Found carved on the corpse of prisoner 010203:
'My name is Jake Sigmund. I am not too big; not too little, either. I am not too weak, nor have I ever been considered too strong. I am not too bright, but I am not stupid. I am physically unremarkable in every way. If you looked at my school history, I get in trouble sometimes, but not very often. My grades never dip below a C- or above a B+. In my school yearbook, everyone writes “Have a great summer!” but no one means it. I have some acquaintances, but no friends. People barley notice my existence. I got worried; what if, when people ceased to notice you, you ceased to exist? I could not let that happen. I needed to exist. So, without warning, without provocation, I snapped.

The date was November 19, 2012. I had skipped school the day before, in order to prepare myself, looks-wise, for what I was about to do. I went to this tattoo parlor and had my hair dyed. I have very long, curly hair, so I had each curl dyed a different color. I had my face tattooed like the puppet from Saw, red swirls on my cheeks and black lines from the corners of my lips to the top of my neck. My next stop was to the mall; there I bought black skinny jeans and black tennis shoes. Then, I went to the local craft store. I bought yards of fabric, and crafted a rudimentary straight jacket. I poked some holes in it for fingers, and proceeded to my father’s gun safe. After retrieving his shot gun, I sawed the end off. Then I went to bed early, as tomorrow promised to be a big day. When I woke, I suited up, packed my bag and stuck a nail in to my skin. I walked to school and the kids gaped in awe at my new appearance. I was giddy, they noticed me! I was fine; I had no need to carry out my previous plan! That is, I thought I was fine.

The Vice –Principal stopped me and asked to have a look inside my bag. I panicked. Adrenaline rushed through my veins. I couldn’t let him have my gun. I had no choice but to use it. I pulled the shot gun out of my bag and started firing.

And now I’m here, in the county jail, awaiting transport to the asylum. I don’t want to go to the asylum. That is why I have my nail. This nail will tell my story, explain my actions, and take my life.'

“Oh Man, I fell asleep again.” The prison security guard moans. “Well, what’s the worst they can do?” He looks up at the screen to see prisoner 010203 carving into himself with a nail. “Ohnohnohno!” he shouts. He rushes to block C, just in time to see the life drain from Jake’s eyes.

The whole of the next week, Jake’s words echoed in his mind. ‘Without warning, without provocation, I snapped.’ That Friday, the guard snapped too. His girlfriend found his body, a week later, in the bathtub, his wrists slit. He had written a word on the wall in blood. A name. Jake.