Woolf Salmon Corday was a proud-looking man. He was intimidating at a height of 6'3," and the cold, merciless eyes that sank into his head furthered this. His mouth rarely was in a smile, but more of a dead-set grimace. He was unapproachable and built with broad shoulders and a muscular though rather stocky body. One might guess him to be around thirty, as he hadn't yet obtained crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, nor deep wrinkles on either side of his face. His hair was kept short atop his rather square head. His once smooth skin was now littered with scars, and his fingernails worn down from where he has scratched at himself. A hunted look had recently become apparent in his pale blue eyes. He would normally walk with his shoulders back and his head up, his stride long and his shoulders would move almost in a swagger, but now he was more sullen and sulky, his shoulders hunched with a dangerous look in his eye.
He truly was a dangerous man. He was delusional, denied that fact, and was convinced everyone else was at fault. He knew that there really were parasites underneath his skin, that the men who thought he was crazy were just stupid and not understanding. His sense of pain had been numbed by his delusions, making him like a pit bull. Of course, you didn't get shoved here for anything like that. No, he wasn't placed here because he had clawed at his own skin with his fingernails. He was placed here because of the deliberate murder of his children and his wife, after purposely making them chronically ill by poisoning them over a prolonged period of time.
It all made sense to Woolf. He knew that the insects were really there. He knew that his family's death really was necessary. It had been ingenious, really. He had been so careful at first. There were no documents because the poison wasn't hard to find. There was only one man who knew, and Woolf had been sure he wouldn't have told. At first it was real. His wife had been diagnosed with cancer. She felt horrible, and moaned about the pain she felt all day long. He couldn't stand it, and his sanity had threatened to leave. And then the people came. They clustered around her and him, offering their condolences, giving him the attention he had never received as a child and now found himself hungering for. Suddenly his wife's illness was not so horrid and crushing. It was an opportunity, it was something that needed to happen. It was fate. As she got worse, the attention spent toward him grew to the point he wanted her to die so that he'd have the attention of those all around him. But suddenly she recovered. The cells were treated, and she was fine. A party was held in her name, and she was being held, tears were being had in relief over her. Once more, Woolf was left in the shadows. It was at that point he had decided that she needed to go. She was holding him back, imprisoning him in this state of longing. This was all on purpose. She knew that he wanted attention more than anything, but she deliberately got sick so that she could steal it from him. His twisted mind affirmed this, and soon this was taken as reality. Betrayal. It was the word he felt the most then. He concentrated her medicine prescribed to her and killed her off quickly. It was assumed this was a mistake on her part. People cried over her, yes, but she was no longer able to interfere. Woolf was the center of attention once more. This, too, quickly changed as his children arrived home from their summer camp in horror and tears. The attention once more was away from him, and toward someone else. His daughter was the one who had to be the first to go. She was the louder by far, and the younger. She was cuter, and everyone was stroking her. Mysteriously she fell ill, but yet again this was not enough. She too died of some sickness, and her brother fell ill. At this point the police had started to investigate things. Detectives looked over the bodies, traced medical histories, examined records of diseases. Barely in time to save Woolf's son from his own father, the police grabbed the scarred man and took him to court. He was deemed guilty and mentally unstable. This was the only place they could entrust a dangerous man like him.
Right now he was being shoved forward by two large men that were gripping his arms on either side. One of them also had grabbed his short hair and was forcing his head down, as not five minutes had passed since he had thrashed against the guards and smashed his head into the other's face. He wasn't allowed normal clothes, only a jumpsuit not unlike what they might have in prison. He recalled what he had just been told."You're getting a special chat time, boy. You're lucky for it, too. Most of us wouldn't give an opportunity like that to a whack-job like you. Regardless, we've got some newer inmates than you who seem to be of lower risk. Now we want you to better yourself and get somewhere, so why don't you start by being their first friend in a new place? Maybe show them around. I'm sure you'll relay what a nice place this is for it's inhabitants. He had snorted rudely at this comment, but now his mouth didn't hold the twitch of a leering smile. Instead he looked solemn, like a true prisoner. They reached a door after they wandered through several dark hallways, and the door was opened and he shoved inside. One of the guards entered the room, the other stayed outside and watched the halls. Woolf glared at the other two crazies in front of him. I'm not like that, he thought, shaking his head. I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly rational. I know reality because I know pain. They're the same thing, or at least similar. If you know one, you know the other, and pain and I are practically friends by now. Of course, the man was talking about emotional pain, because his delusions had dulled his understandings of physical pain.
"Hullo," he spoke gruffly, his eyes narrowed. It was clear he wasn't happy about being here, and that he was not talking to these people by choice. They likely both knew him, as he had been all over the media a few years back. Everyone and their brother had interviewed his son, asking all sorts of questions about him. Woolf had been a horror that no one wanted to accept as reality. But the newspapers and the media loved it. His resistance and violent nature, the way he had jumped up in court and started punching a man, these were things that were spoken of. He wasn't a joke, though. He was a monster. He was a monster people liked hearing about. "Welcome to the Asylum."
