Yup. I'm not dead (dead inside, yes).

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4 years ago, you would’ve laughed if someone told you that you would be writing columns on newspapers, interviewing people, or even researching for a topic for a journal. However, as you handed your I.D. to the asylum guard, you realized that all of this was real. There’s definitely nothing to laugh at. 

Another guard called you over for the body inspection, and for a moment you thought about chickening out and just be done with all this bull, but you shake your head and started mentally counting, something you do to divert your brain from coming up with excuses to justify why it’s okay to quit your job right then and there.

How you landed this job, you can’t even remember. It just sort of happened. One day you’re a freshman majoring in economics and the next, you’re already graduating as a journalist. What the hell right? That’s university.

Once the inspection was done, the guard led you inside. You followed him through the hallway until he stopped in front of a room, not too far from the entrance you came from. He opened the door and lets you sit on one of the chairs. Normally, you would bring a pen and notebook with you, but the guards confiscated the pen as it is considered as a weapon. It didn’t matter though as you were sure that you’ll remember everything that’ll happen in this room. You were smart that way.

The guard briefed you on the rules and pre-cautionary measures before they told you to wait for the “patient”. To say you were nervous was beyond understatement. If it weren’t for your expertise in hiding emotions, you would’ve looked like you’re about to be locked in a haunted house and left there for the night.

You tell yourself to calm the down ‘cause it was only going to be a casual chat like with your best friend, but of course, instead of your best friend, it was going to be with a “patient”.

A minute later, you turned to your right when you hear the door open. The guard appeared once again, but behind him was a tall, almost blonde woman wearing a white button up tucked in her slacks. It was almost as if she popped out of a korean drama, like those in a boyfriend-material-korean-outfit. Yeah, you enjoy watching those cringey k-dramas.

You shake your head and focused back to your agenda before you actually forget about your job. Her eyes lingered at you for a good second before she flashed you a smile. Oh god was she beautiful. Again, you pushed away your unnecessary thoughts. You really don’t want to end up being attracted to a psychopath. 

Standing up, you offered a hand shake, “Good afternoon, I’m Y/N.” She shook your hand firmly, all the while maintaining eye contact. “Lisa. But you already know that. No need to be so formal.” She winked at you, causing you to pull your hand and smile politely at her. You certainly didn’t want to trigger her or anything.

Both of you sat facing each other. It was weird. Rather than a psychopath, she looked more like a young entrepreneur, or maybe just someone who’s about to convince you that she’s sane. But then again, how were they really supposed to be dressed? Maybe you were expecting her to be in a sweatpants and hoody like other patients in the asylum.

You felt embarrassed once you noticed that you’ve been staring at her for a minute now while she just sat there patiently, smiling, looking very comfortable.

“So, umm…” You started, completely forgetting about the set of questions you’ve come up with. Truth be told, you’ve prepared so much for this. You’ve done research about psychopaths and interviewed psychologists and even scientologists to gain an in depth understanding of psychopathic behavior and the criteria to which they label these people.

“How’s your day so far Lisa?” You asked.

“Great actually. I took a morning walk at the fields and the weather was perfect. Even better that a beautiful person like yourself came to visit me.” Was she flirting with you?

You ignored the last comment and decided that…whatever. You relaxed, leaning on the chair and crossing your right leg over the left. Lisa was sitting straight, hands clasped on the table. “I’ll go straight to the point. Is it true that you faked your way in this asylum?” You’ve read her files and every possible information you can get about her but you wanted to hear it firsthand.

She sighed, but not the annoyed kind of sigh. “Yes, I did. I beat up a guy when I was 16 and ended up in jail.” Lisa leaned back a little. “While I was waiting there for my trial, one of the inmates told me that if I faked that I was crazy, they would send me to a hospital. She said the food was better and there will be televisions and air-condition. So I asked how should I do it. She told me to ask for the prison psychiatrist and just say something crazy.”

She paused for a while and you urged her to continue. “I told the psychiatrist that ‘what I did was not such a great harm, it made me feel calm’. I took that from Rudolph Pliel by the way. He had a biography in the prison library.”

“And then they sent you here based on that?”

“Ye—oh! The psychiatrist also asked why I beat up the guy, I told her I was only following God’s orders.” You were about to comment on it but she held her hand up. “Now, I’m not especially religious, but I did watch Orange is the new black and there’s this character pennsatucky,” She cringed. “I hate that character.” “Anyways, she uses God to justify whatever she does and…yeah. I thought it’ll