[center][h1]Emil Günther[/h1]
Physical state: Sick
Mental state: Excited[/center]

[color=0072bc]”A nurse will help, most certainly,”[/color] Emil said. [color=0072bc]”I saw one pass us by. I think she might be near still.”[/color] He cut the talk quickly, feeling a hint of tremor tingle in the depth of his speech that he had to prevent from emerging. His worry, he knew not why, seemed to him impersonal, as if it were felt for him by a man writing his life like a story. He could have sworn that he himself as he knew himself was an entity separate from some real life that existed above this plot he was following and had mistaken for reality. His sickness or not, he saw himself like a character from a novel that he'd grown to like and now observed so carefully that he related to him to the point where he could feel him profoundly. And he couldn't wait to see what the next page of smeared tint would bring. [color=39b54a][i]A mystery, yes. A tale of horror and anomaly, of things incomprehensible. Most Gothic in setting, Romantic in possibility. These dark halls and secrete notes, and the inevitably bloody ending.[/i][/color]

With a prayer to some indefinite god that the note would not fall off his shoe sole he turned and slowly, almost clumsily, left. After a few steps he knelt and, pretending to be fixing his laces, grabbed the paper with the haste of an addict. The note in his palm, he disappeared around the corner, picking up his pace, not looking at the faces of the workers who regarded him with curious eyes. [color=39b54a][i]A note, with words on it. A she, the doctor said. They are allowed ink and paper inside? Someone must have smuggled it in.[/i][/color] He then saw her, the nurse, again, and as he realised she was prettier than he thought in that close and brief encounter his situation felt closer to his heart again. She walked into an open office whose number he remembered.[color=39b54a][i] 64.[/i][/color]

The bathroom was across from the office. Once inside, he was surprised by a faint smile on his lips that he saw in the mirror. Conning himself for a moment, he caught a thought intruding, and knew he somehow expected the smirk. [color=39b54a][i]The office: Six and Four. F and D. Oh, author, you conjurer of the subtle![/i][/color] With refueled vigor he entered one of the cubicles that the bathroom contained: the one farthest from the door. The paper was damp with the sweat from his palms and the writing hieroglyphic at best, but decipherable. [color=92278f]I'm here, Emil. Help me.[/color] he read, squinting over the note. He sat on the lowered toilet seat, feeling the plastic depress under his weight. The lights in the silent bathroom flickered and he gazed up at the ceiling, expressionless and still like the walls of the the asylum. 

[center]***[/center]

[color=39b54a][i]Sixty-Four[/i][/color] he read, face washed and refreshed, hair fixed, mouth cleansed with water. Through the stained glass in the door he saw but the most shapeless movement within that could have been that of anything, a raw motion of the visible. He knocked three times waiting for a response, a drop of cold water going down his neck.