A invisible yet pungent cloud of cigarette smoke lingers within the cool, predawn air, the scent of which seems to calm my nerves as much as it is my partner's. Glowing orange embers carelessly coast to the ground, quickly extinguish by the morning dew, which has saturated my shoes and dampened my socks as I hastily push through the darkened forest, racing against the sun which will soon spoil our cover. Mister Pat takes one final drag before flicking the butt into the swollen stream just ahead of us, discernible only by the sound of the water flowing through a narrow channel of slippery rocks. As I look toward the horizon through the dense trees and brush, I can see that the sun is beginning the stain the sky red; time is of the essence for we are not out of the woods yet. A large fallen tree provides the path of least resistance across the murmuring brook, yet its moss covered bark makes for a precarious and slow-going balancing act, costing us precious time. One after the other we carefully cross the fallen timber and shove our way past a final perimeter of thorns and brambles before reaching the perimeter road.
Just ahead of us, the massive imposing edifice of Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital's Kirkbride building looms like a gothic monster, luring us like prey, closer into its grasp. But before we can disappear into the shadows and safety of the asylum, me must dart across the heavily patrolled perimeter road and scurry like jackasses through an open field of freshly mowed grass, undetected. My heart is beating relentlessly, I'm so high off adrenaline that this all seems like a great idea. And indeed it its. I don't recognize it yet, but this will undoubtedly be the greatest adventure I ever embark upon. I'm 19 years old at the time, but still nothing has come close to the excitement and fascination I felt tear through my soul that morning. I've been chasing that morning's high for over a decade now, but like a loser drug addict, nothing will ever compare. I only have the pictures which haunt me with memories of the greatest day of my life, for my mind is forever scarred with the vivid mental imagery of that morning begging for that same rush of dopamine that can never be obtained again. Yet still I try, and every adventure is worth it.
Together we kneel at the edge of the thorns, tense as twigs, listening, waiting for the perfect moment. But this is a game of chance, a gamble with a stunning reward, the very thought of which boils over a charge of anticipation through my veins so hot that it is just too much to handle. And like a rabbit fleeing a fox, we jet out running from the safety of the forest, sprinting for our lives toward the asylum, as the god damn sun begins to brighten the sky with horrifying details. We have no idea if we've been spotted as we continue to run, running so fast I swear I can taste fucking blood in my mouth. The walls of the asylum grow closer, I can make out the individual stones within the hundred year old facade. I can see the caged windows with detail and smell the mildew within the chilled air bellowing out from behind the broken panes, teasing us that an entrance is near. In a blink of confusion and planned precision, we slip down an ancient stairwell covered with cobwebs and constructed with wood older than the forest we had just emerged from moments earlier. I regain my breath for a moment, just quick enough to keep from passing out.
Mister Pat clicks on his flashlight which illuminates, like beacon from heaven, a heavily corroded metal door with the faded letters G.P.P.H. stenciled across the top. The air vent near the bottom of the door is missing, creating an opening just large enough for us to slither through into the safety of the asylum. A primitive glass lightbulb dangles from an exposed wire, the filament pulsating with orange light, as a plume of cigarette smoke begins to fog my view. "We made it fucker and I told you the power would be on!", Mister Pat yells to me as I turn back to witness a single glowing ember coast to the ground, quickly extinguished within a steam tunnel puddle. "Lets hit the roof dick-wad, we might still make it up in time to catch the sunrise", Mister Pat exclaims.
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