[Author Notes: I have put some background information regarding the main character in the two parts of the prologue, nothing critical so feel free to skip them.]

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Today was Monday, and it means only one thing to Marco.

"The week's first therapy session."

He would first open his eyes on the curtains crawling up to reveal the first rays of daylight, and then an eardrum-tearing rattling sound would come from the direction of the cushioned door as it clangs open.

"Rise and shine," One of the keepers of the asylum would say as he collects him towards the doctor's office.

They will pass through multiple corridors, where some of the patients talked with each other or, in most cases, 'With themselves.'

More notably, self-proclaimed king Edward the third and his kingdom of chairs and stools, Grandpa Noah that still thinks Marco is his long-lost daughter, and 35 years old Japanese man named 'Mino' with his imaginary harem of games NPC's girlfriends.

...

Marco reached the office and now was sitting in a rolling chair, the desk in front of him and two wardens at his shoulders.

"You can leave us," The doctor said as he raised one of the wooden curtain slits, peaking at the unbroken stretch of blue.

"B-but," One of the wardens began. However, he soon was cut off by the doctor, "Alan, we talked about this several times; I seek privacy when I attend a patient, and besides, this one always seemed—Well, a bit 'saner' than the others," He gulped as he confessed that last part.

The warden clicked his tongue, and they soon left the doctor-patient pair alone.

The doctor sat down, fidgeting with one of the files scattered over the desk.

"Well, Shall we start the session?" He said without waiting for an answer.

"How are you feeling today?" both of them said in unison, one of the tones having a slight sneer to it.

Doctor Nelson frowned and looked at Marco's motionless body; at first glance, the youth did not seem alive at all, to the point that it looked like a ghost had muttered those words with him.

Doctor Nelson fixed his bow tie and confusedly confided, "Excuse me?"

Marco slowly raised his head from the desk, steadily leveling his gaze with the doctor.

"It's Monday," he uttered, hunching forward.

The doctor had gotten even more perplexed, seemingly not getting what was so special about Mondays. He then mumbled, "So?"

Marco was now staring deadpan at the doctor; Only his twitching veins could tell what is really occurring inside of him.

Regardless, he appeared calm, too calm the old psychologist would say. "Means you would not have your usual espresso this morning; it's known that yesterday was a vacation day for the asylum workers, and you're too lazy to preorder the capsules,"

Doctor Nelson was silent, all signs of unrest on his face.

Marco continued, not blinking once, "Which means you'll start the day without greetings; your coffee addiction headache won't allow you to care about formalities. Then you'll start with the same old 'How are you feeling today.' I would rumble about how much I don't need any medication and how they are not helping with my nightmares, not that you would listen to my gossip anyway. Thereafter, you will pretend to inscribe something in my file; then you'll apathetically add even more pointless questions, as such: 'How often do you experience the problem? Then, What do you think caused the situation to worsen? And so forth."

Doctor Nelson's mouth broke into a half-crooked smile as he traced his almost-balding hair with his left-hand fingers. "As always, Outstanding observational skills Mr. Marco,"

Nelson smiled, "However, did I hear the word 'Pretend'? That's quite the accusation, Mr. Marco. I have told you on several occasions that I do not tolerate slander, especially if it's one of your many highway absurd premises,"

"Sure you do," Marco hissed, his body getting colder, as he followed, "Then, could you show me my files? I have been here for almost 12 years; I'm going to be 22 this summer. My files must be filled with throughout analysis of my many problems— 'Mr. Nelson',"

"Not this topic again" The doctor raised a brow, "You already know the rules, I can't divulge any confidential information,"

"I looked at law books, even a Mental Health patient has the right to see his case progress, at least when no guardian would claim to want it." Marco angrily exclaimed.

"A patient?" Doctor Nelson almost chuckled.

"Yes a patient, and what am I then?" yelled Marco; he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it straight from the Doctor's mouth.

Doctor Nelson, however, shrugged Marco's words off. "I said you can't see them, end of the discussion," he announced, tone steadily rising to anger.

"The law demands it," Marco shouted, rising from his seat.

"What law? My words are the only law on this island," The doctor creased his brows; he hated when his test subjects start to retaliate. After all, he needed to replace them each time; it was both costly and time-consuming.

"Then so be it," he mumbled, finger stealthily reaching for a rounded button right under the desk.

He had endured this rascal's despicable behavior for far too long anyway.

Outraged by the statement, Marco tried to move; he wished he could jump right at the doctor and tear his face to pieces, yet in his current state, he could do nothing.

"If only my hands and feet were not tightly shackled," he told himself, "Just five minutes, dammit! Five minutes without these iron things." Marco almost begged god, but from his extensive experience, he knew God never works that way.

Soon, the two wardens stepped in—electric teasers in their hands, clasping Marco from the shoulders and bringing his arms back.

Doctor Nelson rectified his coat this time, and without looking, he promptly said, "Seems like Patient number 23 does not feel well today. Alan, you know what to do."

The two wardens towed Marco away, but before they completely exited the office, the doctor added, "No yard for him today, or Tomorrow— Oh, and double his doses,"

Alan expanded his eyes; the anti-hallucination drug doses were already so high for the lad; if they happen to double the quantities, the patient will surely die— "Is it happening again already? Alan said to himself, "The doctor decided that yet another patient is one of those 'few hopeless cases."

Loud laughter broke Alan's train of thoughts; he looked down; Marco was shuddering from top to bottom.

"You finally did it, huh? You finally decided to get rid of me!" Marco cackled, saliva drooping from his mouth.

"I would not accept such impudence inside the doors of my office— Alan, haul him away from my sight," The doctor yelled and turned around towards the window, arms clasped behind his back, signaling the end of the conversation.

Lenore, the other warden, hauled Marco up and shouted at the contemplating Alan abreast her.

Alan nodded, and they departed back to Marco's chamber.

They threw him inside; Lenore tooted on the way outside, "Sit here and do not create us more problems!"

Alan looked troubled; he was trained in medicine and saw what Lenore failed to see; they are glancing at the last 24 hours of a man's life. Not that he can do anything even if he wished to, at this forsaken Island, Doctor Nelson's words were absolute.

The hospital was not even a hospital; it was a rat lab, a place where legal guardians can secretly ditch their unwanted children or parents in exchange for a considerable fee in the cover of letting the poor souls get help.

Likewise, Marco had been tossed by his biological parents at the age of 10. Reports said that they thought the devil contacted him; after all, his first word came so late, and it wasn't the often 'Mom' or even an adorable try, but an alienated gibberish that his English language teacher at the time swore that it possessed all the linguistic elements to be an actual language.

"The language of the devil," Marco's mother often called it.

Young Marco picked it up from his dreams, or it would be proper to say. "Nightmares." And since then, he was never the same.

Back in Marco's chamber, he was left alone; The tiny TV he was allowed after constant cajoling flickered black and white dots, waiting to be switched on.

Everything in the room was buffered to prevent suicide attempts; even the patient's natural calls were done in the adult-sized diapers provided by the wardens three times a day.

"And at last, the final day of this cursed life arrived," he muttered, face prone to bed; contrary to his posture, his mind still did not wholly give in to the idea of death. He did not understand where this latent desire to live came from; maybe what he heard from some of the wardens are true; humans would wish for death all their lives except when they ultimately stood at its doors. He rolled to the side, hitting the remote controller to the ground.

A clicking sound came around, and the TV suddenly turned on.

The screen beamed and showed a man isolated on an island—making what seemed like a boat.

"Castaway, classic," Marco said, it was the only movie he had saved up.

"A boat?" Marco remembered something, "Didn't I make a small raft myself?" The question sprouting through his neurons.

"I did!" he inwardly mumbled, "Three years ago to be exact,"

But then he recalled the reason why he shunned the idea in the first place.

"The trip would need provisions, lots of that. And besides, I don't even know my exact location; all I do know is that I'm on some island, most of the natives in this place can speak English; my best guess could be somewhere around Australia, at a privately bought isolated land in the Pacific Ocean, it could belong either to the Caledonian islands which I highly doubt or the Solomon Islands, with there mixed races of Polynesians, Europeans, and Melanesians, or somewhere not far from those two. Assuming I'm right, then I'm entirely condemned to failure; the travel back to Australia would be far more strenuous for my expedient raft, and it would take days in the sea between gigantic waves and persistent rain, and let me not even mention the question of how could I reach the raft in the first place without tomorrow's yard rest."

...

Marco was racking his brain for hours; part of him did not want to meet the rays of the following day, and the other part did not want him to face the nightmares for the last time. However, his body was growing tired with hunger and thirst—He fought the urge to sleep till precisely 3:23 AM; then, one of his eyelids escaped his will and tumbled down, the other followed right behind its twin.

And he slept.

He woke up inside some whitish expanse—A white hole, vacant and maddening. He looked around, waiting for something to happen—But nothing transpired, no pain? How could that be?

"it usually commences by now." he thought; he should have been delighted, but he knew better. The dreams usually took part in multiple places; it could be right on his bed and sometimes at places he never even knew existed.

"No mathematical patterns that would drive me mad this time? Cyclopean cities? Oh, maybe the vile-shaped monsters that enjoy tearing my skin. Come enjoy your last meal, you ugly Son of a Bitch!" He yelled.

Yet, even with all his ludicrous temptations, there was still only silence and himself.

He loitered around there for what seemed to him like years; maybe he was exaggerating, perhaps only about a month or possibly a day. Anyway, damnation. It was long.

Marco eventually heard something.

A strong harrowing voice called for him between the shades of the void, in the same strange language he learned, and it sounded in English: "Sail east, follow the sun it would lead you,"

Marco heard the entity point-blank; I mean, how could one not heard such an unruly voice.

"How could I Sail north? That would lead me toward America, at least 14000 km away from this place!"