[ He and Lynn came to Mount Massive for what was supposed to be an easy scoop. Film some dirty rooms, deal with some patients with a few screws loose, go home and put it up on the internet for the world to see and 'like' on Facebook. Now Lynn is God knows where, lost in this labyrinthine asylum just like he is, and he's locked in here with a bunch of lunatics who want his head. He gets the sense that they're trapped like fish in a barrel, although he's not sure who's supposed to be shooting them.
Camera poised so that someone, someone, will see this God-forsaken hellhole even if he ends up an unidentifiable splatter of viscera across the floor, Blake makes his way deeper into the asylum. Against his better judgment, he doesn't break a window and run screaming out of the place; not without his wife. That's love — stupidly sacrificial, the kind of thing that will get them both killed instead of just one.
There are screams coming from below, and although he can't identify them as male or female, he stupidly blurts out, ] Lynn! [ He has to believe that the screams are Lynn, because if she's in pain, she can't be dead. Not yet. He makes his way to the nearby set of stairs, feeling like he's descending into the belly of the beast. The smell is grotesque. There's a body in one of the dark rooms downstairs, lying face down, and his hand trembles as he turns it over. A man. Not Lynn. Not Lynn. He scrambles away from the corpse, disgusted. ] Fuck. [ The body's still warm; this was the source of the screams he heard, he's sure of it.
The little red circle signifying that he's recording clicks on. The camera is unsteady, his hand shaking. ] He's dead, [ he says to no one; the future viewer of this recording, whoever finds it on his body after what is becoming terrifyingly inevitable. ] Mutilated. Forgotten. [ It feels like he should say a few words, but he doesn't know what. He remembers something from Catholic school, at least a little, and he mumbles, ] Saints of God, come to his aid. Come to meet him, angels of the Lord. Receive his soul and present him to God, the Most High.
[It is a lonely existence. Years of speaking to nobody but evaluating doctors and the occasional patient he couldn't relate to. Every little scrap of human, things that once was alive and maybe not disfigured and mutilated beyond recognition, gets Eddie's attention when it wanders into the vocational block. One such idiot-- lunatic-- whore-- has just narrowly evaded him and is skittering around like a rat. He can't get far. Eddie knows that much, stalking the halls over and over again. There's precisely one way out and it's doubtful his new potential bride's made it there, given that Eddie has, cleverly, blocked the exit route. It's a door requiring a key, except in this case the key is Eddie himself, tearing through pounds and pounds of building scrap. Wood and concrete and steel all smashed up around the easiest escape.
Even despite his mounting rage, Eddie is somewhat calm. He knows he'll find the slut eventually.
The stench of decomposition is nothing. It hangs in the air, heavy and wet, but Eddie doesn't notice. It's been over forty-eight hours since he's made this place his home. Forty-eight hours, and all those reeking, rearranged bodies are of men who disappointed him. Everything about the corpses is unimportant.
He rounds a corner, stopping for a moment when he hears someone speaking hushed words. Eddie is awful quiet when he enters the room that a strange new arrival seems to have found themselves in. Is he... praying? Eddie was not brought up religious, far from it. But everyone in the asylum had listened to Father Martin's sermons at some point.
This is not Father Martin.]
... Oh... how beautiful.
[His voice. Unfettered with sores or scars in the throat, something lumpy in the mouth, missing teeth. Smooth. His-- his face. What little that can be seen, and it's clean. Eddie's eyes go wide and hazy, a hollow smile fixing on his ruined face.]
There's no God here... but don't let me-- stop you-- [Breath hitching as he steps into the room, wondering what he did to earn this gift that wandered in here without even the grating calls of the idiot upstairs who ushers in so many victims.]
[ The shock of someone there is so great that Blake nearly drops the camera, only barely keeping his grip on it. He shouldn't be surprised; the asylum is filled with people — over-filled, one might say, like they actually want more patients — but he had stupidly let himself feel like this one moment was somehow private. Between him and this dead man, whoever he was. Between him and God, maybe. The man is right, though. There is no God here.
His eyes first go to the clothes. It's not the standard jumpsuit the patients wear, and for a moment, he lets himself believe that he's not alone, that someone has actually come to help him. Then his eyes drift up to the man's face, and he has to choke back disgust. Even disregarding the blisters, there's something indisputably wrong about the look in his eyes. Unsettling in the way a wax figure is unsettling.
It takes him a moment to calm his breathing, still hard and fast from the adrenaline rush. Some of that rush still remains, a tingling in his limbs saying they're ready to run. Even the inmates who haven't tried to harm him have frightened him, and this is no different. ]
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Even despite his mounting rage, Eddie is somewhat calm. He knows he'll find the slut eventually.
The stench of decomposition is nothing. It hangs in the air, heavy and wet, but Eddie doesn't notice. It's been over forty-eight hours since he's made this place his home. Forty-eight hours, and all those reeking, rearranged bodies are of men who disappointed him. Everything about the corpses is unimportant.
He rounds a corner, stopping for a moment when he hears someone speaking hushed words. Eddie is awful quiet when he enters the room that a strange new arrival seems to have found themselves in. Is he... praying? Eddie was not brought up religious, far from it. But everyone in the asylum had listened to Father Martin's sermons at some point.
This is not Father Martin.]
... Oh... how beautiful.
[His voice. Unfettered with sores or scars in the throat, something lumpy in the mouth, missing teeth. Smooth. His-- his face. What little that can be seen, and it's clean. Eddie's eyes go wide and hazy, a hollow smile fixing on his ruined face.]
There's no God here... but don't let me-- stop you-- [Breath hitching as he steps into the room, wondering what he did to earn this gift that wandered in here without even the grating calls of the idiot upstairs who ushers in so many victims.]
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[ The shock of someone there is so great that Blake nearly drops the camera, only barely keeping his grip on it. He shouldn't be surprised; the asylum is filled with people — over-filled, one might say, like they actually want more patients — but he had stupidly let himself feel like this one moment was somehow private. Between him and this dead man, whoever he was. Between him and God, maybe. The man is right, though. There is no God here.
His eyes first go to the clothes. It's not the standard jumpsuit the patients wear, and for a moment, he lets himself believe that he's not alone, that someone has actually come to help him. Then his eyes drift up to the man's face, and he has to choke back disgust. Even disregarding the blisters, there's something indisputably wrong about the look in his eyes. Unsettling in the way a wax figure is unsettling.
It takes him a moment to calm his breathing, still hard and fast from the adrenaline rush. Some of that rush still remains, a tingling in his limbs saying they're ready to run. Even the inmates who haven't tried to harm him have frightened him, and this is no different. ]
I was— paying respects.