"Everything but leave." Moth kicked off the wall and walked around the room. "The spirit inhabiting your body will only grow stronger each time you take the mask off. You will eventually be unable to do anything but surrender.We'll use you until our task is done, and then we'll make you one of us."
I can last three days. That's nothing. I did way more time at Cunningham's.
"Yes, about that. I'm still fascinated by it all. How pissed would you be if I inhabited your body and called them? You, turning yourself in, how hilarious. I think I might just do that. Is there a monetary reward? Hmm, I guess I don't need money anymore. I'll do it just for spite. That way, if you managed to get out, we'd both be locked away for eternity."
I stood to go.
"Tell me how you did it,"he snapped.
I twisted the doorknob.
"Tell me how you did it, and I'll tell you his plan."
Whose plan?
"Mr. Vincent’s."
Rule 45 - Priest
An escape plan takes time.
One year ago.
"You like to write?" I motioned to the notebook in Les's hands. He'd been here six months and had already gone through three of them that I’d seen. The shaky man with tattoos covering his body looked up and flinched. I wasn't entirely sure when it happened, but over the years, I'd developed a reputation at Cunningham's. The female orderlies loved me, the male employees treated me like shit, and all the other wards were scared of me. Moth had been the only one to stand up to me, but he'd been gone for a while now.
"Yes," Les said softly. He was here because he'd had a mental break while on a meth binge. He'd woken up with tattoos all over his body and a fear of the outside world. Supposedly, he'd done the art himself, according to his charts. "And draw."
"Write and draw." I pulled a chair out and sat down across from him. "I like to read. Can I read your work sometime?" Most of the other patients came and went without so muchas a second thought from me, but Les was interesting. Something drew me to him, and I wanted to figure out what exactly that was.
He pressed the notebook to his chest. "You'll just make fun of me."
"I won't," I answered honestly. That wasn't my style. "I'm genuinely curious about what you feel the desire to write down. Is it fiction or non-fiction?"
"What?" His brows furrowed.
"Real stories or made up?"
"Fake." His voice grew quiet. "When I was a kid, I used to tell stories. My therapist says it will help keep my mind active."
"Are you going to publish it when you're done?"
"Publish?" Les looked at me like I was crazy. "You don't even know if it's any good."
"Any story can be good if you have the right tools." I extended my hand. "Come on, let me read your story."
“No one will want to read a book from someone in here.” He hung his head.
“That’s not true. And even if it was, you just use a pen name. No one would have to know.”
“A pen name?”
I explained to him that oftentimes authors chose different names to put on their books rather than their legal ones, and encouraged him to come up with one for himself. We spent a good amount of time going back and forth before he finally said, “Elliott Spencer.”
“I like it. Now, Elliott, let me read your story.”
He stood. "You'll have to start with the first notebook," he said and took me to his room, where he revealed almost a dozen of them, fully written in. He handed me one and his face turned serious. "Let me know what you think."
I stayed up all night reading Les's epic fantasy. There was so much to it, but it flowed well and kept mecaptivated through the next morning. I handed it to him at breakfast and demanded the next one.
