I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, or Father Martin Archimbaud. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski. Enjoy!

The frightened and injured man half-jogged around a corner. The doctor had now entered the hallway he had just come from, inciting Simon to limp faster. Where he was limping to, he was not certain. All he knew was that he had to get away from his maniacal boss. Mount Massive was huge, and full of many dark crevices and hidey-holes. He would find a good place to hide, preferably a comfortable one so that he could rehabilitate. Then, once he was at full health, well . . . he'd cross that bridge when he got that far. If he got that far.

He paused as he came to a T-intersection. In front of him was the main elevator and a staircase that was separated from the hallway by an iron-gated door. Simon tried the handle, but it wouldn't budge. There was no way he was using the elevator; it would make too much noise and probably wouldn't move fast enough to prevent the doctor from seeing him. That left the options of either going left or right, and he had to decide fast.

Right is usually right, he thought as he lunged forward to go down the hallway to his right. Immediately upon turning the corner, his bruised and battered chest collided with a dark-clothed one with a leather-belted cross buckled to it.

Simon suppressed a yelp and winced, in part from the pain brought on by the rough contact, and in part from the knowledge of just who he had ran into. He looked up into the face of the asylum's resident priest and was suddenly grabbed by each shoulder and pulled forward before being roughly pressed against a wall.

"Do not be frightened, my child," Father Martin, as the asylum's occupants had come to call him, hissed into Simon's panicked face. Simon blinked away the spittle as the Father continued.

"I am only here to help. Please, I beg of you, come with me!" he whispered urgently, tugging Simon by the front of his shirt.

Simon pulled back away from the insane man, trying to break free of his grip. "W-What? No thanks, sir, but I don't plan on going anywhere that involves being led by a—"

"Shhh, shh! He is coming. The doctor!" Father Martin hissed in disdain as he looked toward the corner of the hall. Simon ceased his struggling and listened. The priest was right; he was barely able to make out faint whistling coming from somewhere further down the hallway he had just come from.

Damnit! If he finds me . . .

Simon shuddered involuntarily and turned back to the mad priest, who was still clutching onto the front of his shirt. He nodded his head vigorously. "O-Okay. I'll follow, I'll follow," he said quickly, but the priest had already begun trotting down the dark hallway with Simon in tow before he had even finished his sentence.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire, Simon thought dismally. He could only hope that the mad Father's company would be more beneficial than the mad Doctor's.

The skeleton-like man made his way down the hallway his assistant had unceremoniously hobbled down before him, whistling a soft, melodic tune. He was in good spirits after his encounter with that overgrown dunce. Also, the cheering of his adoring fans only helped to inflate his already large ego.

Unfortunately, his good mood was tapering off as he pursued his assistant. He rounded a corner, fully expecting to see the injured man stumbling away, but found the hallway was deserted.

Where the devil did he go? he mused. After all that action and cheering, the little prude had ran out, leaving it up to his esteemed boss to rope him back in. Did he think that just because of his superior's success in subduing that mindless meathead that he could just take a vacation? What the hell was he paying him for? Well, he wasn't paying him at all, but if he was, it would certainly not be to diddle-dally. Oh, Simon was being very unprofessional, and that just would not do!

The doctor stopped his whistling and listened. The hallway branched off in two directions, and neither of which sounded occupied. A sign next to the elevator read:

Rec Room ←

Rooms 107-121 ←

Rooms 108-122 →

Chapel ↑

From behind the cracked spectacles, his eyes hovered over the last location and he let out an angry growl. No way in hell was he dealing with that sniveling, self-righteous nutcase. Or, he thought with no small amount of sadism, maybe he should pay the priest a visit. He glanced over to the elevator. Maybe taking out his current frustrations towards his assistant's total disregard for work ethics on the homicidal preacher would put him at ease. Well, what the hell was stopping him? Immediately several very crucial reasons as to why he shouldn't hunt down the priest surfaced to the forefront of his fractured mind.

One, he was mad at his assistant; no need to waste time tracking down ol' priesty. That would be counter-productive, and Richard Trager liked to think that he was a very productive person. Two, the Walking Sausages would probably be lurking around somewhere. They were already wary of him and his antics. And, they were huge. Not Walker-huge, but still more well-built than he was, and, despite himself, Trager was . . . disconcerted by their presence. They were just so fucking creepy! And that was saying a lot for Trager. And three, not only did he have Thing 1 and Thing 2 at his beck and call, but the priest also had a good number of followers.

Why the fuck don't I have a bunch of followers? Trager questioned with a frown. Oh that's right. I ended up killing them! A low chuckle escaped his lips as his mind wandered to his past experiments. He was pulled away from his thoughts and back to the issue at hand. He looked back up to the sign again.

Hmm. Right is usually the right way to go, he thought to himself. So with that thought in mind, he opted to go left, for right was a cliché choice, and he despised clichés. He turned and walked down the dark hall until he came to the first door. Once he got Poleski back and dealt with his disobedience, he could return to his patients and plot accordingly on how to take down the old bible-thumper.

All in due time, Rick, he chided himself.

With a sneer, he opened the door, intent on finding his assistant and dragging him back to the Male Ward. Whether it be in one piece . . . or several.

Simon huffed and grunted as he tried to keep up with Father Martin's brisk pace. The priest did not seem to notice the state of his not-so-wiling companion, or maybe he just didn't care. Either way, the pace at which the two were going was definitely not recommended for someone with Simon's injuries.

Simon had been dragged all the way down the dark hallway, which they were nearing the end of. In a few more strides, the tugging ceased as they both stopped in front of a door. Simon could barely make out the priest's grubby hand as it gripped the doorknob and twisted it. The door opened inward, and Simon was roughly shoved into the small room. He nearly tripped over his own two feet now that he had no one supporting most of his weight. He regained his balance and stood up, wincing from the quick movement. Thunder cut through the night sky, followed by a bolt of lightning that lit up the whole room, and Simon noticed a lone window in front of him. It was broken, its glass littering the floor in front of it and letting in rain from the outside. The ripped curtains were dancing hauntingly in the strong breeze.

Suddenly, Simon was propelled forward towards the window. He stunted his momentum by gripping the windowsill. With a hiss of pain, he jerked his hands away from the edge. They were now a bloody mess, with several gashes etched into his palms. Broken glass. Damn it all! He angrily turned back to face Father Martin.

"Go on, my son!" said the priest, motioning towards the open window. "Salvation awaits you beyond that threshold. I will meet you on the other side!"

Simon inwardly hoped that he meant the literal other sideand not the other other side. He looked questioningly to the window again.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, turning back. "Aren't you—" The door to the small room shut and clicked. ". . . coming." Simon let out a curse and hobbled over to the door. He grabbed the knob and attempted to turn it. His bleeding palms made the feat difficult, but it didn't matter. The madman had locked him in. Simon sighed irritably. Did this nutcase seriously think he was going to go out an open window, more than two stories above ground, and walk on a narrow ledge to God knows where, in the pouring rain? Did he really think he was that crazy, to do such an outlandish thing? Simon ignored the irony of that question, and took to surveying his surroundings. There wasn't much to the room besides a padded office chair, a wooden desk, and a filing cabinet. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and slowly lowered himself into the padded chair, hissing slightly at his protesting joints and ribs. If he was going to risk his life to reach an unknown—and most likely unsavory—destination, then by God he was going to relax first!

The desk in front of him had a sleek black computer atop it, along with a pen-holder containing various styles of pens and other objects. Simon sat there for several minutes, staring at the desk blandly. He was tired, his whole body was aching, and now that his nerves weren't as frazzled, he was bored. The very thought of being bored in a place like this was enough to bring a mirthless smile to Simon's chapped lips.

After several uneventful minutes, he gave into his boredom and began rummaging through the contents of the desk. He reached out and pulled open a drawer on the right side. It was filled with note-pads, paper clips, rubber bands, several unsharpened pencils, a mechanical sharpener for said unsharpened pencils, some push-pins, and a whole lot of dust. Nothing of great interest.

After looking through every drawer of the desk, the only interesting items he had found were several files containing documents, and a novel. If he would have had his reading glasses and proper lighting, he might have actually taken the time to read some of the novel. Right now, though, he couldn't even make out the novel's title. Simon lay the book down on the desk and folded his arms. Maybe he could catch a few z's. Doubtful, considering his environment, but he would just have to try.

Just then, as if on cue, a large gust of chilling wind blew through the entire room, sending several papers scattering to the floor and blowing open the novel's pages. Simon brought his arms around his body and shivered against the biting cold. For several moments, he sat there shivering and cursing his ill fortune. His tired eyes wandered absentmindedly over the contents on the desk, observing the loose pages of documents.

Wait a minute . . .

Something was poking out from between the novel's pages. Simon reached out with his bad hand and pinched the corner of the mystery parchment, and slid it out from between the pages. A photograph! It was hard to make out what was on it in the dark, but as he brought it closer to his face he could just make out the image of a smiling boy, wearing a red and blue baseball cap. The boy looked to be no more than eight, and was missing a tooth.

Simon held the flimsy picture in his trembling hand, his mind flitting with memories of his old life; the one he had prior to his incarceration at Mount Massive. He did not want to be reminded of what once was, and it didn't help that he was currently sitting at a desk in an office. Against his wishes, he began thinking of all the dull days he had spent working in a cramped cubical, at a desk much like the one he was at now. Instead of a sleek black computer, a bulky and outdated fossil had adorned his old desk. His desk, he recalled, was also much messier than the squeaky clean one in front of him.

He looked back at the picture of the smiling boy, and thought of the pictures he had placed on his old desk. One was of him and a dark brown Labrador named Max. Another was of him kneeling next to a sickly-looking woman in a hospital bed. She was wearing the standard hospital gown, an IV jutting out of her frail hand. In her arms was a baby, bundled in a pale pink blanket. Another photo was of him and a little girl with dirty-blonde curls. Both of them were dressed in puffy winter coats and other winter-ware. They were positioned on a red sled surrounded by snow. The girl's face was bright red as she smiled, several of her teeth missing, at the camera.

Before Simon knew it, tears began to prick at his eyes. Slowly, he lay the photo back between the book's pages and closed it. He hadn't thought of his daughter in some time, and in his wife's case, several years. Simon's heart began to hurt by how much he missed them both in that moment. It ached even more when he realized he had almost forgotten them completely. He wanted to blame it on the medication, but that was a pitiful excuse to forget one's wife and child.

Oh how much hurt can be brought on by a few pesky memories . . .

Solemnly, Simon craned his neck to gaze out the open window. The cold outside air did not seem to affect him so much anymore. His body, once wracked with pain and shivers, was utterly numb. This should have been a good thing. But it wasn't. Simon felt empty. No, no, that wasn't even totally correct, for he didn't seem to be able to feel anything at all.

He was still staring at the window with dull, dead eyes. Before he knew it, he had stood up from his sitting position and dragged his feet over to the window and looked out. The sky was dark, the clouds overhead preventing any light from the moon to break through. Beyond this window was freedom. Freedom from this accursed place. Freedom from the physical torment. Freedom . . .

Salvation.

The word that the priest had used echoed through Simon's mind as he stared down at the concrete pavement below. "It would be so simple," he muttered under his breath. On a sudden impulse, Simon found himself climbing up over the windowsill, ignoring the broken glass digging into his bleeding palms, and planting his bare feet firmly onto the narrow ledge below. He turned his body around so that he was facing away from the window. The wind and rain battered his face and front, but he didn't care. He didn't seem to be able to care about anything at the moment. One small, coordinated jump and he would be rid of this place forever. Or so he hoped. The last thing this place needed was a ghost . . .

"So goddamn weak."

Simon's eyes widened and his head snapped up, looking all around him. "W-Who said that?" he asked hesitantly.

Only the howling wind answered him. He looked behind him and saw that the door to the office was still shut, and the room was empty. The voice . . . Someone had definitely spoken to him. It sounded very familiar, and Simon could feel the anger from earlier that night returning.

"You're pathetic!"

"Sh-Shut up. Shut up, shut up!" he shouted out into the night, his pained words lost amongst the wind and rain.

With a loud crack, the sky lit up, causing Simon to jerk back against the broken window. His feet slipped out from beneath him and he fell. He hit the ledge roughly on his rump, making him cry out from pain and shock. To his horror, he began to fall forward, and he twisted his body—very painfully—so that he was able to grab onto the ledge. He was now dangling nearly thirty feet in the air, huffing and puffing as he struggled to support his weight.

"Weak. Pathetic. Cry, you little shit, cry!" The gruff voice sounded over the loud pounding in Simon's ears. Simon winced and shut his eyes tightly as he clung to the ledge.

"Give up," taunted the hideous voice. Simon cracked open his eyes and clenched his teeth.

No.

No.

"NO!" Simon cried out. Consumed by rage and filled with renewed energy, Simon managed to hoist himself up and lift his right leg over the ledge. Now in no immediate danger of falling, he grabbed onto the windowsill and rose on shaky legs. Once he regained his bearings, he turned and cried out to the thundering sky, "Ah-HA! Haha! I am not weak! You hear me?! I am NOT—"

"Oy! Shut the fuck up out there, ya' damn loony! Some o' us are tryin' to pray o'er here!"

Simon turned to his left and saw an inmate leaning out of a window. He glanced back to the ground contemplating his next course of action. He had just escaped a fatal fall, a fall which he did not plan on making again any time soon. His adrenaline was leaving him, and the numbness from before was long gone, giving way to the bitter cold. He shivered from the wind blowing against his rain-soaked clothes. The priest had told him to go out the window and follow the ledge, presumably to the other window that the man was currently leaning out of.

Simon tore his eyes away from the ground and back to the angry inmate. There was light behind him, indicating electrical power, and from his limited view of the room, Simon could make out the corner of a bed. He could use a bed right about now. And a room that had a working window. The choice was obvious.

"H-Hold on!" called Simon as he started making his way towards the open window. "I'm coming over!"