« All paths lead to madness. »
« I am not mad.
I am not mad. They are the mad. She's the one that should be locked up in a room with no freedom and no friends. I am innocent. Innocent, but not mad.
Go away, leave. I'm tired of all these people, medics, psychologists, tormentors that pretend to help me. I can't escape my fate. I can't escape my death to Her hands.
But you, you, leave. And when you will be home, close the door, lock it, and hide the key, burn the key. Lock everything. Maybe you are next. After me, because I know I am next. She will come, she will come and it will be the end.
First 002, then 004. Last night, it was 006.
I am next.
008. Endlessly, this number repeats itself, written in blood and sweat on the walls, on the floor and what served as a bed, everywhere on his body, engraved, tatooed on his neck. 008... The poor man is sitting on his bed, swinging left and right, slamming his head against the faintly stained wall. Night and day, his bloodstained eyes run back and forth across the tiny room, and his swinging becomes more and more maniacal as he hears steps in the hallway, knocking at his door.
He does not know and no one cares to tell, but it will be five years now that 006 has died.