Asylum

Samuel J. Winchester

"And this is Samuel. Samuel J. Winchester. Best known in the media as one of the most dangerous people in America." That worked a shiny grin to Samuel's face as one of the newspaper photographers snapped a photo of the blood on Sam's wrists. The nurse ignored the unauthorized flash and continued, "He will be in our custody until one of the pigs in the county office declares him guilty of crimes he never knew he was committing." Someone's bitter.

Sam raised his hands, picking a piece of lint off of the nurse's neck, which still had bruises from his own blistered thumbs.

"As you all know, the sheriff is doing all he can to keep this case contained to our county, despite some of Samuel's victims being in other states." The man paused, looking out at the chairs full of article writers, news anchormen, and photographers. Vultures. They don't care about this place or the patients. They only care about the money that goes into their pockets. I don't blame them. I couldn't care less about this place and I am a patient.

"Now, the owner has warned me to not take any questions, but I don't see the problem." He flashed a gritty smile, sitting Samuel down in a wooden chair behind them. Must be a hundred years old. "Sir?" The nurse pointed to a man with a dirty gray beard, a pen and pad in his greasy hands and a camel hanging from his lips. God, what I would do for a cigarette.

"Why did you kill those people, Winchester? And why the notes?" The notes. Always the notes.

Samuel sat up in his chair, blood dripping from his wrists and onto the makeshift stage beneath him. Wasn't the first time blood had hit those wooden slats and it wouldn't be the last. "Get this pretty boy nurse to take these fucking cuffs off of me and I'll answer any questions you have." He winked at the older man, sitting back in his hundred year old chair.

"You'll have to excuse him, he is a psychopath." The nurse smiled, looking down at Samuel, flashing him a play along look.

"Fine. Why did I kill all of those people? Because they wouldn't keep their filthy fucking cameras and pens out of my face even when I warned them to stay back."

-

"You know how important that interview was to the Monsignor." the nurse spit as he shoved Samuel into his room, "He's gonna be pissed at you. You're gonna be sent to solitary. But that doesn't seem to bother you at all, you sick fucking freak."

Samuel sat down on the edge of his so-called bed, taking note of the man in front of him. Big brown eyes shadowed by long eyelashes. The killer liked lighter eyes more but he could easily be just as taken with a man as attractive as- what's his name? Tyler. Right. -Tyler. Tall. Not nearly as tall as Samuel, but tall enough to be taken seriously when necessary. He has curly brown hair but he rarely has it out and down. Always slicked back, away from his face, and from any gripping hands that might use it as an advantage. Probably more from experience than caution.

"They have jobs, just like all of us. They want to know why you killed people just as bad as anyone. They have to give the public what they want, while giving you lunatics the attention you think you deserve after acting out." I don't act out. I kill people who deserve it. This place doesn't need attention drawn to it. Have you seen how it's run? Shock therapy. Conversion therapy. Innocent people locked away in solitary for weeks because they didn't want to eat their peas.

Samuel stood up, stepping up to Tyler, leaning his shoulder against the sticky door frame. I hope I never find out who had this room before me. He pressed his fingertip to the bottom of Tyler's chin, pushing until their eyes met. "Don't be so mean, pretty boy. Not that I mind this pout of yours." He took Tyler's bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. You're not pulling away. Good. You're either terrified of me or you couldn't care less. I like when they're afraid. But it also gives me a challenge when they're not. "And call me Sam." He pulled away, walking around his room, knocking a painting off of the wall. Mother Mary. How sweet. "Don't want those reporters thinking I'm some proper bastard like all of you Jesus loving ass kissers."

Sam found his way back to the door, reaching up and tracing his fingers over a crucifix hanging just above the frame. His eyes flicked to Tyler's hand gently resting on the frame only inches away, then the perfectly sharpened tip of the crucifix, carved into a point just below the Lord's bloodied feet. Do it. Nobody's here to stop you. Don't do it. Solitary. Solitary. Solitary. Jail. You're causing pain. Don't. But he has these cuffs on you and the key is right on his belt. You'd be stupid if you didn't. And they already think you're stupid. Call you names behind your back. Just waiting to sink their teeth in. Sam wrapped his fingers around the cross and ripped it off of the wall, the point wedging itself through the back of Tyler's hand and into the wood of the door frame before the nail keeping the silver sculpture against the wall could hit the ground.

Sam pressed his palm to the O forming Tyler's mouth, pressing his other index finger to his own lips. "Don't make a sound, pretty boy. I just need to relax." He smiled, pulling his hand away from Tyler and grabbing the small key ring around his belt loop. Once he unlocked his handcuffs and wiped the blood on his shirt he fell back onto the bed. Finally. Peace, comfort, and quiet. "So, when do I get to meet this famous Monsignor?"