Jared awoke slowly that morning to see a stranger lying, unconscious, in the middle of the floor. He was wearing the navy-blue blazer of the night-watchman, Jackson. How he had ended up in here, Jared knew not, but he was intrigued. He got out of bed and hobbled over to Jackson.
On Jackson's left arm was a small, red hole that had pierced through his sleeve and a trickle of blood was running out. Jared noticed the wound: the same as his when he had ended up in a cell one day. However, now that Jared could see it more clearly, it seemed to be a needle wound, from that of a hypodermic syringe. Obviously, he had been injected with a sedative and, as Jackson stirred, Jared realised that it was but a mild sedative.
Jared realised at last that, for the first time in a long while, that he definitely wasn't crazy. Unless Jackson was also a delusion. To test the theory, Jared poked Jackson.
He was solid, and his shirt felt like a should, although wet from sweat.
Then Jared noticed the paper in Jackson's pocket. It was brown and torn around the edges, as if torn from a larger sheet. Jared took it from his pocket and unrolled the slip clumsily. The words, written as a child had written them, whilst no threatening sent a chill down Jared's spine.
"NOT MY SUPERIOR"
The ink the sentence was written in was a dark red, and was still running as Jared dropped it in fear, before crawling back to his bed and closing his eyes: he knew those words: an inmate claimed they appeared at every disappearance. But the disturbing thing, Jared noticed when his eyes snapped open, was the trail of blood that ran down Jackson's arm and throat.
Jared closed his eyes, waiting for the dream to end.
Knowing that it could not.