August 12th, 1944. The asylum is rather quiet today, if you can possibly ignore the shrieking from certain patients who have already fallen off the deep end. John lies in his bed, tossing and turning as he attempts to get any sort of rest. It’s cut sort when someone walks in.

“Go! Go! Babbling like some phony King Solomon. Sit there full of half-witted devil talk that doesn't make sense.” He shouts, grabbing at his head.