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"There was a crooked man."

"There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile."

"He found a crooked sixpence, against a crooked stile."

"He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse."

"And they all lived together in a little crooked house."

These words ring in my mind. It was an old Mother Goose rhyme. Every day. Could this have led me to this hell of a mental state. "Take your pills," here, and a "Don't forget to take your pills," there. They won't give me the bottle. They won't let me overdose. I try to reason with the f*ckers who keep me locked up here; if I kill myself, I will be an immense weight lifted off their shoulders. But no. They'll let me stay, with the crooked one. 

Week after week, I wake up with a headache, take my pills, and he's there. In a house, on a slope of a hill. And every day, in that house on the hill, he's there, playing the piano, or carving a mask out of wood. Nothing would happen for hours. As he does this, I feel the pain of sharp knives, piercing my skull. As he plays louder, or gets closer to finishing his mask, the pain is more and more intense. 

I got used to it. The pain became null. But today. He came by. Paintings aligned against the walls, crooked. It's an asylum, not a f*cking hotel for the pricks with freedom. He pointed to the bread. Under was a shiv and a brass key. 

"I know what you want me to do with this. I'm not your f*cking advocate. Now tell me what the f*ck you are," I yelled.

No response. With every growing second, I grow more mad and mad. So I lunged; and I felt the shiv pierce his flesh.  His neck - crooked. His smile - devious. His eyes - a soul-piercing red. He will no longer be a burden to me. 

I fell to the floor - I have never done something like this. My eyes grew heavy, and my body, weary. I went cold. When I woke up, my neck hurt. It was crooked. Like a parasite, he took over me.

"Welcome to skid row, kid," I was greeted, "You f*cking monster."

I was confused. That was when he injected me with the poison. 

So, how am I writing this?

Let's just say I have my ways. My crooked, crooked ways. 

This was found, 10 days after the death of a nurse in the psychiatric ward, who was trying to subdue a screaming patient. This patient is known as Vladamir Korchorskoff. He was committed into the Sacred Heart Psychiatric Ward for severe schizophrenia. We have identified the address of this man, though the FBI have told the public the address is confidential. This proved dangerous to others, as seen by this murder. Leaked police documents have told a dead cat and mouse hung from a thin rope, crookedly placed on a crooked wooden stake. The man is known as The Crooked Man, and this rumor actually led police to a common theme in this man's crimes - notes and ransoms gathered from words in the mother goose poem, "There was a Crooked Man". These notes have been found scattered across the corpses of the innocents he had murdered. He had not been killed on death row, and escaped. He looks exactly like the man he described in his journal entry. If you see this man, please report him to the police.

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