Bound in Lies

[Vigil]

(Solo)

"There is nothing that keeps wicked men at any one moment out of hell, but the mere pleasure of God." - Jonathan Edwards, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.

[Vigil]

FOREWORD

A bruised, purple sky began to darken around the Roche Farm as the angry sun reluctantly dipped below the horizon. The sweltering heat that was heavy with humidity and acted as the day's torment hardly dissipated, but to the relief of the Roche family and its farmhands, eventually it began to cool. Having tilled the fields and already beginning to sow the soil, both George Roche and his farmhands had retreated into the house to lick their wounds and rest from a day of brutal labor over glasses of cold beer and eventually a hot supper from Roche's comely wife, Patricia. George Roche was a deeply pious man that stubbornly believed a day's reward came from a day of hard labor, much to his farmhands' chagrin, but even on a day in June such as this, the farmer had nearly called it quits at noon in fear of a heat stroke. Instead, they had toiled off and on throughout the day, taking long breaks and humoring each other frequently with observations of the day's weird heat, but eventually it had paid off and by the end of tomorrow, the first few acres of his farm would be planted and ready to care for.

Meanwhile, the two normally mischievous Roche boys, Matthias and Paul, had tried to keep themselves busy during the day when they had retreated into the house at their mother's insistence, but instead spent the majority of that cursed day laying lazily in the shade as they watched their father curse and his two hands rush to and fro at his beck and call. Even then, the boys continued to plot and hatch schemes over how they would sneak out and eventually make up for their sloth with the following night's activities. Though the day had spoiled their plans, they had still been waiting for this night for weeks. However, it hadn't been merely pinching pies and chasing barn cats. The two boys had been hard at work in planning for this night, perhaps the most important night of all year they had agreed. Matthias had spent countless hours pinching the necessary supplies from the kitchen and out from under their mother's watchful eye. Paul, knowing his father carefully watched and locked his liquor cabinet, instead managed to bribe one of the farmhands, Luke, to get them alcohol from the general store in town and anything else the farm wasn't able to provide.

It was an odd assortment of items, but Paul knew Luke to be a dolt and for as strong as he was, the farmhand better served as his father's mule then anything else. He took the money, he never asked questions, and Paul was always so careful to make sure that he never asked for too much or made requests that even Luke might have found to be suspicious. In a month of scavenging and using most of the money they had saved up doing chores, the pair had everything they would ever need for tonight.

Next, came practice. Not daring to practice their work where it might be seen, especially by the eyes of their zealous father, the boys had stuck to memorizing the words. Each knew by heart what to say when the time came and after much discussion and many heated arguments, the boys decided who was going to get to ask first. They had moved pieces and parts of what they would need to the barn over the last week and stowed it away in fear of being caught during their walk and what their father might have said if he or someone else caught them. Still, they knew better then to leave anything relating to the event lying around and painstakingly made sure that they would never be discovered. But in all their schemes, and practice and preparation both the boys knew deep down that there was a good chance that all of this was for naught, but continually encouraging each other to expect better, they knew it was their only way.

So after supper and the lights began to dim within the Roche household, the boys grabbed whatever else they had chosen to keep with them out of fear of their discovery and put them in a satchel. While their father and his hands were in the living room in a drunken sleep, the two boys waited until their mother went to the bedroom. Matthias disappeared into the kitchen to pick their final item, the one item that would never have gone amiss and would have ruined everything if their parents found out what they were doing. While Paul kept watch, he had almost panicked when he saw his mother come out in her nightgown and shake Luke awake. Both his mother and Luke crept out of the living room and into the bedroom where Matthias could have sworn the door being locked and the light being snuffed out from within. Both twins and at an age of ten were far too young to understand what their mother could have possibly wanted with Luke in the middle of the night, but Matthias sagely said that it must have been that she was scared and wanted Luke to protect her from monsters tonight.

"Yeah," Paul whispered excitedly with a new found, albeit misplaced, respect for Luke, "That must be it."

The two managed to get out of the house quietly and immediately slipped into the shadows and out of the soft light from the full moon. Paul was the oldest by fifteen minutes, so he went first and guided them carefully to the barn. The now cool air felt great after such an awful day, and with what they had been working so hard for nearly at hand, the two boys were giddy with excitement. So much so that they were sure they were going to be caught when Paul stepped on the tail of a black cat and had to stifle a squeal when it reared up, hissed and tried to scratch him. Matthias calmed his brother and grabbed the cat with menacing speed before it could run off, stuffing it into a sack and whacking it with a stick a couple of times until the cat stopped mewling. With a nod and a wink to his brother, Matthias smiled and moved from out of the shadow of the barn and to the door. Holding it open, Matthias waited for his brother to enter before closing it behind them both with a loud creak and left them both in absolute darkness.

Fumbling in his satchel for a candle, Paul took a match from his pocket and struck it against a post before holding it to the candle and illuminating a small area of the barn. His brother had vanished and when he tried to call out for him, a voice behind him nearly made him jump out of his skin when it shushed him. "You wanna get caught or something?" Matthias snapped and melted into view as his brother turned around.

"No, I guess not." Paul whispered meekly.

Staring at one another, the twins saw reflections of each other; Tall, skinny boys with fiery red hair like their mother's and pale blue eyes like their father's. Their faces were both covered in freckles and were both very hard to tell apart, but somehow their parents always knew which one was which. Their wild hair was the same and they sometimes dressed the same to go to school and fool their teachers, but something about each of them was indelibly different. Matthias had a spark of intelligence in his eyes that was fierce and hard to disguise while Paul possessed the same purple black bruise around his eye that gave them the reason why they were here in the first place. He was older, and a bit bigger, but he was the favorite. The other farmhand, John, who was eerily quiet and rumored to be a drifter had taken a liking to Paul and had found a way to keep him quiet, one way or the other.

But Matthias always knew. He could tell by the way his brother walked or a fresh new bruise that John had gotten a hold of him. Although neither of them really realized how serious it was or what exactly John was using Paul for, the two young boys knew at the very least it was wrong. They had told their parents at Matthias' urging, but neither of them listened. Their father even accused them of being liars, taking the side of his hand over his two boys. So, that left them with this.

Guiding his brother to the spot of the barn they had both agreed on, the two began to get to work. It was eerily quiet and the night gave them a weird feeling as if they were constantly being watched, but they dismissed it all the same. They went about their assorted tasks. Paul arranged the candles and began to light them while Matthias grabbed the bowl from the satchel and laid the ingredients out and off to the side, all in order. When it was all finished, Paul turned to his brother and found him looking at him. Looking at the ground, Paul muttered, "Do we have to?"

"Do we have to?" Matthias imitated and gave an angry snort, "We both read it. Again and again. You know we can't get around it."

"B-B-but how do we know what Pete said was true when he gave us that book? He's a drunkard and a liar." Paul said and watched for his brother's reaction.

"So what? Is that what momma's been telling you? I told you not to listen to her." Matthias chided, but revealing he knew something about her that he didn't quite trust, but he never told Paul.

"But.."

"Listen," Matthias whispered angrily, "It has to happen. I'm sorry it does, really, but you know it has to be done and it has to be done by you."

"Why me?" Paul croaked anxiously.

Matthias shook his head in frustration and gestured at him in disbelief, "Why do you think? You're going to be the first one to ask and we're doing this for you. It has to be you, Paul. It'll be quick and I'll do the part that hurts, okay?"

"Okay." Paul said, putting his trust and faith in his little brother that what they were doing was right. He was always the smarter one anyway.

"Okay." Matthias repeated as he placed a hand on his shoulder to reassure him and picked the satchel up from the ground. "It'll be okay, Paul. I promise."

Paul nodded feverishly, already nervous, but he got to his knees and watched as Matthias pulled the long, sharp knife he had taken from the kitchen out of the satchel and picked at it with the edge of his thumb. "Ow!" He said and began to suck his thumb as he whispered, "Sharp."

"No kidding." Paul said as he rubbed his hands up and down his knees as he grew more and more tense, "Can we hurry up, Matty? I'm scared."

"Quit rushing me." Matthias rebuked him as he rolled up one of his sweat stained sleeves and revealed his pale skin, "I'm doing this for you, you know."

"I know." Paul said. And at that moment Paul watched as Matthias held the knife to his palm and dragged the blade across. He winced and nearly bit his tongue, but Matthias held control. Kicking the hay on the floor out of the way of their small, secluded area, Matthias crouched and began to draw his palm painfully against the ground. He winced and groaned, but after he completed the circle he began to paint the pentagram in his blood. The blood dripped and made the cut look worse then it really was, but Matthias used his fingers from his other hand to paint all the other symbols around the circle while Paul moved in and placed the candles around the pentagram. Paul put the bowl in the center when Matthias had finished and began to crush ingredients into it when Matthias slapped it out of his hand.

"Is that what it said to do?" Matthias snapped.

"No, but I just wanted to get it out of the way before.. before.." Paul stammered.

"Look, it has to go in the right order, otherwise this won't work. You know the rules. I made you read the book too before we burned it. Remember the part where it says, 'In order for this ritual to meet the dee-sye-erred effect, everything must be done in order'?" Matthias explained before adding, "You're not getting out of this. So stop trying to screw it up. You're going to do it even if I have to make you."

"Okay." Paul said, rubbing the black ring around his eye as Matthias stared at him in the glow of the candlelight.

"I think I killed it anyway. It hasn't moved in awhile," Matthias said as he grabbed the motionless sack and handed it to his brother who began to look relieved, "Don't look so happy, Paul. Book says we need a live one. If that's dead, we're going out to find another barn cat."

[Vigil]

(Due to length, the foreword was broken into two posts.)

"Oh, right." Paul replied gloomily as he opened the bag and began to look inside when the black cat sprung out from inside and clawed at his face. Paul screamed and Matthias yelped in surprise, but Paul reacted faster. Halfway out of the bag and mid-jump, the cat was going to latch onto the boy and leap away from him, but Paul caught it by the neck and began to squeeze. The cat rasped, mewled, and desperately scratched and clawed at the boy's hands and arms to get away from him, but it only served to make Paul angry. He tightened his grip and crushed the life out of the large black cat until its eyes began to glaze over and it stared at him through lifeless eyes.

"See? That wasn't so hard was it?" Matthias whispered dryly as he stared at his brother and the countless scratches and the scarlet blood that began to drip in rivulets from his wounds. Opening the satchel, Matthias looked inside much like his brother when he had opened the sack and grabbed the rolls of bandages and ointments Paul had had Luke fetch from the store for them. "I'll leave these here. After we're done, I'll wrap you up, okay? Okay? Paul?"

Paul stared hypnotically into the eyes of the cat he had just killed, even though they had rolled up inside of its head before it gave its death rattle, he couldn't stop staring at the whites of its eyes and was unable to believe what he had just done. Then the culminating pain from the countless scratches and a smack from his brother brought him back to reality, "Uh-wha? Right. Right."

"Stop doing that, you're starting to creep me out." Matthias demanded. Once he was sure he was visibly calm, Matthias offered him the knife and gestured to the bowl, "Just like we talked about. Go for the neck, it'll bleed faster that way."

Paul took the knife and was about to say okay when Matthias slapped him again, "And stop saying okay!"

Paul nodded, the color already draining out of his face as he held the cat in one hand while he held the knife in the other. Remembering the words they had practiced for hours and days before this fateful night, he looked to Matthias for help who began mouthing the words to him. Holding the cat high with a knife to its throat he began to say the incantation when his brother motioned for him to be louder. Hearing his voice crack, Paul slit the cat's throat and dug deep inside of him to find the courage to say the words no one he knew save his brother would ever mutter aloud;

"O, Belial, The Corruptor,
I call upon you! Belial, the
Prince of Lies and Harbinger
of Guilt and Wickedness, I
beseech Thee to grant me
a boon!"

Spurts of bright, arterial blood splashed his brother in the face as Paul shoved the cat into the bowl and let it fill while Matthias sputtered and coughed. With renewed vigor and courage he never knew he had, Paul set the mangled cat aside and grabbed the bowl. Holding it over his head, he said the next part of the incantation before he let it tip and let the disgusting, warm icky blood splash onto his hair and begin to drip down his face;

"I offer this sacrifice in Your
unholy name! I bathe in its
blood to wash from innocence!
I offer my soul and utter Your
Wicked Name, Belial! Come to
me! Rise from Your black and
desolate temple and join me
on this sacred night! Come,
come forth!"

A gust of eerie wind brought with it grim tidings as the doors creaked. It caused a chill to go up Paul's spine, but he paid it little heed for he was too caught up in the ritual to notice the sound of footsteps in the barn. Matthias whose face had been bloodied like that of his brother heard the sound and became suspicious. Knowing he could not stop his brother for the danger it posed, Matthias kept an eye out while he cracked roots and lit incense during the ritual. His brother continued another verse, the most important one, when Matthias offered him the beer and the cracked remains of bitter root. Covered in animal blood and bleeding from those countless scratches, Paul looked savage and he had a wild look in his eye that Matthias had not ever seen before. Accepting the beer and bitter root, Paul drank, chewed and swallowed without even offering a moments disgust before he continued with the ritual, staring at Matthias wildly with his blackened eye;

"O Belial! I call upon Thee,
Prince of Lies and Corruptor
of All Things Innocent! I drink
merrily and gnaw upon the truth,
polluting and befouling it with
Your very name! I call upon Your
Power to kill John Laurence!"

Paul's voice quavered and it seemed to resound throughout all parts of the barn while the candles gave a strange, otherworldly glow and cast Paul in a weird and unholy light. Matthias could only look on in horror as Paul picked up the cat and held it in offering as he called out Belial's name louder and louder. Each time with more intensity, almost as if demanding the demon's presence. But before Paul could complete the ritual by uttering the last verse, their drunken father melted into view. In his hands he held axe with a dark look of betrayal in his eyes. Matthias began to scream hoarsely and reached to grab for his brother as Paul began to snap out of it. Hearing his father's voice muttering behind him, a look of terror filled the young boy's face as he dropped the cat and started to look back. George Roche shook with rage and swung the axe in a downward stroke, burying it in the side of Paul's skull.

With a wail and tears filling his eyes, Matthias screamed in agony, "Paul! No!"

As his father placed his foot in the back of his twin and wrenched the axe from his skull, Matthias got up and backed into the wall, staring at him, "Please! No, Daddy! Please!"

His father had never looked so angry and began to speak, but so filled with horror and traumatized by seeing his brother murdered right in front of him, Matthias turned and bolted through a narrow pass between the hay and the wall. His father was drunk, angry and clumsy which made Matthias faster as he ran and screamed in terror. He heard footsteps behind him as his father began to run after him with the axe and moved faster then he ever had before. He reached the door and let out a loud, angry wail as his father buried his axe into the side of the barn door just above his head. Matthias turned and confronted his father who stared at him as if he were some kind of wicked demon and kept muttering words under his breath. Only some parts he managed to recognize as he began to back up and tripped and fell over a log.

It was a prayer! Matthias realized in horror as he watched his father begin to try to pull the axe from the wall and instead leaving it for a sickle he picked up off a barrel nearby. Lunging after him, his drunken father roared and swung the sickle as Matthias scrambled to his feet and weaved around his father. He could hear cries from the house and the sound of footsteps but he dared not take his eyes off his father as he darted around him and bolted into the field. Matthias screamed and cried, already beseeching God to forgive him for what he and his brother had done when he really should have been watching his feet. The field now strips of mounds of tilled earth of the day's tumultuous tidings only served to impede his progress and while he ran for his life, he hadn't ran far enough when he tripped and fell.

This time, his father was upon him and grabbed him by his wild red hair. The stench of beer and sweat was heavy on him as he placed the sickle against the boy's throat and leaned in to whisper something. In his fear and knowing he was about to die, Matthias had been so busy struggling and trying to escape as he cried that he barely heard what his father told him before he dragged the sickle across his throat and crimson blood began to spurt from his body. Throwing him aside, Matthias landed with a thud. Bleeding to death, Matthias choked and rasped while he watched with dying eyes as Luke charged into view and tackled his father. Soon John came running after and his mother was upon him, but at that point he couldn't tell which was which as he grew dizzy and tired. As someone held him in their lap and gave out a horrific, primal scream, the last sounds Matthias Roche ever heard were the wet sounds of meat being slapped together.

[Vigil]

Liam Duigenan walked down another winding hallway that had been both conspicuously cleaned and deprived of Hathorne Asylum's residents, but he was not alone. Doctor Arthur Wendling, one of the hospital's more prominent alienists, acted as both his guide and handler while keeping a close eye and never leaving the Irishman's side since he entered the facility. Not once. The old doctor was impish and small in stature with bottle-thick glasses that seemed far too heavy upon his fat, pudgy nose. He was ancient by the look of him with his back bent with age and his face covered with liver spots, and the good doctor walked with an odd shuffle that was both slow and meticulous. However, appearances were deceiving and so far Liam did not trust anything he saw here, especially old, kind Doctor Wendling. He may have given the appearance he was senile, but Liam noticed that his actions often betrayed the contrary. He would never let Liam out of his sight or to linger in one place too long. He never answered any questions the Irishman had about the facility directly and always alluded to the often long, labyrinthine history of the asylum itself rather then satisfy Liam's curiosity. And above all, Liam was never permitted to speak to any of the patients except the one he was permitted to see. Of course, not even Doctor Wendling would say that, but the look from the white coats and other alienists were very clear. Liam Duigenan was a guest, and if he'd like to remain one it would be in his best interest to keep his mouth shut and not to pry too deeply into the closely guarded secrets of one of Corone's most reputed and infamous asylums.

However, since he had entered the asylum, Liam had never seen one of Hathorne's residents up close. Looking through the window and into the recreation yard, Liam spotted dozens of the patients in dour, faded blue pajamas shuffling about like zombies around the courtyard made up entirely of placid, gray scrubland. They had obviously been drugged or as some of the books Liam had read defined it as being chemically restrained. Even so, for every resident that quietly shambled about the yard during that somber morning, there was an orderly or a white coat nearby and always watching them. The display was clear enough to show Liam that they did indeed have patients and that this was indeed an asylum. However, many of the patients looked emaciated and starved, and judging by the fearful and cowed way they avoided their handlers and their gaze, the Irishman suspected that this show was put on merely for his benefit.

Other then those outside, Liam had not seen one other patient in the asylum and it was eerily quiet. Doors had been locked and entire sections of the asylum had been cordoned off while silent orderlies denied him entry of any place that Doctor Wendling did not approve of. He could see alienists staring at him blankly from around corridors and Liam had the weird feeling that he had been around the same hallway more then once on his way to see his patient as if the good doctor had been purposely leading him in circles during his grand tour. And it was always towards the fringes of the facility, as if the doctor was making every attempt to corrall the Irishman and keep him away from the asylum's inner sanctum, or God forbid whatever lie below. To buy time perhaps?

But why?

Either way, this had not been the first asylum Liam Duigenan had ever set foot into, but it was the first time he had ever been treated like this. Perhaps it was because of recent events or the knowledge that he was an Irishman and a Catholic who belonged to the Church. It was known that the Catholic Mission had both money and power, but the care and wellbeing of Corone's lunatics was never one of their priorities. If they were seeking to impress Liam in the hope of some kind of favor, they were doing a very poor job of it. Liam knew asylums in Corone to be much like those back home, and even in the same period of reform. As he observed, lunatics were often in the worst cases treated like animals and tortured with barbaric and ineffective treatments in claims of bettering their senses, and in the best cases patients were hidden away from the public and cared for out of moral responsibility to help those who couldn't help themselves.

Although Liam hadn't been here long, he strongly doubted that Hathorne Asylum fell in with the latter.

In any case, Liam Duigenan was not here to evaluate the asylum or the staff's treatment of their patients; he was here on assignment and therefore would have to leave anything that unsettled him or observations outside the purview of his investigation at the wayside. It was not his business and not a Church matter, so it shouldn't concern him. But, no matter how Liam tried to distract himself from the obvious truth or rationalize the situation, it still bothered him knowing that the monsters the public tried so desperately to lock away for the unspeakable acts of a few, the real savages very well might be staring at him placidly and in white coats.

Liam kept himself focused and brought himself back to reality. He was listening to Doctor Wendling recite the long tale of the founding of Hathorne Asylum in every incessant detail. He was carrying a stack of files and reports under his arm that began to grow heavy and the Irishman switched every so often to rest his tired arm. He thought and did everything to distract himself from the gnawing truth. But above all he kept quiet under the vain, merciful hope that if he didn't ask any more questions Doctor Wendling would cut his story short, stop leading him in circles and finally bring him to the room of the man he was here to see. His name was George Roche and he was a man convicted of murdering both his sons because he thought it to be both the Christian thing to do and that God himself had told him to do it.

[Vigil]

After two agonizing hours, Doctor Wendling finally ended his tour and led Liam to one of the viewing rooms where he assured the Irishman that George Roche was waiting for him. Ambling towards the room, Doctor Wendling regarded the Irishman warmly, "Well, sir, I believe this is our stop. Why, indeed it is! I hope you've enjoyed my little tour here and that I haven't bored you." Stopping abruptly, the little doctor looked around as if he were about to tell the world's biggest secret and he wanted to divulge it in only Liam's confidence. "You know, my colleagues say that I am a bit boring, but I hope I haven't put you off. Hathorne Asylum is a fine, fine establishment. Very fine."

"No, doctor. Your tour and.. exhaustive knowledge of the asylum has been very enlightening." Liam lied as he offered the doctor his hand and the two shook hands. Attempting to cut the doctor off from another tale he already believed was imminent, the Irishman forced a smile and nodded, "Its been a pleasure, sir."

"Yes, quite the pleasure." Doctor Wendling replied while looking up at him with old, bovine eyes. The old alienist smiled, "I will be around to take you back when you have finished here. Please take all direction from the orderlies. They are more accustomed with being in contact with our more colorful residents and dealing with them appropriately."

"I will." Liam in feigned obedience as he began to turn and walk away, but hadn't made it more then five paces before the old, droning voice of Doctor Wendling caused him to stop in his tracks.

"And Mister Duigenan!" He called, "Do remember not to stare at him. Mister Roche very much dislikes it when you stare at his face."

For that, Liam had no reply but a quizzical look and an awkward nod, soon he left the doctor at the entrance of the hallway and continued to his destination. The viewing rooms were on the far side of the facility and acted as a place where residents and their guests could meet and speak during visits, however frequent those visits actually were. The rooms were stacked side by side down a long, narrow hallway and were all alike; small, claustrophobic and each with a window to give the illusion of space. Towards the center of the hallway, two orderlies stood in front of one of the rooms that must have been his destination. Like every other viewing room, this one had an ugly, olive green door with a single porthole to view who was waiting inside. The two squat, burly men that stood before the door stared at him nonchalantly, their white uniforms tight around their chests and the look of authority found everywhere in their tight, well kept appearance.

One of the orderlies, a big, young buck of a man with carefully trimmed blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses spoke to the Irishman coolly as he offered him a bucket that he was holding and began to recite to him the same instructions he gave every person that visited the asylum, "Put all over your valuables into here. You are not permitted to have any food or drink in the facility. Please remove any knives, pens, pencils, cufflinks, paperclips, matches, precious and malleable metals, ignition sources and anything that could be used as or construed as a weapon from your person and put them in the bucket. You were already disarmed upon entering the facility, but for your safety and ours I am to remind you that this is your last opportunity to surrender any firearms or weapons you have stowed away on your person. You're not the first person I've seen do it, but you are in safe hands with us. At Hathorne Asylum, most of our patients are violent in nature and more then half of our population have been convicted of crimes of rape, murder and other violent crimes. Your personal items will be kept outside here and under watch until the conclusion of your visit. In order to both keep the peace and for your protection, we ask that you do not taunt, joke with or coerce the patient in any manner that might otherwise upset or excite him. Mister Roche has been confined to his chair, but has been left un-sedated for your visit."

When the young man had finished, the Irishman took off his cufflinks and any other contraband and placed it into the bucket. The orderlies patiently waited, but the blonde's companion, an ogreish man who leaned forward from the sheer weight of his upper body looked to the Irishman and said, "For safety reasons, sir, you'll also have to remove your tie."

"Right." Liam replied.

Once he was finished, one of the orderlies patted him down while the other spoke to him about the safety in the viewing room, "Should the patient break free from his restraints, you are to move to the corner of the room on the same side of the door and cry for help. Once we have entered, we will immediately pacify the patient. Although we have managed to do this in seconds, patients have been known to savage, bite, mutilate, injure and sometimes even kill our guests in the time it takes for us to pacify them. Keep yourself as small as possible and tuck into a ball while also protecting both your face and neck from attack for this is the best method we've found to keep you safe in the event of an attack and prevent the loss of eyesight, limb or life in such an occurrence. Our visiting rooms are small, but if you would like one of us to accompany you inside for your safety, that is your right as a guest."

"That won't be necessary." Liam replied, already growing tired from the litany of instructions and his two hour tour of the facility. However, the sobering reality of the situation kept him focused on the very real danger that lies beyond that door. He had surrendered anything he might have aside from his files and notes and the clothes on his back. Whatever animal Mister Roche had become, Liam assured himself he was prepared for it.

"All right," The blonde orderly calmly replied, "Are you ready, sir?"

"Yes." Liam said and with that, the orderly reached for the door and opened it, welcoming for the last time to the asylum. The Irishman nodded, paid his pleasantries and crossed the threshold into a small room where he would remain confined with a man who had lost his senses and become murderous.