It had started snowing in late November, two months after he met Edgar.

Gloria had found refuge in the asylum's greenhouse, where strange and colorful plants grew, a huge change from the dull-colored asylum. If she was still made at Fred, she did not show it, as she referred to him as "Darling" and "Sweetheart" again.

Edgar was also coping with his art. The bullfights merely became part of the painting rather than the center of it, and he hadn't caused any injuries for three weeks.

And now, after his weekend, he was informed of yet another patient with a crime streak.

Boyd Cooper was a man seven years senior of Fred. He was of average height, average build, average black hair, and was basically your friendly neighborhood everyday man.

Except he had a mental breakdown resulting in him throwing molotov cocktails in milk bottles at the place he used to work at, resulting in killing four people inside. Defiantly not average.

A few doctors that did not have weekends off informed him that Mister Cooper had pure paranoid schizophrenia, plain and simple, and that he was only recently let out of his straight jacket, so be careful. Also, he's a conspiracy theorist and won't stop writing on the walls, so if you could get the chalk away from him without getting killed, that'd be great.

Fred never talked to anyone who had killed. Edgar was the closest he knew to a real murderer. What could've caused it? Did he feel any remorse? Why?

Fred took a deep breath. He probably wasn't much different from the other patients. Just slightly more disturbed.

That did not stop his hands from shaking, as the patients were already extremely disturbed in the first place.

So, on a whim, Fred jerked the door open and held his breath, only to find himself facing Mister Cooper's back, which was currently scribbling on the older concrete walls. He glanced back at Fred for a second, then continued his writings.

The doctors were right about the wall writing. Words, people, arrows, and maps were scribble over every wall. Apparently the cleaners didn't have the gall to try and wash it off when he was gone. Boyd himself stood out in the stark room like a sore thumb. His black hair was untidy, his face had stubble, his eyes had dark circles around them, and one seemed to twitch every now and again. The standard asylum pajamas he wore, blue and red pinstripes, were covered in various stains, some namable, most not. His hands were probably the worst, covered in badly-wrapped bandages and burns. Fred really needed to call the nurses out on things like this.

"Uh, Mister Cooper?" Fred said nervously.

"Hurm." the conspiracy theorist murmured in reply.

"I.. I'm, uh, Fred. Fred Bonaparte. I'm the orderly here.." Fred managed to choke out.

Another murmur was all Fred got. He stifled a sigh and walked closer to the man.

"So, Mister Cooper..." Fred began.

"Boyd."

"Huh?" Fred said.

Mister Cooper turned face him again. "Boyd. My name is Boyd. Stop calling me Mister Cooper. Too formal." he turned back to his drawings. "And suspicious." he added.

Fred stared at him for a second, then tried to pick up where he left off.

"Well then, Boyd, where'd you get the chalk?"

"Edgar." It was around this moment Fred realized that Boyd preferred short answers.

"And why'd he give you it?"

"He said writing with blood was a bad idea."

Oookaaay. Possible problem with cutting, must investigate further, he scribbled down on his clipboard. Fred began to actually look at the walls. Names of people, past presidents, dictators, inventors, cult leaders, and names in foreign languages, places, from world wonders to rural towns, time and space, according to Boyd, they were all somehow connected.

And a few of the scribbles were none other than asylum residents and workers. A drawing of Edgar painting, Gloria with a spotlight showing on her, Doctor Thorne's face in a book... In a child's storybook way, they were actually pretty good, or as good as one gets with simple white chalk.

"Boyd, if you don't mind me asking, what this all add up to?" Fred asked, bracing for the worst. Boyd stopped writing for a second and sighed.

"It's what I'm trying to figure out. It's what perfectly planned all the catastrophes in the world, it's what's developed the most murderous minds, it's what makes Gloria afraid and it's why Edgar refuses to admit it was Lampita fault for leaving him. Only one problem." Boyd paused and continued to write. "I have no idea what it is."

Fred almost wanted to say Well Boyd, if there is a god, he's a very cruel bastard, but he held himself back. No need to irritate the irrated.

"How many died?" Boyd said rather suddenly.

Oh god, Fred thought, He's asking about the fire and he's either going to say he meant to get more or he's going to break down sobbing. Brace yourself Fred. Dammit, of all the days to forget your tazer...

Fred took a deep breath. "Four. And twenty were injured." Fred winced, closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

Silence, except for the scraping and tapping of chalk against a concrete wall.

"I'm sorry."

Fred opened an eye. "What do you mean?"

"I was drunk. I didn't mean to kill them. I'm sorry." Boyd said, his voice giving off only the tiniest crack.

A regretful murderer. Now's there's something you don't see every day.

"Well.. I-I'll be sure to let the other doctors know about this, Boyd. I've got to go now, finish my rounds and all. Uh. Goodbye." Fred had slunk out the door before he heard even a bye from Boyd.

Deep breath now, Freddy. You just survived your first encounter with a murderer. And he's actually a pretty alright guy, his mind told him. Just a poor slightly alcoholic conspiracy theorist that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was around this point Fred realized he was clutching the clipboard so hard that it was making imprints on his fingers.

You're alive. Just calm down. And breath. So Fred did what his mind demanded, and began walking down the long hallway to continue his rounds.

Mental note to self: Ask Edgar to offer Boyd those neat little boxes of multicolored chalk. His room is dreary.

FUN FACT: My writer's block was especially horrible with Boyd. So, armed with a new episode of SuperJail!, some good trance-electro beats, and the ability to tell me that, yes, the name of that one song your friend used to sing all the time is "Bleed Like Me", the internet beat me into submission, forcing me to write the rest of this goddamn chapter, which was, contrary to my belief, not like pulling teeth. On that topic, next up is Loboto, the deranged dentist himself. Why yes, that is the title for the next chapter.

Also, my author's notes are too long.

P.S. HEY BABY CAN YOU BLEED LIKE ME.

P.S.S. I am not as drunk as you think I am.