Þetta er trúlega eitt það mesta bull sem ég hef skrifað, og ég skil ekki alveg endinn sjálf…en það varð að vera endir, svo ég setti bara eitthvað rugl þangað…pffft…

The lights brightened slightly, as a tall, lanky figure made it's way down the hall.

Holland's Institution For Mentally Ill Criminals. The sign was rusty, and would probably fall down within the next year. That's probably why said figure decided to rush past it, before slowing its pace again.

As it entered the quarters, where the ‘mentally ill criminals’ were sleeping in their cells, he visibly cringed. ‘Mentally ill’ was an understatement. These people were maniacs, and he knew it.

His golden nametag glittered in the light of the moon. Aaron Clint. Even though he hadn't been working there for a long time, he already knew everything that there was to be known about this prison. He had to. There weren't many people working there…they were low on staff, and the few people that worked along Clint, in order to ‘safe the society’, were forced to take night shifts, work long past their hours, and even do things that weren't exactly in the job prescription. Due to those things, Clint had, in the two months that he'd been working at the Institution, been a manager, guard, janitor, head of the security department and, believe it or not, a pizza boy, for when Holland's nine year old daughter was starting her own company, called Janet's Pizzas. Neither she nor her father obviously had great imagination when it comes to making up names.

Switching his flashlight on, he proceeded to make his way from cell to cell, quickly scribbling down who were there. Much to his relieve, everyone on the first floor were sleeping soundly in their cells. He wasn't surprised, though. First floor criminals weren't as bad as the others. Their offence was minor, and their mental stability slightly better then the ones on the third and fourth floor. Second floor was unpredictable. Personally, Clint believed that second floor's prisoners weren't even mad at all, simply masterminds too afraid to go to normal prison. Indeed, Holland's Institution for Mentally Ill Criminals was more secure, with bigger cells and better food. Holland insisted that in order to help the prisoners, they would have to be kept in an as cozy environment as possible, even though most of them had to wear straight-jackets.

When Clint had first gotten there, he had been slightly disturbed by the fact that every single wall was padded, and every prisoner was kept in such an isolated cell, that it was unbelievable if they'd see another person for their whole stay.

First floor prisoners were the only ones that got to go the cafeteria for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The other ones were not trusted to behave through that, even though some second floor prisoners got to go their, if they were good-behavior prisoners, but even then they were surrounded by the few guards that occupied the Institution. Clint had never fully understood why they didn't just put the food into first floors prisoners' cells, too. It would save them a lot of trouble.

He turned off his flashlight as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. He didn't know why he did that. He came from a poor family, and was used to turning everything off when he wasn't using it…sure, the torch would make it easier for him to conquer his never-ending fear of the dark, or at least put it aside.

As soon as he reached the second floor, he turned the flashlight back on, and made his way to the first cell.

Charles Livingston, accused of murder, attempted murder and rape, slept soundly in his cell, sucking his thumb, curled up in a ball. Clint chuckled slightly at the position of 67 year old murderer. He looked so innocent…almost like a child.

Sighing, Clint continued his way down the line, stopping once in a while if he couldn't see the criminal immediately, or if he was still awake.

He skipped the seventh cell. He always did. He was too afraid to look inside…too guilty.

“Aaron…” Clint cringed at the sound of his name, but he didn't look back. His brother, Jim Clint, had gotten into the institution long before Clint did. He'd told his family that he was in Los Angeles, and they had all believed him, including Clint. When Clint saw him there, lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling and fiddling with an old photograph, they had both been shocked beyond believe. At first, Clint had talked to him every night, promising not to tell their mother…not for Jim's sake, but for her sake. She wasn't a strong person. In fact, she was extremely vulnerable in situations like this one.

Jim had been on the first floor then.

One night, Clint had stopped to say hello, like he always did. Jim did as he always did, and asked Clint if he couldn't give him the key…no one had to know, Clint was the one that counted them all. Clint had denied, as always, stating that they'd catch him, and his time would be extended. And that was when Clint had decided to ask the question that had been weighting him down since he first saw his brother there.

Why was he there? What had he done?

Jim's answer was one that made Clint never speak to him again. Mass murder, he had said. Threw a bomb at some school bus, he said. Just for fun, he said.

Just for fun.

Clint never stopped by his cell again. He even quit his job, but applied for it again very quickly, when bills and debts started catching up to him.

Jim called to him every single night, his voice rarely above a whisper. He always stayed up for him. He never went asleep until his brother had come, in case Clint decided that he would forgive him. That he would put it all behind them, just like Jim had done.

But his brother never did.

His brother never wanted to.

Clint sighed in relieve as he walked past the last cell. It had never actually happened, that a prisoner had escaped…or, atleast not in the two months he'd worked there.

Allie had third and fourth floor, so Clint's day was over. He made his way past his brother's cell again, listening to his quite cries, in order to get to the staircase. He climbed it swiftly, making his way past the first floor cells, and into the dressing room, where he rid himself of the guard costume, and dressed into his own clothes.

Just two months. Just two months until he could get out of there. Just two months until he had raised enough money for his sister. Just two months until he could end his dreaded life on this god-forsaken planet.

Just two months.
Dance, my puppets! Dance! *Insert creepy-beyond-believe laughter here*