‘All the good ones are a little crazy.’

. . .

He couldn’t live with himself right now. Absolutely furious with the dumb mistakes he’s made in the past few days. How he could become so lazy and sloppy in his work, neglecting what was really important in his ‘art.’

You see, at a young age Lynx was thrown into trauma way beyond his age. His parents were raging drug attics who beat the shit out of him. But they both overdosed when he was thirteen, leaving him to fend for himself. That’s when he became really familiar with his ‘art.’ And by art he meant relieving his stress in the one way that worked for him… blood red stains, pleading screams, and sweet relief.

Murder.

And it went on for years until he was caught and eventually brought down to the Asylum. They thought he could be rehabilitated.

“No funny business, asshole.” One of the guards scolded, the fat bastards voice high for his build. He gave Lynx a pretty rough shove.- Sending him down to one of the benches in the cafeteria.

“As if I could, fat-ass.” Lynx grumbled, looking down to the tray sat before him on the table. It looked absolutely vile.

He just clenched his jaw, brows knitting together as he stared down at it. Fuck he was pissed at himself for landing here. For winding up in this loonie bin, dressed in that white fucking tracksuit like Hannibal Lector in silence of the lambs. He deserved to be out there. Purging those who didn’t dare deserve to walk the Damn earth.

He needed to feel the relief again, to see that beautiful shade of red stain every inch of him. But it felt like he’d been condemned to this hell.

And now he’d have to put up with shitty food and grippy socks.