((This takes place during the 'depression' hours. Anyone who might be in the area feel free to interact as your characters would.))

The hallways echo with screams of times long gone. Cahill wanders through the empty house, his finger trailing and touching the walls, the sensation grounding him in the now, but his mind works on many levels and part of him is there, it is always there. He feels the beast clawing at its cage within him, the gilded cage he works so hard to keep polished, vain hopes it will keep the monster contained, but then these dark moments come upon him and the gilding shows it tarnish.

He pauses before a painting of Confederate soldiers rushing down a hill, charging the Union lines, in the background Washington DC can be seen, the man carrying the flags face is contorted in rage and pain, blood runs from his shoulder from the bullet lodged there, a wound that pains him still to this day. The painting captures the moments before they fail, gives a lie to the truth, as so often is done by the mind’s eye or by the march of history. History is after all written by the victor.

After the war, the border wars broke out between Missouri and Kansas. Broke out not being the proper term, they flared up again being more appropriate. As he wanders out onto the wrap around porch, he sees Quantrill riding up the gate again, smells the sweat and dirt on the man as he speaks, telling him his special services will again be needed. The war may be over, but there are things that must be done!

Things were done. Until that night in Fort Scott, that final raid, he turns towards the house, not wanting to remember, but the door provokes further memory, his beautiful wife standing there waving goodbye to him, their children gathered around her skirts, wide eyed, young Nathanial with his blonde hair and his easy smile looks so scared it causes his heart to skip a beat. Their ghosts fade slightly, giving the lie to that truth as well. Turning away, he cannot bear to look at them any longer, as he feels the pangs of hunger, the grumbles of the monster.

The hoof beats cloud his mind as he wanders away from his home, the layers of his thoughts going in different directions, pulling at his soul, taking him to the darkest recesses and somehow not shedding light, only making them darker as he feels lost within himself. There is no hope for them, Calhoun is right, they have no right to reach for love or comfort, God has passed his judgment on them and they are well and truly damned. Truly damned and he deserves to be so, for what he has done.

Something crunches under his foot, something soft, loud yet suddenly silent. As he looks down tears of blood stream down his face as he begs once more forgiveness that cannot and will not come. What right had he, who had had so much, to ask for anything or to expect anything? His crown stripped away, his power gone, his wife and children all gone, nothing left but grey ashes that blind him to the lies of truth.

He pulls the shadows of night closer around him; hiding as a damned creature should, moving so as not to disturb the denizens of the world, trying to pull in the creature, to keep, for just one night, from hurting anyone else. He thinks of her, the way she moves and the easy rhythm they fall into on a dance floor lit by candles. Desire rises up in him, overwhelming him, he stumbles, his tongue licking his lips wanting so badly to taste her, to take her in to himself and own her, possess her all.

He looks around, entering the grounds to the Asylum; his feet lead him to her office, even as he wrestles with the monster inside. Staring into the window of where they have so often bantered and advised one another; the room empty, just as he feels inside.