"Philly," he said, smiling.

It was good to see him smile and her return it. Things were forgotten quickly in the asylum. We didn't see the point in letting disagreements linger on when we had to face each other every day. I was sure the orderlies would be more than happy to witness dragged out disputes, especially if they escalated. We, however, were more likely to start a new day as if nothing had happened on the previous one.

"They made me a cup of tea," she told him. "Two They made me two. With four sugars! Proper sugar, instead of that little pill crap. It was like I was in a café and I was the only customer."

"That's good," said Red. "I'm pleased they looked after you."

"They did. They did. Yes, they did. But no like you did. Nowhere near how well you looked after me."

"Me? I didn't do anything. I just wanted to stand up for you."

"You did, didn't you? You did stand up. And they couldn't knock you down!"

"Well... I just..."

"They couldn't knock you down or..."

"No," Red interrupted her, putting his hand on her arm. "Nothing happened. All I did was try to stop them hurting you, that's all."

"Red! No! It was much more than..."

"Philly, that was all. We don't need to worry about the rest, do we?"

The words 'do we' were emphasised and Red leaned in, his eyes hard as he said them. It was a sign to his companion to stop talking about it. Calm down and let's change the subject.

She blinked and gulped back her next sentence. There was a brief pause and she said:

"Four sugars!"

"Richardson."

One of the orderlies had been watching their conversation and moved closer as it continued. His voice was an ever deep growl that made you wonder if he'd eaten a lion and it was stuck inside his stomach, unable to climb out or be passed the other way. Its only recourse was to announce its presence when he opened his mouth to speak. He was tall but not very broad. More lanky than stocky. As such, his voice didn't suit him.

His name was John. We called him The Baptist, as his favourite method of getting a patient's attention was to pour a glass of the coldest water he could get over the head of his victim. He'd heard him being referred to by the nickname and, rather than be offended at it, he wore it proudly. It meant he was noticed. For what reasons didn't matter. People were aware of him.

Having divorced himself from his given name, Red ignored the orderly. He'd told everyone he wouldn't respond to it. He'd said what we should call him. Orderlies were not the sort to do what a patient told them and, if they could aggravate said patient in the process of doing the opposite, even better.

"Richardson!"

Philly looked worried, staring from Red to The Baptist and back.

"Red, maybe you should..."

"Four sugars, eh? That's too sweet for me."

Red was calm and was refusing to acknowledge the distraction. His jaw was tight, as if straining against the impulse to retort, but his voice did a decent job of disguising any stress.

Philly smiled, The Baptist forgotten and the conversation resumed.

"I know, but I thought I'd take advantage of Dr. Connors' generosity while I could. I didn't think he'd miss a couple of extra sugars."

"But Phillipa, aren't you sweet enough?"

The Baptist's hand was on Red's shoulder, pulling him around before Philly could respond. She'd grin and act coy and drink down in the compliment like it was a well sugared cuppa. She'd do that if John hadn't intervened.

Red spun, but more from his own accord than the orderly's force. He was around and on his feet before John had the chance to retrieve his hand. As he tried to, Red grabbed it, twisting it hard and fast. I didn't hear the crack of splintered bones, but I did hear the squeal from John and saw his pain contorted face. I also saw the snapped ulna pop up through the flesh of his upper wrist like John Hurt's Alien saying 'hello.'

Philly screamed. Or John did. Maybe both. Someone else followed their example.

Red let go of The Baptist's hand and pushed him back. There was no resistance. John stumbled away and fell, landing on his arse. I noticed he bounced a little.

If we'd been in a movie, I could imagine someone shouting 'ACTION!' Suddenly, chaos erupted. More screams drowned out any instructions from John's colleagues as they tried to both restrain Red and regain control of the other residents. Four of them leapt onto Red and he fell beneath them. There was a flurry of fists and feet raining punches and kicks down on him and, for precious seconds, I couldn't see him.

Then I could.

With a grunt that did make its way through the cacophony, he pushed himself up and threw off his attackers as one. They were flung away as if he had discarded a take away wrapper and it had been caught in the wind. They recovered quickly, but he was no longer standing in the same place. He was, instead, storming towards the outer wall, just to the left of the main window.

His pace rapidly increased as he drew closer. Residents and orderlies alike moved quickly out of his way and, just before he hit the wall running, he bent forward and brought his arms up, crossing them in front of his face. He didn't stop, not even when he and the wall made contact.

The asylum is sturdily made. The windows are toughened glass, the sort with thin wires running inside the pane. Just how do they do that? All the doors are thick, whether in or external. The walls are double thickness. Before the building was a hospital, it had been a stately home.

Before Dr. Connors began his reign of terror... I mean reign of terrific care and support, he bought the hospital from a semi-aristocrat. One who'd inherited his home and way of life from his tragically deceased, conveniently fortunate for the doctor, parents. Being so well looked after by mummy and daddy, he'd had no idea of how to survive on his own. That included managing his finances. Besides, he didn't want to waste money on such a huge building, so Connors' offer to buy was fortuitous and readily accepted. Connors had wasted no time in extending and refurbishing it.

It was constructed by the man's great (times a few) grandfather, a paranoid, though wealthy gentleman who'd effectively had another house built around the shell of the original one. This double skin ensured enhanced security and safeguarded against both a decades later wartime bombing and the prospect of the local crazies, myself included, escaping.

My research into Connors and the history of the hospital had been extensive before I checked myself in. I didn't expect Red's had been anywhere near as detailed. I suspected it was, in fact, non existent.

The wall didn't know that Red didn't know. Hence, when the two met, the wall didn't have time to do as the staff and residents had and move out of the way.

Red did not seem to mind. He helped, in fact.

I'd never seen anything like it before and I haven't since. Red ran forwards and the solid obstruction may as well have been paper. He tore through it, sending pieces of plaster and chunks of brick flying outwards. He didn't slow. He didn't stop.

The dust was literally still settling when the stunned company inside realised one of them was now outside, along with part of the building.

Someone, obviously, screamed. Someone swore. Someone shouted. Eventually, someone – multiple someones - ran. At first, it was haphazardly, with only the orderlies following Red. When the residents realised freedom was only a hole away, a more direct route became clear.

The orderlies then had two issues to deal with. An escaped lunatic and escaping lunatics.

No. We weren't lunatics. That was a term far too strong for my friends and me. Delusional, maybe. Disturbed, without a doubt. Confused. Unwell. In pain. Grieving. Not, however, lunatics. The word was used to describe us by Percy and the rest. It was one of the more polite ones. They would be thinking it, though, if thinking was something they had time to do at that moment. The chaos was causing them to act instinctively and they didn't have great instincts.

I remained where I was. It wasn't going to end well, and the escapees would be rounded up quickly enough. I could see Wey was sitting, watching the carnage, and Philly was standing, pretending to drink from an imaginary (or invisible) cup, ignoring the buffeting she was getting from being bumped into.

The Baptist was on his knees, clutching his wrist.

An alarm began to sound, blaring above the dissonance. It was somewhat redundant, as we all knew something was happening and we were already alarmed. No one took any notice of it anyway.

Here's the third part of Red's story from within the asylum, based on the brilliant starter sentence from sseasaltss. There's one more to go, coming very soon.

If you have an opener you'd like to give me, drop me a message!