"Why not?"

The hero looks at you. Confused, flabbergasted, disgusted. You can't tell what he's thinking, but you can taste all the emotions that go through the train of thought.

"Because it's madness," he says.

You shrug.

"Perhaps. But many great ideas start as madness."

"No, many great ideas start with creativity and ingenuity. That plan of yours? That is textbook madness."

"It is creative an ingenious," you answer. Quite literally, clapping back.

"Is this a game to you?" The hero asks, unable to keep in his amusing frustration at bay.

"Very much, yes. I quite like it. Today, I'll make a meatball. Tomorrow, perhaps it'll use every bird and bird egg that exists to make mayo. Next week, I'll use all plants that are alive to make some bread. Then next month, I'll assemble my gigantic and majestic gigantanormonous meatball sandwich."

"You are insane."

"Yes. But in my defense, I'm a ver insane creatively ingenious child."

"You're not a child," the hero snaps. "Your a grown ass person that doesn't seems to understand what the fuck they're doing."

"That's why you love fighting me," you sing. You giggle as you twirl around. You taunt him. "You just love beating me up for my crazy brilliant plans and locking me in the asylum. Then you wait for me to break out, crazier than when I went in. I'm only playing our game."

"This isn't a game!" The hero screams. "You are a danger to society and to yourself."

"And whose fault is that? Mine or my mother's? Mine or the asylum's? Mine or yours? Madness isn't hereditary, you see. It's causational. It's made by people who want you to go mad."

The hero looks at you blankly. He's disconnected himself from your first encounter. What began it all.

You were a grieving and in pain. You had nobody. You were lost. You were alone. You were desperate. You were dying. You still are dying. You've died. You've been dead for far too long.

You just wanted to end it all. But the hero approached you at the top of the building. He spoke to you. He consoled you. He dragged you away from the edge of the building. He cleaned your tears and hugged you. Whispered that everything would be alright. That you're safe. That the worst had already happened and tomorrow would just get brighter and brighter and brighter...

Then, because you had no one to turn for support or help, because you were homeless and lost, they sent you to the asylum.

You were surrounded by a sea of desperation and despair. You heard the screams each morning, each night and every afternoon. The staff wasn't there to help you.

They were there to keep you isolated.

So you scaped. You scaped and tried to run away. You attempted to rob a store, with nothing but a rusty knife you found in the trash somewhere. You were locked and returned to the asylum. No matter how much you had plead, your cries to not return to that place we're ignored. They had deemed you 'clinically insane'. A 'danger to everyone, including yourself'.

They tried everything to keep you calm and complacent. They drugged you. They shocked you. They locked you with no lights, water or food. They were vigilant while you showered. They forced you to be vulnerable, just to torture you with your deepest secrets.

So you kept running away. And they kept returning you there. Everyone of your attempts got more elaborated and extravagant and, yes, insane.

Because that's what they were doing. They were making you go mad. With each shock they gave you, they would repeat one phrase:

"You are insane," they would whisper in your ear. "You are dangerous to yourself. You need help. We are here to help you."

You knew it was bullshit, buy yet, you couldn't help yourself. The lie you were told became a reality that kept you trapped in your worst nightmare.

You became crazy. Turned a danger to everyone including yourself. And it wasn't a small threat of violence, like murder a seller or attack a person and beat them to a pulp. It was elaborate threats. The more elaborated being the gigantic human meatball.

The hero still stares you down from where he's standing. You keep the gaze until you can't take it anymore.

You break down.

You're, once again, that sea of desperation, pain and maddening loneliness you were before your life got worse.

"Kill me," you croak. Your eyes soaked in tears. You're standing oh so close to the edge of the massive meat grinder you built for your crazy plan.

The hero just keeps staring at you. The disgust and anger long gone. Slowly, he approaches you.

"It's okay," he says as he drags you away from the edge. "You're gonna be okay."

He takes you back to the asylum.

You are not safe.