Corrupted (Jeff the Killer Fanfiction) Book 1

Prologue

      It was dark. Cold. There were no windows, no beds, no mirrors, not even a toilet. Just a metal door with a small opening, small enough to only see inside the cell, and a table with a chair on each side, which were rather uncomfortable to sit in. Especially when you sat in it for an hour strait; but I still preferred to sit in that uncomfortable chair instead of kneeling on the ground in my straitjacket, wrapped in chains.
      Yes, I am chained to a wall in a straitjacket. I'm currently being kept in one of the most secure cells in an asylum. I'm not exactly sure which asylum, or what city or state it's in. They wouldn't tell me.
      It doesn't really matter, anyways. All of my attempts of getting out of here has only gotten me pinned down further into security.
      I didn't start out in a straitjacket and chains. When I first came here, they had me only in a jumpsuit with no shoes or socks or underwear. I was in a different cell that had a bed, a window, and even a toilet. I often looked out that window to gaze at the stars; it was one of the only things that could completely calm me down. I was also free to walk around when they allowed me to, just like the other patients here. I had normal lunches with the other patients, too.
      Then a couple nurses tried to give me a shot one day in my cell. They died from blood loss, caused by their own needles.
      So I was put in a straitjacket and moved to a different cell. It still had a bed, a toilet, but no window. So my star-gazing time was over, which upset me greatly. I felt disconnected with the outside world completely after that, which put me in much more of a foul mood.
      A week after I was moved into that cell, my old psychiatrist, Dr. Westwood, informed me that I would get shock-therapy once a week. I've never liked him, and I've always let him know exactly how I wanted him to die, but he just kept coming back. Torturing me with my daily doses of shots and "physical therapy." But putting me under shock therapy treatment. . .
      That didn't sit well with me.
      The first day they tried it, I managed to get out of my straitjacket while they were trying to strap me in the chair, and stop them from shocking my brain. Five doctors and three nurses died that day. Including Dr. Westwood.
      Served him right.
      After that, I was kept in the same cell. It took them a while to assign me a new doctor due to most of them not having the balls to do it. Most of the newer doctors that came to the asylum preferred to stay with the not-as-dangerous patients. Finally after about two months, Dr. Harold took over as my new Psychiatrist. His method of treatment was different than Dr. Westwood's method, which was attempting to pound guilt in the patient's head. Dr. Harold's method, as I came to realize, was more of a, 'tell me something about you and I'll tell you something about me' kind of manipulation.
      Idiot.
      Of course I wouldn't tell him anything about me. So none of his sessions ever got anywhere. Not until one day when he said, "So what is it that you want? Do you want revenge for something? Do you want people to understand you better? Are you trying to send a message through your murders? What is it that you are wanting to tell people when you kill them?"
      Easy response. "Nothing. I don't want anything from anyone. All I want is to get out of here, and to stop these unnecessary medical procedures that you all put me through."
      "So you want to be treated more civil. Tell me, do you think you deserve it? After all that you've done?" he questioned.
      I growled. "I want you to leave this cell and never walk back in it again." I snapped.
      He shook his head. "You didn't answer my question. Do you think you deserve to be treated better?"
      "Of course not. However, doctor," I spat with venom in my tone. "Can you say the same for yourself? Have you been a good boy all your life to deserve all of what you have now?" I questioned him.
     "This isn't about me, Emily." He defended.
      "Is it? Tell me, doctor. Why did you choose to see me instead of all the other patients here? You know what I'm capable of and my intentions. So why?" I leaned forward in my chair as I interrogated him.
      He hesitated for a moment. "I believe that every patient is curable. I also believe that you think what you do is the right thing to do. So I'm here to help you."
      "Don't pretend that you know me." I said as I slowly stood from my chair, still in my straitjacket. "You think I don't know what I'm doing? Alright. Let me prove you wrong then."
      Dr. Harold died the next day at the hospital from blood loss.
      After that I was taken to the cell that I'm currently in. Chained, kneeling on the dirty concrete floor. Nothing else awaited me, I knew. The only people that come down here now are nurses to do a daily once-a-day check up that I'm still alive, and a few doctors that sit at the table across the room. They try to get me to talk, or to say something other than "Get out." or "Shut the fuck up."
      No other doctors have been assigned to me since Dr. Harold, which I was thankful for. I don't need a doctor. I don't need a diagnosis. I don't need medication. I just want to be free.
      "Why did you leave me?"