[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/YGJ8KOA.png[/img][/center]
[h3][center]St. John's Mental Hospital[/center][/h3]

Tapping short finger nails against the windowsill, a set of black eyes tiredly trailed the shape of an outside world stretching across the landscape, beyond a glass window. It separated him from strife and tribulations of the beyond, caging the young man within white walls, for his own safety, and that of others. "Why'd you do it?" A voice echoed within his mind, "why'd you do it?" another continued, "why?" a third joined in. Whispering in circles, the voices surrounded Aiden in an attempt to dig into a mind they already nestled. "Come on," the voices began, "come on," they inquired, one whisper after the other to steal the answer from his lips. "Tell us," Aiden's personal ghosts had found home within his mind long ago. "Tell us," though it was safe to say that at first, they were anything but malevolent. They got him through the lonely confines of an abused life, "don't you trust us?" The shades proceeded, each word echoing throughout, "trust us," they continued, "trust us." 

Ascending to his bare feet, Aiden's arms came to gently embrace his slight frame, as he walked back and forth within his small, confined room. He had taken his medication, though the voices proceeded. They continued freely. Without the medication however, they would take complete control, they would physically appear, and they would interact with the young teenager on a much more intimate level. "Did what?" Aiden finally responded, his quiet whisper of a voice filling the silent air before he laid a tired frame onto his bed. 

"Kill them," the voices began, "kill them, why'd you kill them?" They repeated, "kill them, you killed them," they demanded, "killed them, like a withering flower," the last word echoed within Aiden's mind. "Like a withering flower..." 

"You were there," Aiden returned, staring up at the ceiling with a blank, tired expression. "You saw it." 

"What if they find out?" The voices picked up, their sense of alarm accelerating, "what if? What if they know that little Aiden killed his parents? What if..," they finished, each voice coming to a halt at a knock on the door. Aiden however, remained as he was, resting upon the white sheets of his bed. 

Before long, the door opened, and a woman stepped in. Wearing the traditional garments of a nurse, she wore an equally traditional smile upon her lips to soothe an otherwise cold and unforgiving environment. "Good afternoon, Aiden." She greeted, "how are we feeling, today?" 

"I'm okay," the teen returned, not moving from his spot. 

"Would you like to go out on one of your runs?" The nurse proceeded, taking notes on her clipboard as she spoke. 

"Yeah," Aiden offered, sitting up in bed. 

"Alright," the nurse nodded, producing a collar to gently attach around Aiden's throat. It was common procedure, a safety net. The collar would show them where Aiden was, at all times. It also indicated when it was time to head back to the hospital, so that he didn't roam outside for too long. At the nurse's leave, Aiden slipped into a pair of shorts, and his jogging shoes before venturing out of the hospital. All of the necessary arrangements had been taken care of, of course. After four years at the hospital, the staff knew Aiden quite well, and they were aware of his routines, and his habits. It had been established that physical activities helped his mental state, and were as such condoned for him. Though he required company at first, it was later decided that Aiden could handle himself outside the hospital walls, and he always returned. Indeed, the teen was recorded as a behaving individual.

With a soft breath, he took the first step, followed by the next and a third which eventually launched him into a full jog, something to clear his mind. Lately, the voices had been ever present. They tried to guilt him for what happened to his parents, while simultaneously attempting to convince him of heinous deeds. They were the devils, and the angels on his shoulders, and they were always willing to pitch in, always willing to offer a new point of view.