I began to notice patterns at the institution, namely - the longer a patient had been interred and undergoing treatment the more tenebrous their connection to reality. I watched perfectly lucid, intelligent patients go from fluid and engaging conversations to being capable of little more than blowing bubbles in their spit. And what’s worse, I found myself going that direction. Last time I escaped, the crayon eating incident, Well - it wasn’t all faked insanity.
It would come in fits and starts - so I began in earnest to invent a way out during my periods away from the asylum. I always felt more lucid away from the asylum. I began smuggling back the necessary parts bit by bit beneath my corset and in the hollowed out soles of my boots. I was eventually able to build a workable, though small, plasma cutting torch.
There was no style or finesse to my escape plan - It was brutally simple. Literally. Once I’d simply torched through a few metal bars I was able to use them to bludgeon my way through the rest of the asylum security and walk out the front doors.
Of course, this was all for naught as a few days later we received a letter from my esteemed lawyer who managed to crack me out of the pokey for good by using the rather cheeky insanity plea - claiming I was too mentally unstable to function in an asylum and needed to be out among civilization. He mentioned the wheels of that argument were literally greased by an anonymous donor with the initials KoT.
Whomever this KoT may be - I heartily thank you.
- Klaude Davenport
[October 5, 2010]