He tried to keep as quiet as possible, only jimmying the lock at sporadic intervals. He could hear the heavy breathing of people inside. But this, and his insatiable desire to complete the task at hand kept him going. He'd jiggle it to see if it'd click open. Then wait, silent as a mouse. Maybe more as a mouse with its body snapped in a trap, as he really didn't want to get caught, even though he was adamant on taking the risk. Those inside weren't to be taken lightly.

'In the top draw, just inside the window. You gotta break the lock, though. Jimmy underneath it so the latch breaks open. Pop your head in, pull the draw out, and it should be there. It's a silver tin. Don't look in it. Just bring it to me.'

It kept replaying in his mind. The spoils. The reason he was here. A guard at the Asylum had mentioned it. Had given him the plan. Had also practically twisted his arm, as he owed him one. A big one. Poker was the culprit. And his incessant need to gamble. Why did it always have to come down to money, he thought, as he tried once more to jiggle the kitchen knife under the lock.

#click#

Finally. He would've said it. Wanted to say it, but he was still too weary of getting caught. For the room he was breaking into and now slowly sliding the window open from was that of one they called Madman Callihan. Nobody fucked with the Callihan's. Not because they were brutish, or connected. But because Madman was a known serial killer, convicted and sent to the loony bin upon an insanity plea. Not exactly the kind of reputation you want catching you trying to take something they possessed.

The white curtain began blowing due to the breeze that was wafting in through the window. He had to be quick. The breathing, halfway snoring, was enough to hear to make the move further inside. With each inhale, and each snore, he edged closer inside. His senses were heightened. Fear gripped him, but it made for a platform to be on high alert. The sound of footsteps beyond the inner bedroom door startled him. As he jerked at being surprised, he accidentally fell right in through the window. With a loud thud he crashed onto the floor.

There was no turning back now. He didn't care to see if Madman had woken up, or to notice that the first footsteps were joined by another, both sets only being kept out as they too were reluctant to be in the room of 'Cereal Callihan'. His name a play on the obvious word, on account of rumors that he'd eaten the flesh of some of his victims. His adrenaline pushed him to move as quickly as possible. The draw was quickly yanked open, the only tin case seen grabbed and as fast as he could he leaped back over the dresser towards the opening, between the flapping curtains.

As he was mid air, a hand grabbed at his ankle. With it, a groan. A loud, unpleasant, mournful squall. As if the mouth attached to the body of the hand was unable to speak, maybe due to some form of sedation, a daily meal of pills to keep the mind from wandering onto thoughts of mass murder. But it sounded more like he'd had his tongue cut out. He kicked and kicked and heaved himself toward the opening, his free hand a hold of the window ledge. The bedroom door now opened, but cautiously at first, until the two orderlies could see what was happening.

The asylum attendant's rushed towards the window. One grabbed Madman Callihan. The other, reached out towards the stranger caught in Cereal's grip. Suddenly, and from the tugging on him from the nurse, he lost his hold. Madman slipped backwards, into the clutches of one of the night staff working the graveyard shift. And the young man tumbled out the way he came, crashing to the lawn outside the one building within the complex.

He still had a ways to go, but in his mind, he was free. He broke stride only once, to climb the perimeter wall. As he shuffled over it, he took with him the piece of cardboard he'd positioned there at first entry. Then he kept his legs pumping and didn't look back. Even when the sound of dogs barking pricked his ears, he kept pumping his legs. But still, he felt free. He clutched the tin close to his chest as the other arm swung wildly, spurred him on, grabbing and tearing at the wind that he felt he was cutting through like a blade.

Eventually, he had to stop. Once he'd left the neighborhood, he found himself in a park. If he was ever going to pay back the money he owed, he'd have to get the tin to the guy who'd sent him into a serial killer's quarters. After he found himself alone, he sat down on a wooden bench. The air was now still. No sounds of any birds. Or the rustling of any trees. Or of anyone enjoying mother nature. Just himself and a tin that had a squashed lid. His curiosity piqued.

He took a seat, placed the prize on his lap and opened it. What he saw was beyond belief. It took what was left of his breath away. He couldn't believe it. No wonder the guy who'd given him the plan also told him not to open it. How could this be? It blew his mind. He couldn't return it, nor give it forward. Not now. He'd bury it. And someday, when he returned to the city, one day when the debt was forgotten, he'd re-claim a prize that took much leg work and effort to acquire.