Once upon a time, as, I'm told, all the best stories start, there was a man.

Obviously, once upon every time, there's a great many men but, on this illustrious occasion, I'm discussing one man. He was just an ordinary guy, and that's how he liked it. He was content in his normalcy. He would believe he was a tad above the mediocre and, it would come to pass, he was indeed but, for the sake of argument, he was ordinary.

His name was far from ordinary or normal. 'Sin' is the sort of moniker that got a kick in the doodads every day at school and twice on a Friday. 'Sin' is a name that invites jibes, jabs in the ribs and general abuse around for a cup of tea and a biscuit, serves it in Gran's best China and then smashes said China over your head. Or Sin's head, in this case.

He blamed his parents. At least his sister, Joy, was given a label few would think required violence, either physical or verbal. Parents can be held responsible for a great many of their offspring's faults, and this can be wildly unfair. Sometimes, a bad kid is just that. Sometimes, they're nasty little shits. Sometimes they can bottle their mean streaks and throw them at passers-by like a metaphorical Molotov cocktail of hate and spite. They would laugh in glee when such missiles hit their mark, and would simply hone their skills and aim if not.

Sometimes bad is bad. Sometimes, no matter what the parents try to do, you can't polish a turd.

Sin, however, wasn't that. He was decent. Thoughtful enough without thinking about it. He was nice, in all the wondrously average ways the word implies. He would hold a door open for someone to walk through. He'd offer change or food to the homeless man who always sat outside the Sainsbury's Local corner shop on St. Peter's Avenue. He'd be friendly to online or phone support lines, even if they couldn't help his query, because he knew they were trying and weren't deliberately being obstinate or unhelpful.

Nice. Yeah.

When his sister committed suicide, it rocked the foundations he shambled upon, but he kept his feet. He continued, as that's what you had to do. Death, even suicide, was out of your control, so worrying was pointless. It was the same with spilling a drink on the new sofa or having no phone coverage so Facebook or Instagram wouldn't load. What was the point in losing your mind and throwing your unresponsive phone against a wall? It would achieve nothing.

Not that the death of a sibling and not being able to post the amazing poached egg and bacon on toast you'd just made to your social media were directly comparable, of course. But the lack of control was. For Sin, life's twists and turns stretched before him like Dorothy's yellow brick road. There could be flying monkeys and melting witches along the way, but he hoped there'd be an Emerald City at the end. He'd just have to find out, and the way to do that was put one foot in front of the other and hope he didn't trip over his own inadequacies.

One thing he didn't anticipate was the coin.

See a penny, pick it up and all day long you'll be flipping the damn thing. And all day long people would be dying.

A simple two pence piece shouldn't have such power. It also shouldn't gravitate to a person no matter how much that person tried to get rid of it. And it definitely shouldn't be able to cause buses to crash into buildings or earthquakes to destroy towns or cars to flip over and turn into smoking piles of metal and bones and blood.

Except, it wasn't the coin. That was just a catalyst. It was dropped into the slot of Sin's ordinary and gave it a little extra.

No. All the deaths, however justified they ended up being, were purely the action, however involuntary it was, of Sin.

This put a huge wall right in the middle of his road of yellow brick. A wall that cut off the path ahead and made it so he could only wander in the misty limbo either side. A wall that removed any hope of finding his destination, emerald or not, and, in fact, removed any hope.

So, eventually, Sin had no choice. He went to the only person he thought could help him. The esteemed Dr. Connors. You might know the name. Connors has been present in the psychiatric world for a very long time. He started when electro shock therapy was given with the frequency of an incompetent incontinent taking a piss – and with the same consideration. He wandered along halls where once sane people, called insane because of their sexuality or way of thinking, shuffled or banged their heads against the wall repeatedly.

Connors, being the lauded genius he supposedly was, took Sin in with open arms. Arms that closed abruptly once Sin was within their embrace. Except the embrace was not one of love. It was one of control. Of dominance.

Of awareness.

Sin would welcome the drugs. The sedatives and other pills they fed him three times a day and extra for dessert if he was a good boy. Or if he wasn't.

Whatever Connors' real intentions, Sin was grateful. He was safe but, more importantly, so was everyone else. He could tell. It wasn't happening. People weren't dying at his hand. Or mind. Or whatever caused the loss of life.

And he had friends. Real friends. Not the orderlies, of course. They cared only for the fun they could have while still calling it care. Apart from Jeremy, the only one of their ranks to actually try and help the patients. No, Sin's friends were the other patients, or residents as they preferred to be called. Mucus Mickey, whose nasal excretions could fill a bathtub, for one. And so many others. So many people with so many stories.

Oh, allow me to introduce myself. I guess I should, seeing as you're listening to me waffle on.

Name's Sin.

I say that a bit like 'Bond, James Bond,' but way less cool and with a way bigger mortality rate.

Sin but, I wish, not sinful.

So, you know about me – how about you tell me about you?

Come on. Pull up a straitjacket.

Is there someone you'd like Sin to talk to? You perhaps? Let him know! Alternatively, give me a 'starter sentence' and Sin will see where it goes and who he meets. This can be as random as you like, such as 'The tea smelled like chocolate, so I put on five pounds just from sniffing it' or 'I woke up on Thursday, but I was sure i went to sleep on Friday.' Or, even, 'Two packets of bacon and a biscuit tin, please!'

Sin does like his bacon.

Anywho-be-do, as he'd say, over to you. Any chapters prompted by one of your starters (or interviews) will be dedicated to you!