has instigated whatever struggles that might have occurred. The most prominent of these scars are the ones around his lips; two curved scars from the very corners of his mouth going upwards around his cheeks, giving the effect of a smile. They themselves are surrounded by other smaller scars, leaving such brutal facial disfigurement that not even the world’s most talented plastic surgeon would be able to restore. And then there is his hair. Although it could be black, it appears to be so infested with grime and filth that it gives off a greenish aura.



Noticing your gaze, his eyes latch on to yours. You catch a glimpse of dark, sagging skin under his eyes before quickly looking away. Amused by your reaction, Patient 000259 lets out a grin.



“Like what you see, boy?” he poses like a model on a catwalk, perform a pirouette and placing a finger on his scarred lips suggestively. You roll your eyes, unimpressed by this attempt at humour. “That’s right, you know you can’t handle this,” he chuckles, slapping one of his buttocks like a lap dancer before throwing himself onto his bed. He appears to have struck the padded wall first before falling onto the mattress.



“I’m so… fucking… bored,” he groans, sharing your own notion. “So, what are you in here for, anyway?” he brings up the conversation that you could not respond to. “Bludgeon an ex-partner to death with a sledgehammer? Rip out a baby from a mother’s womb and sell it for crack money? Knock out multiple hobos’ teeth for the tooth fairy to make you rich?” He whittles off a whole list of different likely scenarios like that, each more obscure, yet disturbing than the last. You do not dignify him with an answer, but you don’t exactly tell him to stop either.



Is he just making these ideas up in his head, or is he trying to compare to crimes he has actually carried out himself.



“Me?” he says as if you‘d asked the question, despite you not even opening your mouth. “All of the above,” he confirms. You grimace. “When your mind disappears, life itself appears to you in its truest form,” Patient 000259 says condemningly. “What is to say that what you know to be true isn’t just a lie in itself? Think about it. We feast while others starve. We march into war in search of peace. We seek love and affection only to know that, ultimately, we will cause each other pain through death. Do you not find the irony of it all?”



His lust for human flesh is more suitably reserved from creatures given birth from tales of the undead, though his natural cravings are well thought out and premeditated. His own plans are followed to the letter as opposed to simple zombification. Whereas, your own lust for human flesh comes through the warmth of human embrace and social interaction.



“Minds are malleable contraptions,” he snickers, “People tend to confuse strong-mindedness with being strong willed. A mind is easy to break. It is also easy to be reformed or tainted differently, but to break a strong will takes something much more.” He stares right at you, your eyes coming together once more. “There is nothing in this world that is more dangerous than a deranged mind with a strong will.”



You look away. Those words are ominously accurate.



With perfect timing, the familiar whiz of the unit’s main access door sliding open causes Patient 000259’s focus to shift. You breath a small sigh of grief, thanking whatever deity you think may have saved you from such trauma. Upon seeing who approaches, you are practically prepared to make a sacrifice to said divine being in its name. An armed guard waits behind as she saunters towards the two of you. It is the same young doctor who had escorted you to the ITU upon your advent.



Unlike virtually every other person you have seen in this facility thus far, her attire is far more casual. She wears a grey blazer that fits tightly against her, beneath which is a white blouse and low-cut beige pullover of sorts. There is a ribbon tied around her collar forming a neat double-knotted bow of sorts. A blue skirt covers the upper portion of her legs, the shade of which is only slightly deeper than that displayed in her eyes, which only leaves her knees and shins, perfectly shaven, almost reflecting the light of the room in which we are situated. You cannot help but continue to stare at her as you have done since she entered the room.



And then you notice her eyes; her irises a piercing blue that gaze directly into yours. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. You feel uneasiness rush through you, which the girl is able to distinguish immediately. Noticing this, you hang your head in an attempt to thwart the lustful thoughts from manifesting. She lets out a small smile, which she shields with curled fingers to hide the exact extent of the amusement she finds towards your reaction.



“I’m sorry that it has taken so much time before you’ve been seen,” she apologises. It is the most sincere voice that you have heard since arriving here, rather than the droning voices of jobsworths who only seemed interested in moving you along to cease their own involvement. It was the same practitioner who had walked alongside you upon your entry into the ITU. You feel enlightened almost right away.



“My name is Dr. Highwater,” she states sweetly. “But you can call me Helen.”



“Helen Highwater? Really?” Patient 000259 groans as if to himself but clearly wanting Dr. Highwater to hear him.



“I will kindly ask that you refrain from making any sort of ridicule based on my name,” she politely requests, consulting documents secured to a clipboard. You remain perfectly silent and still, not even cracking a smile in spite of the overwhelming desire to do so. It would appear that you are transfixed on this doctor, sizing up her figure…



And measurements.



Perhaps pervertedly, you gaze towards her bust. Though not the biggest, it complements her petite and slender figure



“You’re so beautiful,” he creepily jeers to her. “I could fold you up like a fucking deckchair!”



You grimace. Such a disgusting way to treat a woman. Yet, what dumbfounds you the most out of this chutzpah is Dr. Highwater’s riposte; a giggle that gives off more of a smitten impression than that of amusement alone.



“You must Patient 000259,” she spins on her heels to look at him. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”



“If we’re going to keep referring to each other by numbers, I’m going to have to start calling you my Number One,” he flashes another of his sick grins. You clench the bars of your cell. Could your heightening grip be fuelled by a sheer instinctive loathing for such a cretinous individual? Or could it be the most simple form of jealousy that two males could create over the covetousness of female interest.



At the very least, you are finally able to catch a glimpse of Dr. Highwater’s pert and circular posterior.



“And what should I call you?” Helen pouts, running the tip of one of her fingers between the narrow gap in her lips.



“That depends,” Patient 000259 says, his voice dipping without notice. “I go by many names. ‘Freak, Weirdo, Psycho, Crazy, Sick, Sick-Bastard, Crazy-Sick-Bastard; just to name a few.” Her amusement quickly fades.



“We will have time to talk later,” she says, spinning on her heel to face you. You look away once more, a common trait that you have adopted as of late. Dr. Seigfried’s warning on your first day seems to have concreted itself in your mind more than you had realised. “I’m here to see you first; Patient 003078. I have to admit, I feel a little unprepared,” Miss Highwater says whilst referring to her notes. “I am normally given details pertaining to your incarceration. After all, the main reason patients are brought to Markmill Asylum is because they have committed some form of heinous act or crime that has been brought about due to problems within the assailant’s mental capabilities. However, I have not been given any such information about you. Can you perhaps explain to me why you believe you are here?”



You can only shrug your shoulders to yourself. If you knew the answer, you would answer her. Your silence only makes her suspicions grow. Unsurely, she flicks through more pieces of paper, trying to find something that she can go by to actually begin this session.



“In fact, I don’t really have any information about you full stop. I don’t even have a name for you.” Helen looks at you expectantly, as if seeking enlightenment. You draw breath, ready to respond to the one question that you’ve been asked that you genuinely know the answer to. Before you can do so, you are distracted by whistling from nearby. Patient 000259 now has the same view of Helen that you had only moment ago. Behind her back, he is spanking the air, whistling and humming a rendition of “Smack That” by Akon. As Helen turns around to see what the fuss is all about, he quickly shoots his hand behind his head, pretending to cure an itch. His tune goes off course into something far more arbitrary and tuneless. She looks back to you, her smile now a little off thanks to the interruption.



“I suppose I will see you for proper assessment and evaluation in a few days,” Helen smiles. “I think there are a few too many distractions to have this sort of conversation out in the open.” Out in the open? There are only three of us in the whole room. Four if you include the guard. Before you can protest she walks away, peering over her shoulder to smile at you and Patient 000259.



“Smack That, get on the floor,” the patient sings in a tone deaf voice. You shake your head. Hopefully you will get to spend a bit more time with Dr. Highwater of the coming days. Spending the rest of your life with this outrageous individual would drive the sanest man alive into lunacy



DAY TEN



With your treatment moving in the right direction, Miss Highwater had informed you that you would soon be moved to the West Wing; where, apparently, the ’more mentally stable’ inmates are held. Your biggest trial was today. It starts in the asylum’s chapel. Even psychopaths have some form of religious obligations that the facility at least has the decency to adhere to. Your role for the day would be Bell Ringer, notifying the other patients of when the service would be due to start.



Two guards stand either side of you; armed with weapons designed to immobilise, but not injure. They adopt the same posture; one arm is folded around their back, their fingertips only slightly submerged into the rear pockets of their trousers, feeling the plastic of their tasers that have been warmed by their own body heat.



Heresay dictated that past inmates had attempted to use the rope secured to the bell’s clapper for nefarious means, be it unto others or themselves. As such, the guards were stood in an accurate enough position to avoid harm yet leap into action if needed.



You consult a watch. Your instructions state for the bells to toll precisely five minutes before the start of the day’s service. Though the action is straightforward enough, you cannot help but feel a little pensive.



It was a result of this silence that you welcomed the greetings of the parishioners, even if you could not bring yourself to converse with them. Although the one positive you could take from your punishment was that you did not have to tolerate the neighbourly jeers and insults from Patient 000259.



“Oh,” a voice suddenly exerts itself in your direction. You look over to see Miss Highwater paused at the top of the aisle close to the main doorway into the chapel. She beams at you apologetically, clasping both her hands together held upwards above her chest. She walks towards you; your grip immediately tightens on the rope as the awkwardness of her presence makes you feel uncomfortable, yet somehow pleased as well. “I’m glad you are alright,” Helen says. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean for you to end up in Solitary for five whole days. I tried to explain to Dr. Seigfried that it was a misunderstanding, but once his mind is made up about something there is no going back.” The nature of her apology is sincere and you feel that you have already forgiven her, as if the past few days had not even happened now that Helen had graced you with her presence. “Although,” she continues optimistically, “Dr. Seigfried has assigned me to examine and rehabilitate all of the patients in the ITU.” You let out a large smile. You feel delighted for her, but you are more excited about spending personal, uninterrupted quality time with her. She notices the redness in your face and mimics it with a chameleonic hot flush of her own. “I mean, there are only two of you right now, of course. But I feel comfortable talking to you. You seem to listen to everything that I say intently. You don’t give the same sort of backlash that…” she quickly cuts herself off. “I can’t say anymore than that,” she shakes her head. “Patient confidentiality. You know how it is.” You simply nod, although you do let out a small frown. It was clear that Patient 000259 was responsible for her sudden doubt.



You notice Dr. Seigfried enter the chapel through the same entranceway that Helen had used. In an instant, you remember the duties you are here for. A quick glance at the watch confirms your fears, although the begrudging expression on Dr. Seigfried’s face is enough of an indication. It is now 09:56. Immediately, you pull on the rope with all your strength. After a moment, a loud ‘dong’ fills the religious wing. The rope slides through your hands softly with a feeling of velvet as opposed to the burning feeling you would normally receive from the friction. As your hands come to rest at the knotted base of the rope, you pull downwards again. The bell continues to ring out. Helen remorsefully gestures to you, having distracted you from fulfilling your duties.



After a solid four minutes of bell ringing, you notice the room is now full of various personnel and inmates. Some look at you almost stereotypically. After all, the other inmates are all from wings of the asylum with reduced security, not to say that it therefore makes them any less dangerous. Like a school canteen, the inmates slide themselves along the pews as if to utilise as much space as possible, restricting your seating options. You notice that there is one spare seat near the front of the chapel.



Directly next to Dr. Highwater.



You gesture towards the guards to escort you to your chosen seat. They sandwich you; one at the front and one at the back, ushering you forward. Before you reach the entranceway, you freeze upon the sight of Patient 000259. Unlike you, he walks with his hands cuffed and ankles shackled. The other inmates look more intimidated than before, hiding their faces as not to give the high security inmate the satisfaction of their phobias. You try to hasten your speed, but Patient 000259 is able to weave in front of ‘your’ guards and claims the seat next to the young doctor as his own.



“Standing room only, I’m afraid,” the priest states impatiently. The service has already been delayed by a couple of minutes and his eagerness to begin is shining through. You glance at Patient 000259 with a puckered brow, who gestures with his eyes towards an ill at ease Dr. Highwater, pulling suggestive and perverted faces at you based on his wicked intentions for the young beauty. Reluctantly, you step back towards the entranceway as Helen gifts you with a sympathetic frown. The deranged patient sat next to her stares at her with a toothy and somehow threatening grin, making a subtle biting motion at the intern, yet you clearly hear his molars clap together, followed by something of an infatuated and coy giggle from Helen herself, which she weakly hides by lifting her fingertips to cover her lips.



Instead of being subjected to this torment, you request for the guards to return you to your cell. You think to yourself that you could do with some time alone. Ironic. The overwhelming desire to kick the shit out of Patient 000259 would have yielded the same results, given that you be most likely to end up in Solitary Confinement.



…but for the sake of seeing Dr. Highwater again for your appointment this afternoon, you have the incentive to refrain from entertaining such ideas.



LATER THAT DAY - INTERVIEW ROOM



“Interview paused at 14:14,” Helen mutters towards the recorder, pressing a button. The machine lets out a loud snap upon deactivation. She lets out an elongated sigh so forceful that even the paper attached to her clipboard flickers and almost flip up and over itself. She makes no effort to rectify this, instead she assists it to the floor.



“I’m sorry,” she acts contritely. “I’m probably not the best at this just yet, since I’m pretty much learning on the job.”



You mouth the words ‘it’s okay’ to her, but she rubs her eyes wearily as she does so, missing this action.



“To be honest,” she says dishearteningly, “I’m trying to learn more about the human psyche in order to learn more about myself.” A puzzled look befalls upon you. “I’ve never really been a ‘people person.’ When I was in college, I never went to any parties, hung around in any social groups or played sports or anything like that. All I wanted to focus on was my studies. But, by shunning society, I have failed to grasp how different minds work. I mean, I know the basics. Jocks are generally full of themselves. The popular girls are cliquey, but maybe that is just the stereotypical depictions of them. But, I just don’t know who I want to be. I have ambitions, but I don’t know enough about myself to make ongoing plans.” You cannot help but remain as confused as you were before. You feel as though she is only telling you half of the story. Suspicious of this, you continue to listen, trying to pick out any potential cracks in her tales that might leak more information to you. “I know that it is selfish of me for me to try and work out how your mind works for my own gains, so for that, I am so, so sorry.”



So much for getting more information.



You dismiss her apology with a subtle bow, which alleviates some of the pressure she must be feeling.



“Thank you,” she says gratuitously. “And, to be honest, I find Patient 000259 extremely intimidating,” she shudders. “He has had much more experience with doctors than I have had with patients. I’ve heard terrible stories about him. Some of the these he has allegedly done… he should be on Death Row by now. Yet he always seems to elude capture. What is even more daunting was that he was captured so easily… he practically walked in through the front door.”



“But there’s just… something about him,” she swivels dreamily in her seat, folding one of her shaven legs over the other and averting her gaze from you. “Even though he has divulged in some appalling things, there is a certain charm to him that is impossible to describe. I don’t know why I’m drawn to him so. Maybe it’s the mysteriousness about him. Or perchance it is the prospect of reaching the four corners of such a mind that draws me to him, but maybe it’s something else… something… more.” You simply stare at Helen with a look of disgusted jealousy. A moment of silence falls between you. Realising that she is dwelling on this point far longer than intended, she disguises the adjustment of her thoughts with a cough. “Anyway,” she sighs, pressing another button on the recording device. You see the spindles that interlock with the cassette rotate within. “Let us resume with the interview. Are you ready?”



Childishly, you refuse to answer. Instead, you simply exhale loudly and fold your arms. You are throwing an internal tantrum, unable to even bring yourself to look Helen in the eye. You consult the same watch that you had worn since the church service this morning. You had been scheduled for a half hour slot. It had already been thirty five minutes since the interview had started, even though the progress that had been made was minimal.



“Are you… ignoring me?” Helen asks, dismayed. She genuinely comes across as fraught by the emotional conflict she has waged upon you. Her voice sounds… sad. You slide your eyes towards her. Unable to allow yourself to bear witness to such a crestfallen expression, you let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head. You aren’t certain if you are shaking your head in atonement for your own immaturity or to gesture towards Helen that you have not discounted her based from her own confession and the honesty behind it. You watch as her puckered brow relaxes, the consternation on her face morphing into one of relief. This in turn is mirrored by your own exterior. What was begrudging about this was that you would never even contemplate partaking in the sort of wickedness that Patient 000259 was infamous for. He isn’t just insane…



…he is pure evil.



“I understand,” she smiles. “I can see why you would think that way.” Even though you had not ‘voiced’ your grievances, she appears truly capable of reading the expressions on your face and body language to make an accurate hypothesis of your thought process. “He isn’t a good person. He’s manipulated many people.” It is as though she immediately regrets confessing this to you. By doing so, she seems to feel more comfortable around you. Remembering that she is new to this and that her interviewing technique hasn’t quite been perfected yet, the very least you can do is offer her the support she needs.



And if that means letting her poke around in that mess that you call your mind right now, then so be it.



“I know you don’t talk much,” she says softly, looking directly into your eyes, “but you are a great listener. Thank you.” With that, she places her hand on top of yours.



You immediately go red.



You feel her soft skin for the first time; like a rose petal is being rubbed across your fingers.



She smiles sweetly, giving you the same sort of starstruck expression that she did when she had been speaking about Patient 000259 as being potentially something more.



Does this girl have Stockholm Syndrome or something?



“Miss Highwater!” a familiar voice bellows from the doorway, yet loudly enough to make it seem that he was stood close by. Startled, she almost loses her balance, catching herself on the arm of the chair that one of your hands are still wrapped across before stopping over your knuckles. Her clipboard clatters to the ground, a strew of loose papers glide across the carpet. She tries to correct herself, but her attempted shift in balance causes her heel to jerk to one side, causing her to crash directly into your lap. You attempt to catch her, hooking her with one forearm beneath her armpit. Relieved, she pulls herself back up so that both feet are firmly planted on the concrete ground, yet she pauses in her ascent once her face is directly in line with yours. Her eyes sparkle like twinkling stars in a clear night’s sky. You can feel the heat from the tip of her nose radiate against yours. Her warm breath wafts across your cheeks. “Miss Highwater!” the voice reiterates, this time with even greater acrimony. Snapping out of her gaze, she quickly pulls away and adjusts her dress.



“Dr. Seigfried!” she announces, confused as to how to address these circumstances. “It’s not how it looks!”



“My office. Now!” Dr. Seigfried booms. Hesitation immobilises her for all of a few seconds, before she quickly kneels down to convalesce spilled documentation into some form of order, not even clipping them to the clipboard. Instead, she huddles the paperwork and the recorder against her chest and briskly walks away, her heel clopping against the floor with all the grace of a distressed pony. The doctor glares at Helen as she scuttles past him. It is only at this point that you notice someone stood directly next to the doctor. Patient 000259 simply tutts at you, shaking his head with a judging expression that deems you guilty.



“For shame,” he goads at you as she passes him. Initially watching Dr. Highwater leave, you quickly glare angrily towards Patient 000259. This aggravation is short lived, however, as Dr. Seigfried himself stands directly between the two of you.



“You should be thankful that I don’t throw you into Solitary Confinement,” Dr. Seigfried booms. “Frankly, spending any length of time with this clown is one of the worst punishments outside of death.” Patient 000259 looks heartbroken.



“Edmund, how could you!” he whines half-heartedly. “That’s like a dagger going right through my heart.”



“You don’t HAVE a heart,” Edmund retorts bluntly, not even wanting to entertain 000259’s derision.



“I do…” he grins sickly, about to convey what must be another gruesome state of affairs where he would not spare any goriness from the details.



THAT NIGHT



You had not heard a sound other than your own breathing for hours. You check the time on your watch. It is getting late. You’re thinking about turning in, but you cannot help but feel concerned for Dr. Highwater. The last thing you want is for any repercussions to arise as a result of what transpired during the therapy session.



You hadn’t stopped thinking about her all day.



The softness of her skin.



The cute way she ties the bow in her hair.



The grace of her smile.



“I see similarities between us,” Patient 000259 suddenly says out of the blue, glaring at you in a slightly couched position as if stalking me like a hungry lion ready to pounce on an unsuspecting wildebeest at the waterhole. “You seek to leave this place. You believe that your incarceration is not justified. And yet, there is a tiny part of you that wishes to remain.” You hide your embarrassment upon hearing such truth. Yes, that desire does exist. Such longing belongs to Dr. Highwater’s company; the prospect of leaving this detention in exchange for never seeing her again is an option that you do not care to contemplate. With all the prowess of a medium, Patient 000259 cackles having read your thoughts.



“We have been brought to this facility for mental reinvention,” the lunatic continues. “They’ve tried to ‘fix me’ so many times now. But as I’m sure you are aware, once a piece of paper is crumpled into a ball, it will never have the same smoothness that it once had upon its first manufacture. But even a smooth sheet of paper was formed from the rough bark of the tree.”



How could someone so crazy be so philosophical? Was this his way of justifying his own psychosis?



“There is a place,” he grins toothily like a shark sensing blood in the water. “A place where the chaos and destruction that I shroud myself with is embraced. It is a place where the average men fall to my malice; a place where pages can be written into the history books in blood. A place where plagues battle for supremacy, a place where monsters are silenced and sentinels are subdued.” You hear his voice become vivaciously sadistic, the tempo of his speech increases as fast as his own perverse rendering of excitement. “It is a place where ‘swag’ counts for naught, where no matter how famous or fabulous one thinks they may be, they are not exempt from wrath that would make Lucifer himself cringe. A place where even gods can be played like games, where those seeking to strike it rich end up potless, even though if they call themselves kings of their craft. Thrones are made to be usurped there. Kingdoms without kings to rule will result in the destruction of their own courts. Dynasties connected by violence will be reintroduced to the sort of carnage that one can only conjure in zones of war or their own nightmares. Even the mightiest of rigs succumb to high speed blowouts, grinding to a halt leaving nothing but dust in their wake. A place where even the smallest piece of fuzz sustains a slow burning flame by the fire that I alone create…”



He stops suddenly, holding the sort of face that one would make upon reaching the point of climax during coitus. It is as if the very idea of returning to this ‘place’ that he speaks of, combined with the destruction that he would be permitted to wreak, has literally caused him to ejaculate. Indeed, you cannot help yourself but look over shoulder just in time to see the deranged patient remove his hand from the front of his pants and smear… something… over his mouth.



Seeing the gooey remnants dangle at the sides of his lips causes your stomach to sharply turn. Immediately, you turn away. Your eyes are clenched shut as you try to erase such a vision from your memory. So hard do you concentrate, you barely hear the merciful words of a guard that had entered into the ITU.



“Lights out.”



Within seconds, the wing is bereft of the majority of its light. Only the soft lighting that shines into both of your cells remains. To be plunged into total darkness with a man capable of such wickedness would be of severe detriment to your security, so, even though such light may hinder your slumber, it at least puts your mind a little more at ease. You hear the rustling of fabric behind you.



Perhaps it is paranoia, but you wonder what sort of harm Patient 000259 might be able to cause with a blanket. Maybe that warrants the night guard watching you draw every breath.



“Yes,” he grins satisfactorily to himself. “There is only one direction that I know to go. That direction… is West.”



You fail to understand his meaning, nor do you want to focus on one more word that he spouts from his mouth. Instead, you shield yourself horizontally beneath the blanket on the wafer thin mattress that constitutes your bed, burying one ear deep into your pillow. You open your eyes, fixating your gaze at the padding that covers the wall that is mere inches away from your face.



“Aperture is plentiful in chaotic environs such as the one to the West,” the patient rambles. “There will be those seeking to make names for themselves. Others will vie to resolve personal vendettas amongst rivals, blissfully unaware that the greatest threat is lurking in the shadows… watching… waiting. All they care about is victory, yet they remain completely oblivious to the fact that their own pain and suffering is what quenches my thirst for blood. To bestow destruction upon the grandest stage… that is not my goal, it is the essence of my very existence. Ultimately, new names will never be remembered. Returning identities will be cast back into irrelevance. By the end of the fateful night, on that day of reckoning, there will only be one name that will mentally scar the watching world. They will remember my name.” He pauses, letting out an impatiently serpentine hiss, as if his prey had been detected, yet currently out of reach.



“I assume I will see you there, right?”



He softly cackles to himself.



Remorsefully, the one-sided conversation has grown stale, even to the speaker. Instead, he begins humming a medley of ominous musical themes to himself, ranging from the theme from ‘Jaws’ all the way to the infamous ‘Imperial March’ of Star Wars fame. You attempt to block these noises out, but are unable to do so. Instead, you continue to stare almost blankly at the wall, trying to force the side of your head even deeper into the pillow and huddling the blanket up and over your other ear, even though it means that your naked feet now protrude at the foot of the bed, feeding them to the cold like pieces of meat over a pool of ravenous piranhas.



What feels like half an hour goes by. Still, Patient 000259 is whimsically producing sounds that deprive you of the sleep that you need in order to free yourself from this Hell, if only for the night. It would appear that your exasperation is not merely an individual tick, as demonstrated by the night guard pound across the corridor, wielding a baton that he rattles against the bars of the oppressor’s cell door.



“Pack that in, Xmyles!” the guard warns.



“Please,” Xmyles mutters with a slight chuckle. “We’re all friends here. Let us keep to first name terms. Call me Grimoire.”



Grimoire Xmyles… so that is his name.



You seem to recall it from… somewhere. Yet, your memories as to exactly from where proceed to elude you.



“Like I’d be friends with a nut job like you,” the guard amuses himself with such a thought. It is his abrupt chuckle that derails your train of thought. You return your focus to the wall, though your intrigue remains intact. “Roll over and go to sleep, or perhaps I’ll inform Dr. Seigfried that you are exhibiting inappropriate behaviour?”



“If I weren’t exhibiting inappropriate behaviour, what business would I have in the madhouse?” Grimoire replies cheekily, which results in another scornful jangling of the cell door. You had rolled onto your back subtly and rolled your head to one side to witness this spectacle. Grimoire simply laughs, undeterred by the guard’s threat. “By all means, run to Eddie like the little bitch that you are. You guards… you’re all scum. You’re all the same. You have delusions of grandeur just because you have authority. Except you don’t have authority at all. The whole purpose of your job role is to maintain order and keep any risks to a minimum, yet you willingly rush into situations with a headstrong ego before understanding the circumstances surrounding the issue. Act now, ask questions later. That’s your mantra. What’s the matter? Did you want to join the police force but not pay enough attention at school to even get past the interview stage? You probably only wanted to join the police force because you were fucking bullied. I’m not surprised with a face like that. That really is a face only a mother could love, but I’ll bet your dad wishes he’d just finished off by cumming on your mum’s tits.”



“That’s it!”



Grimoire lets out a smile.



“You’re going to enjoy this,” he whispers to you, “just probably not as much as I will.”



As the guard unlocks the door to Grimoire’s cell, the insane inmate feigns fear, huddling himself up on the bed. The guard smacks the truncheon into the palm of his hand before grabbing the cell door by one bar and slamming it shut behind him. The jangling of metal echoes through the otherwise empty unit.



“See how I’ve locked the door behind me?” the guard indicates, his baton elevated upwards and to one side. “That’s because I’m not an idiot.”



“Really?” Grimoire bays cynically. “Because what I see is a man who has voluntarily locked himself into a cell with a known psychopath, armed with nothing but a short piece of metal.” He licks his lips, sensing blood. “You haven’t been here long, have you?” he says. “During the interview, did Eddie explain how such a vacancy arose? Did he fail to mention to you the high turnover of staff in this facility?” He lets out a wicked cackle upon making a mental number of the victims that once fill the hapless guard’s boots. “Hundreds. Literally hundreds, over the course of the years, by these two hands.” How could such a frail looking person be capable of such feats? Could it be his fearlessness alone that gives him strength? Or maybe his insanity gave him the sense of invulnerability? “But do not fret,” he continues. “I’m sure that you will never make such poor decisions ever again. I‘ll beat the very idea into your skull.” He delivers this threat with a voice as tranquil as a flowing river, but with the portentousness of a tide receding before a tsunami strike. “Oh, and there’s one more thing,” Grimoire mutters. “Not that it’s an important detail or anything, but the cell doors here in the ITU are designed so that they can only be unlocked from the outside. Once you’re inside, there’s no getting out.” The guard’s expression falls like a rotten apple from a tree. “But you wouldn’t know that. That’s because you’re an idiot.”



Within seconds, you hear the sound of metal colliding against flesh. Grimoire unleashes his instabilities by letting out Neanderthal-like grunts and yells. With every crack of the temperamental guard’s truncheon, Grimoire would let out a bloodcurdling howl, not of anguish, but of ecstasy. If anything, the patient appeared to be relishing this experience. You turn away, the brutality of the scene too much for you to bare witness to. Within moments, the screams come from a different source; the foolish guard who had encaged himself in the lion’s den, the mauling that Grimoire was now inflicting upon him caused him to gasp for breath, begging for help from whoever could hear him.



The laughter fades into a more sinister and ruthless series of grunts. The yells turn into wheezes. The wheezes then fade into silence…



To divert your attention, you reminisce over the prattling of Helen. The mere mental image of her seems to warm your spirits as if she were some form of guardian angel. Though it is difficult to remain focused amidst the battery taking place behind you, you remain soothed so long as Dr. Highwater occupies your thoughts, you have no idea how many more hours pass before you are finally able to drift away from the real world and into the realm born through sleep…



…unaware that you would wake to the sight of a corpse being carted away amidst bloodstained walls and flooring upon the break of day.




DAY THIRTY FOUR - NIGHT TIME



Every day for the past two weeks, Helen had divvied her time between you and Patient 000259, or ’Grimoire’ rather, noticeably inconsistently. Some days, it felt like she has spent mere minutes with you while spending hours on end with your twisted neighbour. Other days, you could see him seething at the fact that you were garnering all of the young doctor’s affections. You felt as though there was a sixty-forty percent split in your favour, although that figure may have been exaggerated as a result of your own yearnings.



Certainly within the last seven days, Dr. Highwater had barely spent any time with Grimoire whatsoever, which put your mind a little more at ease. Yet, conversely, uncertainty remained as to why. A like explanation is that Grimoire was simply too ‘high maintenance’ a subject for a greenhorn to the industry such as Helen. More worryingly, especially after witnessing what could only be described as total, unadulterated murder by his hand, it may be the case that Helen would have been directly his psychotic crosshairs… if she hadn’t been already.



You had noticed she had been a little ‘off’ for the past few days. She had not engorged you with the details, yet she would be more vocal with regards to her own feelings and thought processes whilst comparing them to you own. You did not want to think about anything negative. Every second shared with Dr. Highwater was a blessing in this fucking hellhole.



“Are you awake?” a soft voice says to you. You squint, revolving your body toward the source. As you open your eyes, you notice Dr. Highwater looking circumspectly along the corridor as if avoiding exposure. Satisfied that she will not be caught, she gestures to you with a wag of her finger, encouraging you to approach.



You had awoken to the disheartened realisation that your dreams were not a reality, where you and Dr. Highwater shared one another’s company in pristine settings, like fields of clover or exotic tides lapping against your feet. It seemed as though any time you were about to profess your true feelings to her, or engage in something more… intimate, you were disturbed from your trance like state, returning you to the same white walls that had encapsulate you for a time that you deem to be far too long.



Could this sort of obsession be classed as insanity, you think to yourself wearily.



Still, waking up to the sight of Helen straight away was the highlight of your stay up to now.



You haul yourself out of bed, shuffling across the floor to the bars of your cell. There are even colder at night, particularly against the warmth you have generated beneath the comfort of your blanket. Helen whispers to you, ensuring that she is not heard.



“Sorry for getting you up at this time,” she murmurs. You go to look at your watch, but it is slightly too dark to see. Plus, your vision hasn’t fully focused upon awakening. “But I need to be honest with you about something.” Interest piqued, you nods to acknowledge that your ears are hers. “I came here wanting to find out about myself. If there is one person that has helped me do that, it’s you.”



You don’t know why you find this so surprising. It is a mental asylum, after all. The inmates here are all criminals to some degree. Some of the staff are even worse!



“I know that it’s unprofessional,” Helen says almost solemnly, as if she already regrets the next words that she knows are going to come out of her mouth, “but I find an attraction to you that is greater than for medicinal practice alone. I…” she pauses, looking up and down the corridor, even to the cell opposite mine where Patient 000259 lays silently with his eyes closed, the heaviness of his breathing suggests slumber. She looks back at me and presses herself up against the bars. “I… really like you,” she whispers, stumbling across her words as if unsure of exactly how she wants to deliver her line. “You don’t belong here. I know it, you know it and, secretly, even Dr. Seigfried knows it, yet he will not authorise your release. He says he has other experiments and treatments planned for you, but I can’t let him do that to you, I just can’t!” Cautiously, she looks up and down the corridor one more time. “I’m going to request a transfer to a different facility to complete my studies,” she says cunningly. “And you’re coming with me.”



As you have been for the past thirty four days, you remain completely silent. There are thousands of different things that you want to say to Helen. You draw breath, ready to confess your feelings to Helen. Before you are able to do so, Helen rests a single finger against your lips, this simple gesture disabling your ability to talk. She leans in closer to you, slowly sliding the digit that suppresses your right to be heard down to caress your chin…



…before pressing her lips firmly against yours.



Your eyes widen in disbelief. You cannot believe that this is actually happening. Is your fantasy truly becoming a reality, or is it nothing more than just that; a fantasy. Your cheeks become consumed by a rush of heat as you gaze at Helen’s eyelids. Slowly, your own eyelids lower, allowing the moment to carry you. Your lips pucker further. You hear Helen’s sleeve slide along one of the bars of your cell door. The hand that was nurturing your chin now strokes your cheek, embracing its warmth as the other hand pressing the back of your head gently even deeper into the kiss. Your tongues lap each other at every opportunity.



The kiss last no more than a minute, but to you, it feels like hours.



Finally, Helen loosens her grip on you and slips away backwards. Your eyes open simultaneously, sharing identical smiles.



“Meet me in the interview room the day after tomorrow during your free period,” she whispers secretively into your ear. So quiet is she that you are barely able to hear her instruction, momentarily second-guessing what she had told you. “Don’t worry, Dr. Seigfried is not here then,” she assures you. “So even if you do get caught, you’ll be out of here before his wrath has a chance to find you.” That is an uplifting detail. “Don’t keep me waiting,” she winks, giving you a quick peck on the lips before silently heading back to the main door of the ITU. You watch her amorously as she leaves, leaning as far forward as the bars will permit you to see her until the second that she is out of view.



Elated, you sit on the edge of your bed. You pander over the future that you and Helen might share together, the very of idea of returning to civilisation filling you with newfound sanguinity. Whatever memories you may have had of your life prior to your imprisonment have evaporated. You feel the swelling in your heart. It is pounding vivaciously in your chest. You let out an enamoured sigh for a moment. For the first time since arriving at the asylum, there is no tension swirling around in your mind or muscles alike.



Mentally mapping tomorrow’s schedule based on Helen’s directives, normal routine would suggest that you would join some of lower-security inmates in an external facility to partake in social interaction and the use of sporting equipment, not that you had utilised either throughout your tenure here. Opportunities for inmates of the Intensive Treatment Unit were few and far between compared to lesser threats. Guards would be present, but you would formulate a plan to pass them undetected which could only be finalised at that particular time of the day upon seeing their positions for yourself.



You are filled with excitement.



As you lift your head back up, you cannot help but look smugly towards your neighbour. To your surprise, Grimoire’s eyes are wide open, even though he maintains a sleeping position. He does not appear to be jealous or disgruntled. Disturbingly, Grimoire has something of a sly and cunning grin etched across his face. Although you cannot determine precisely what might be going on in that deranged mind of his, you return his glare with one of triumphant exultation before laying down on the mattress.



Never would you have thought you could find such happiness inside of such environs. Said glee assists you into falling back into a gentle slumber, no pessimism present to hinder you.




DAY THIRTY SIX



It had been a quiet day.



You had received your breakfast as normal; a bowl of muesli that tasted like cardboard soaked in milk; or rather water that had been used to rinse white paint from a brush. It was a far cry from the nutritional excellence you had become accustomed to over the course of the past month.



Strangely, you didn’t see Helen at all yesterday, at least not for a one-to-one consultation. She had given you a subtle smile and a wink as she collected Patient 000259 for his own appointment alongside the armed guards that were necessary for his transportation to and from meetings. That had been three hours ago. It was almost time for lunch, yet nobody had even been to collect the empty bowl from breakfast; the contents of which you had forced down your throat out of courtesy rather than hunger. It would normally be an hour at the most before it was reclaimed.



You gaze over to Grimoire’s cell. It is still empty. Despite a deep cleanse, you still notice faint stains of coagulated blood in the wall’s padding from the altercation with the now deceased guard. That seemed so long ago to you. You had not really paid much attention to Grimoire’s confines, considering the similarities were endless; like looking into a mirror with only your own reflection absence. The prevailing detail above all else that you notice that the door is fully ajar. Even when he is taken away for questioning, the guards would close the cell door and lock without fail. The same would apply whenever you are moved from your own holding place to another vicinity within the asylum. Why does today feel so different?



The air feels heavy. Stagnant. It is as if you have consumed all of the oxygen within the unit with no way of replenishment due to the lack of windows in this particular area of the asylum. For the first time, you notice that the fans that provide some form of ventilation are not whirring. It has been so long now that you had blocked out the mechanical ‘whirring’ sound they produce due to their monotony, so to experience such tranquillity is somehow unnerving.



Out of a combination of intrigue and frustration, you venture towards the door of your own chamber to try and somehow gape along the corridor to seek any signs of life…



…to your amazement, the bottom grate of the door scrapes and screeches across the concrete, the cell door jerking open suddenly from your body weight.



At first, you surge yourself backwards, the worst-case scenario of one of Dr. Seigfried’s heavies instigating some form of punishment floods through you. A moment passes, but there is no indication that anybody has detected your motions. Warily, you plant one foot outside of the entranceway. You wait; doubt still consuming you.



There, resting on the floor, sits a vintage looking audio cassette player. A tape is already docked within its mechanism. Out of intrigue, you press the ‘play’ button. It fizzles into life. You adjust the volume to produce maximum output.



“Let us resume with the interview. Are you ready?” That was the voice of Helen. It’s tones sound incredibly familiar, as if she had spoken to you in the exact same way before. Seconds of quiet pass. “Are you… ignoring me?” she asks. There is yet another moment of silence. You remember this conversation. It was one of, if not your very first, one-to-one therapy session with her.



Had Helen left this for you to find?



“I understand, I can see why you would think that way. He isn’t a good person. He’s manipulated many people.” There is a moment’s pause. “I know you don’t talk much,” she says softly, “but you are a great listener. Thank you.” That was the moment where she held your hand for the first time.



“Miss Highwater!” comes the voice of Doctor Seigfried. It is followed by the sound of crackling and delicate impacts. That was the moment where Helen had tripped, falling into your lap. You remember the awkwardness of that moment vividly. “Miss Highwater!” he bellows once again.



“Dr. Seigfried! It’s not how it looks!” she protests.



“My office. Now!” Dr. Seigfried booms. You hear the rustlings of paper followed by the loud clops of something impacting the recorder, maybe Helen’s hand.



“For shame,” Grimoire goads distantly. For the next couple of minutes, the only sound you can hear is Dr. Highwater whimpering to herself solemnly, as if filled with regret. They are barely audible over the loud cracks of her high heels striking the ground with each step fuelled by haste. Eventually, the sound of a door opening and closing precedes a moment of silence. This was the last time that you had seen her that day. You recall that Helen did not deactivate the recorder upon leaving the interview room. With even more intrigue, you listen more intently.



The door opens and closes again.



“Would you care to explain to me what that was all about?” That voice belongs to Edmund Seigfried.



“It is very inappropriate to enter a room whilst a therapy session is taking place, particularly with a new inmate,” Helen retorts.



“What I saw was not ‘therapy,’” Edmund replies angrily. “What I saw was a doctor and her patient hold hands. That is not appropriate, Helen.”



“Let me tell you what isn’t appropriate, Doctor,” Helen says venomously. You had never heard her sound this aggressive before. “Keeping details of a patient a secret from the doctor assigned to manage their treatment. Holding a low-risk patient in the Intensive Treatment Unit, or should I just call it ‘Grimoire’s Bazaar?’ I find it strange that there are only two cells in the whole ITU. What are you trying to do, Doctor? Have your most deranged inmate turn other inmates even more insane than they need to be?”



There is an awkward silence, one that last much longer than any other instance of this throughout the recording up to now.



“Oh my God…” Helen gasps.



“What good are half-hearted inmates? This is a mental asylum, not a prison,” Edmund tries to justify himself. “What do we get? A couple of multiple offenders a month? The State cannot justify funding a facility like this with such a low turnover. The more loonies we have in here for longer, the more money we get to perform our research, so we can advance practices and research and test new techniques to obtain and even greater understanding of the human mind.”



“You’re sick!” Helen revolts. “I will have no part in this.” You heard footsteps, which stop suddenly. “Let go of me!” she yells.



“You cannot leave,” Edmund says, a hint of desperation in his voice. “We are so close to reaching an increase in funding, especially now that Grimoire is here. And when they see what he does to Patient 003078... Well, they’ll have no choice but to give us the grant. All we need is a little more time. Once we have that grant, you are free to leave of your own accord. But until then, I beg of you, please…”



Is Edmund crying?



“You’re going to need to make this worth my while, Doctor Seigfried,” Helen says sternly. Relief filling him, at least momentarily, Edmund’s voice becomes far more negotiable.



“Name your price,” Edmund says.



“Firstly, how much is the grant for?” Helen enquires.



“I don’t see how that…”



“How much!?” Helen snaps. Edmund lets out a loud sigh.



“Fifteen million dollars,” he answers in dismay, praying that her price will not be too high.



“Very well,” she says, taking a few seconds to make some calculations in her head. “First things first, until you receive that grant, I want nothing to happen to Patient 003078. No Grimoire Brainwashing, no brutality from the guards, no other doctors to be involved in his therapy. They don‘t need to be clinically insane in order for you to get the money. So long as he ‘seems‘ to be.”



“That seems feasible,” Edmund states.



“Then, once you have that grant, I want you to discharge Patient 003078 from the facility.” Helen continues to bargain.



“Consider it done.” Edmund agrees.



“But the most important thing to you will be my silence, correct? After all, it would be terrible if news broke out about this. I’ve had a suspicion something was going on for a while now, so I’ve notified some trustworthy people. My silence is going to cost you seven and a half million dollars.”



“You’re crazy!” Edmund guffaws in disbelief.



“Oh, isn’t that funny, being in a madhouse,” Helen scathes. “Oh, and you can give me a raving review for wherever I choose to transfer my studies to.” Edmund lets out yet another long and anguished sigh.



“Alright.”



The sound of the door opening can be heard with a creak. A couple of footsteps later, the door closes behind him. A little yelp of delight can be heard from Dr. Highwater, but her excitement soon stops. There is a loud clicking sound, like the sound of a door being locked.



“What the…”



Helen rattles the knob of the door, desperately trying to get out. She pounds against the wood before letting out a worried groan. The sounds of various objects impacting the door can be heard for the next few minutes. It seems all endeavours are fruitless.



Eventually, the click of the door is repeated, but this time there are no footsteps, only a door opening…



“Hush, little baby, stay quiet a tick,” an ominous voice sings, “Grimmy’s going to pound you with his raw, hard dick…”



“Why on earth are you naked?” Helen states with disgust. Suddenly, the situation turns dark. “Get off!” Helen screams. “No! Help!” her distress grows. “SOMEBODY PLEASE! HELP!”



“Look at the fear on your face,” Grimoire says maliciously. “You might as well kill yourself. It is the only death that is befitting for a coward like you.”



You stamp onto the recorder, staring at it as if it is in the wrong. You are suddenly under the impression that it was not Helen that left the tape for you to hear. At full speed, you charge towards the exit of the ITU. For the first time in forever, you are running with all your strength. It is difficult, but your own desperation drives you further and faster. You surge in the direction of the Interview Room where you had arranged to meet Helen. Having been there multiple times in recent weeks, you know the route as if it were the back of your hand.



The corridors are sinuous and seemingly never ending. Anxiety begins to well up inside of you are you draw nearer, the fact that you have not been apprehended by any guards is more of a worrying sign than you anticipated. But you refuse to stop. You are finding it difficult to breathe. Being out of practice shouldn’t affect you this much.



You smell something off-puttingly smokey. As a result, you push yourself to reach the Interview Room faster.



Minutes pass.



You reach the door to the interview room.



It is locked.



You knock on the door. There’s no response.



You barge into it with your shoulder a couple of times. There is a little bit of give. With enough force, you may be to break through. You take a few steps back and take what few deep breaths you can.



With all your strength, you clatter into the floor. It bursts open from the energy you have exerted.



You look around the room.



You peer behind the…













































You stand there motionless; jaws hinged open. You are only able to apply your vision for her for a few seconds before you are staring at her through a film of water that covers them. You blink sharply, hoping that this is all part of some awful nightmare. All this action does is allow the tears to spill from the sockets where they were held, trickling down your face in a river of sorrow.



You drop to your knees.



You feel empty; you feel lost. It leaves a huge gaping hole in your heart that you feel will never, ever heal. It messes with your mind. It brings anger into your heart, anger that you know Helen wouldn’t want you to feel, but you feel it anyway. Just thinking about her name pulls at you. You think of the shining future that you could have shared that has been ripped away from you.



How could she?



How dare she!



No, this wasn’t Helen’s fault at all. How could you blame her?



It was Grimoire. It had been Grimoire’s plan all along.



To make you feel like you were going insane. His plan had worked!



You feel like the pawn in some sick game.



You try to tell yourself that the love she had for you will always outweigh her death.



But you don’t know what is real anymore.



You just want to scream. You just want it to end.



“I always knew she was a coward,” a malicious voice hisses from behind you.



With gritted teeth, you immediately turn to face the lunatic that has plagued you from the very moment you first arrived here. Grimoire sports that trademark toothy grin of his. He has acquired a purple jacket from somewhere, along with more suitable clothing than the plain white shirts and pants you had grown somewhat attached to. Perhaps now they feel more comfortable than ever due to your breaking psyche. Grimoire is watching your every move, like waiting to watch a firework explode in a dazzling display amongst a night’s sky.



“Suicide is a lot like sex,” Grimoire says, seemingly trying to offer some form of twisted sympathy, “you wouldn’t want to walk in on your parents doing it.” He feigns the sound of holding back laughter. Overwhelming grief engulfs you like fire. The tips of your fingers dig deep into the palm of your hand, balling into a fist. “I’m sorry,” he snorts with insincerity and sarcasm filling his voice, “but I can’t say that I didn’t see this coming. I guess you could say that she really ‘roped’ you in!” This time, he does not hold back. His laughter is psychotic to the very core. His shrieks echo through the asylum, giving you some indication as to just how baron the place has now become. His eyes stay as wide as yours, now laughing right in your face. Spots of saliva rupture from his mouth against your face.



With all of your pent up aggression and emotion that bubbles over like an active volcano, that is when you throw the first punch that connects violently with his nose.



At last, you have silenced Grimoire, if only for a moment.



And it felt fucking good!



Grimoire is knocked to the floor, but continues to laugh maniacally, even with the blood that flows from his nose with the same speed as your tears.



“I deserved that,” Grimoire chuckles, wiping some of the blood around his mouth, allowing the rest to drop onto his jacket, shoes or the floor itself. “I guess for that, I will let you say your goodbyes,” Grimoire forges benevolence, producing a metallic cigarette lighter from his pocket. Elevating his arm, he flicks open the hinge atop the lighter to produce a flame. A brief stench of burning petroleum wafts over your nostrils. The flame licks the rope mere inches away from the cadaver’s head. It singes some of her hair, producing an even more pungent smell. Smoke begins spewing from the rope. You notice is slacken as it weakens. Just as the rope is burned in two, your arms bolt awards, catching Dr. Highwater’s limp body. Her head sags backwards to such an extent that her eyes roll into the back of her head. You cannot help but stare at the deceased as if you are looking toward a future that never will be.



The rope attached to the wooden beam continues to burn. Only now do you notice that the ceiling above you is a hessian of conflagration. Chunks of scorched plaster begins to plummet from above. With Helen still in your arms, you start running once again, but the second your foot crosses the threshold, you trip and fall forward, landing on top of Helen’s body. Grimoire pulls the leg he used to take you off your feet back from its formerly outstretched position.



The smoke is growing thicker.



You see flames coming from a room further down the hall. Before you have a chance to determine your route, Grimoire uses the back of your head as a stepping stone, running along the corridor perhaps in his own bid for freedom.



You scoop Helen back up into your arms. And you run.



The flames grow wilder the further you traverse. This must have been Grimoire’s doing. There is no other explanation. You try to follow the route that you had used to reach the hall leading to the ITU. You know that from the ITU itself, it is pretty much a straight line from the rear of the building, where it ITU is located, to the entrance at the front. You weave between burning furnishing and falling debris, but you grow weaker by the second. The smoke, the heat, the extra weight of carrying Helen’s body, as light as it is, make it feel twice as heavy as what it truly is.



But you persevere, refusing to give in. Not just for your sake, but Helen’s as well.


Light.

You see the exit. You hop across some rubble that had apparently burned out during earlier fires, yet you can still feel the heat through the soles of your shoes. Almost with the sonar-like instinction of a bat, you sense a disturbance in the air. A towering grandfather clock hurtles downwards. You surge to one side in order to evade. To your horror, you are shoved forcefully in the shoulder by Grimoire, who had either only just caught up to you having taken a different route, or been lying in wait for you to arrive. Your arm jolts forward, losing your grip on Dr. Highwater’s upper body. She slips down your arms onto the floor headfirst. With barely any time to react, you dive the opposite way to the way you would have gone prior to Grimoire’s interruption.



The clock lands with a mighty crash, crushing your foot as well as Dr. Highwater’s skull under its sheer weight. The clock’s bell tolls as it lands.



You let out a bloodcurdling scream, the bones in your foot shattered.



But that is nothing compared to the fatal crunch of a broken cranium.



You are crestfallen.



More crestfallen than ever before.



She was already dead. And you still couldn’t save her.



You can barely save yourself.



“So close, yet so far,” Grimoire taunts from the doorway. Even in this time of heartache and despair, he still thrives at his jovial twistedness.



There are only a few metres between you and the exit. Cascades of light reflect off of the damp pathway leading out of the grounds, creating Grimoire’s very own ‘yellow brick road.’ Grimoire turns to you, that sick grin still spread across his face like impetigo. He glances up towards the beams high above your heads. The flames tower towards the roof, watching over you like Death’s own sentry sent to witness your final moments.



He outstretches his hand to you.



In spite of everything that he has done, you are left helpless to Grimoire’s mercy. You throw your arm forward, trying to snatch at the psychopath’s hand, missing by mere millimetres. You try to haul your foot further out of the wreckage, inching closer to Grimoire. You cannot help but look helplessly back at Helen’s body. There was no hope for her now. You realised that, but you still wanted to go back to try and save her.



A plummeting piece of rubble breaks you from this thought. You had to do it. You had to save yourself.



You reach again, moving the burning clock after far off of you as you can. It finally drops off of your feet. You try to get to one foot and hobble to safety. You can’t. You fall flat on your front. Grimoire still offers his hand in spite of the carnage. Yet, in spite of the progress you think you are making, you are still unable to make contact with Grimoire’s hand. He frantically gestures to you.



“Come on, you’re so close,” he grins. It is only now that you realise that he is not encouraging you… but taunting you. Every time you crawl closer, he shuffles his feet closer to the doorway. You let out a frustrated groan, which the burning building seems to duplicate. You notice a rush of wind, as if the hot air above you is crushing you on its own accord. “Take my hand!” Grimoire yells mockingly. He somehow seems to be reaching closer. You can barely see the wizened and emaciated digits reaching closer to you. With one final thrust, you fire your arm forward with as much energy as you can muster. At last, salvation! You are able to clamp your fingers around Grimoire’s frail hand. It is as though the very bones in his fingers crumple like paper through your grip. You feel a momentary tug. Suddenly, your arm flies back towards you. A look of shock envelops your face…



You see bone and mangled muscle tissue decaying where the hand had been mutilated. The skin had turned a putrid shade of green, a dirtied diamond ring hangs loosely on one of the fingers, only secured in place by clumps of drooping skin. To try to remove it would be like trying to unscrew a nut from a bolt wrapped in discarded chewing gum.



You remember his jovial words when you were ‘blessed’ by his presence upon his arrival. You thought he was joking; yet it appears that you had continued to underestimate him. Even after all of the warning signals over the course of the last four weeks, you did not think that he could truly have been capable of… all this.



You heave and wretch uncontrollably. The combination of the purest disgust and smoke inhalation rip your throat apart, sending a stream of bile onto the floor in front of you, dribbling down your chin and onto your shirt.



As you look upwards, your eyes suddenly widen. Like a hedgehog, you instinctively curl into a ball, narrow missing a downpour of falling debris from the ceiling. Embers burst into the air as if a firework has been let off in your face. You can hear Grimoire’s maniacal laughter seeping through the flames.



“At the very least, you can use the ring to pay off your medical bills,” he continues to goad you, even in your most dire situation. It is as if he has been bathing in your anguish this entire time. Eventually, his silhouette disappears beyond the flames accompanied by his laughter and his mercy. This whole situation was surreal; like something out of a ‘Saw’ movie; gruesome and unrelenting; a story with no true happy ending.



You turn your attention to your ruined legs. Desperation sets in. You attempt to shift some of the debris by rolling the end of your sleeves over your hands to try and provide at least some retardation against the flames. Frantically, you shovel some of the rubble from your lower body.



Without looking back, Grimoire has skipped away merrily like a young student leaving school for the summer break. He pauses directly in the centremost opening between the two cast iron gates that supposedly secure the facility. He can still feel the heat from the raging inferno behind him. Heat cracks through the buildings like thunder. So temperate are the fibres of his jacket that the falling rainwater seems to vaporise upon making contact.



“Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?” he asks wickedly over his shoulder, silently so that whoever he was addressing would be unable to hear him. With an apocalyptic crash that sounds as if the very world is splitting in half, the roof of the asylum implodes. A noxious plume of smoke ascends into the night’s sky as if removing the lid from a boiling pot on a stove. The taint of the fire creates a glow amongst the clouds that resemble an evening that would bring delight to shepherds. The molten building snaps and fizzles as Grimoire crouches down, running his hand across the chalky ground before smearing the white compound across his cheeks, spreading it around his chin. Another scoop is smothered across his forehead and down to his nose. Satisfied, he rinses his hand in a nearby puddle, picking up a scorched branch and scraping off the carbon with his fingertips before wiping it over his eyes. Yet, Grimoire hums to himself. Something is still amiss.



He does not notice you slithering from the wreckage to seek refuse behind some shrubbery nearby. Your exhaustion is amplified by loud panting, yet it is unparalleled compared to the roar of the inferno that you have managed to free yourself from. Yet, your skin is scorched. It is as though you have brought the fire outside with you. It consumes you even as you roll in the damp grass in an attempt to extinguish any burning sensations about your person; failing.



“Ah,” Grimoire exclaims on realisation. You look back to the gateway, but he is not there. You let out of a frown before moving your head back behind the shrub that you have sought shelter behind.



That is when you see Grimoire crouched over you, scouring your body with his eyes like a vulture around carrion. He buries his mouth into your leg as if it belonged to a chicken. A bloodcurdling scream erupts from your mouth as the psychopath sinks his teeth into one of the wounds, tearing it open even further. He thrashes his head from side to side like a rabid canine in an effort to rip your flesh even further apart. He pulls his face away, blood stains his mouth in an arc resembling a… smile.



And with that, his transformation is complete; the chalky mud, the black carbon around the eyes and the blood stained lips.



He has finally returned.



He is whole again.



“I bid you adieu for now,” Grimoire sneers back to the asylum itself as it lets out another scream, even more disintegrating structure caving in. He exhales triumphantly through both his nostrils before staring expectantly towards his iniquitous future in the form of a puddle, admiring the application of his oh-so familiar ’clown-like’ décor to his visage. Chaos and malice incarnate, yet with the manoeuvrable stealth that wouldn’t even stir water until he was ready to stamp his foot into it to spill its contents all over the ground… that was the legacy that he could never leave behind, instead only seeking to cement it further into the ground like a gossiping informant that needed to be silenced to prevent future critiques.



“Wait until they get a load of me,” Grimoire smiles. “Now then…”



“Which way is West?”