His hands were locked behind his head on the comfy pillow. His right leg was stretched out in front of him, his left leg was bent, his tennis shoe resting on the quilt as he casually relaxed on the neatly made bed.

He gazed out the window at the trees, full with colorful leaves -- yellow, red and orange -- fluttering to the ground on the light breeze. He felt the brisk chill nipping at the air even though he was inside, not out. He'd have a chance to enjoy the fall when he and the other patients went outside for a walk or for some fresh air as they did every afternoon.

They still let him out even though he lived in an insane asylum. He wasn't that far gone yet. Not like the patients who resided on the fourth floor. They had those patients so drugged, or they hardly had brain cells left after the numerous shock treatments that they had no sense of reality.

Everyone thought he was crazy, but he was really quite sane. He was a writer -- and a quite successful one at that. He was a creative genius, but his family had taken his talents to mean he was a loony tune.

He believed his characters existed and stories were true to some extent. Many writers probably felt the same way. So it was perfectly normal. Wasn't it?

Of course, his family disagreed. They were annoyed by how he constantly lived in a literary world surrounded by imaginary friends. Everyone thought his condition was quite sad. He was still young -- he was only 34 years old. But his youth couldn't save him. His family was convinced he was crazy, so they'd had him committed to The Cottage three months ago.

The Cottage, formerly known as The Cobbler, was a shoe factory. A sweat shop as it was in the time of the Industrial Revolution. Men, women and children worked themselves to death from dawn to dust there. They didn't have breaks or even a lunch break. They made shoes for a pittance they could barely live on. Many of them died because of the piss poor working conditions.

The building should have been condemned long ago. When the government started cracking down on labor laws and work conditions after the Industrial Revolution, many of the sweat shops across the country, including The Cottage, were shut down. The Cottage sat in a detoriated almost ruined state for many years. The city council men had wanted to have the building demolished and replaced with a shopping mall, but some civic-minded ladies in the community had a fit claiming The Cottage has historical value. These ladies wrote to their state senators and representatives -- and every other elected official -- and saved the building. The building was donated to the city for use as a mental institution. The ladies in their research had discovered that there had been a man who had become crazy as a result of working at the factory.

The Cottage wasn't as nice as it was nowadays. The facility was more like a luxurious four-story condominium than a mental institution, but in the past the place was really spooky. No one wanted to go The Cottage -- not even if you were crazy.

He'd heard stories of how it once was. Committed individuals were thrown into a dark, dank room with only a chair, sink and a bed where they were left for days without food, water and any contact with the outside world. Given the circumstances, especially in this situation, he knew why these people had became crazy.

Nowadays the federal government had everything regulated. Mental institutions across the country such as The Cottage were regularly inspected and carefully monitored to protect the insane from being victimized and abused in any way. Still, medical profesionals and health care providers had control. There were drugs and shock treatments, which administered in a more kinder and gentler manner than they had been in the past. Still, such methods, if used correctly, were enough to make you crazy.

But he wasn't crazy. He was just a creative guy with a wild imagination that served him well in his career. But others believed he was a little nuts because of these aspects of his abilities.

He sighed.

A nurse entered the room. The young woman, dressed in a crisp pressed white dress uniform, carried a silver tray with a plastic cup filled with water.

"Good morning, Mr. Beckett," the nurse smiled, giving him his pills and the cup. "How are you today?"

"Fine," he said smiling back sticking the pills on his tongue and carefully sipping his water. He never swallowed though. He never took his medication. He didn't need it. He wasn't crazy. Once the nurse was satisfied he had taken his medication, he threw it away in the trash can or hid it in the drawer of the night stand beside his bed.

He had such an engaging smile. The nurse found herself getting lost in the mischievous boyish curves of his lips. It was easy to be attracted to a handsome man like Samuel Beckett. She fantasized how his well-built, firm masculine body would feel against hers. He probably knew how to give women pleasures she could only dream of.

Still, the nurse knew not to give her heart to him. Samuel Beckett was crazy, and he probably didn't know the meaning of commitment or what a romantic relationship was. He probably had no concept of what true love was.

It was so sad because she would have loved to be his lover. She noticed the wistful expression etched on his face. His soft brown eyes were focused on the falling leaves. What was he thinking about, she wondered.

"It's October, Mr. Beckett, almost time for Halloween," she said shuffling over to collect the empty breakfast tray lying on the night stand.

"I know," he said intelligently, his pills stuck between the bottom row of his teeth and his cheek.

Turning her head, the nurse regarded him. She should have given him more credit. Samuel Beckett still had a good grip on reality. He knew what day and month it was unlike the patients on the fourth floor who didn't know what day it was even though they'd been told a million times.

The nurse nodded. "I bet you're excited to get outside and do some scribbling."

"Yes," he smiled again, and once again the nurse was entranced by his engaging smile.

"Are you working on a novel, Mr. Beckett?" The nurse asked with some interest.

Samuel was onto them with his writing. He knew they carefully scrutinized everything he wrote. They were worse than his agent. His agent was an old college English professor and former newspaper copy editor. The guy was ruthless about tearing his manuscripts up and making them bleed.

Of course, he didn't have an agent anymore. His agent had dropped him like a bad habit not long after he'd been committed to The Cottage.

They all thought he had secret subliminal crazy thoughts and themes woven throughout his manuscripts. It was absurb really. He got a kick out of them trying to find elements in his stories and poems that they thought that were a bit off. He'd heard their suspicious whispers, but he knew there was absolutely nothing crazy about what he wrote. Personally he thought they were all crazy, not him.

"Mmm, I don't know," Samuel confessed scrunching his lips into an amused ball making the nurse swoon. "I'll have to see how it turns out."

"Oh, I do hope you're writing a novel," the nurse said excitedly. "I'd like to see you get published again."

So would he. Maybe he would if he could ever manage to get out of this funny farm. He'd thought about escaping but he was afraid of being caught. The grounds were heavily guarded and it was virtually impossible to slip passed the nurses stationed around the clock on each floor.

If he got caught escaping, he feared he might end up on the fourth floor, where he'd really be a loon, and he really didn't want that.

Still, there had to be a way out of here. Someway ...

The nurse noticed his thoughtful expression. Was he creating in his head? What wild flights of fantasy was he dreaming up? What craziness was hatching inside his mind?

"Ms. Moonstruck will be joining you shortly," the nurse told him as she departed. "It's such a nice fall day. Maybe she'll take you outside for your session."

"Thank you," he said quietly, waiting until she left to remove the pills from his mouth. He wrapped them in a tissue and disposed them in the trash basket aside his bed.

Ms. Melanie Moonstruck tossed a long, luxurious, glowing strand of brown hair over her shoulder as she entered his room. She was the psychiatrist who had been working with him for the past three months.

Samuel related well with her. She was his age -- 34 -- after all, so they'd grown up in the same generation and shared many of the same attitudes, philosophies and experiences.

He had sessions with her every other day. He wasn't that far out to require daily sessions, but he did look forward to seeing the psychiatrist.

Samuel found Melanie Moonstruck to be beguiling. She had a slender figure, sharp intelligence and a gentle caring personality. It must be the Florence Nightgale affect because he thought he was in love with his doctor.

He didn't presume that she felt the same way about him. She was a psychiatrist, after all, and he was her patient, so like the young nurse she probably though he didn't have the mental capacity to have a relationship.

"Good morning, Samuel," Melanie said sweetly. "How are you this morning?"

He'd been already been greeted like this ... and asked this question once already today. But it didn't rub him the wrong way like it had when the nurse had asked him. He knew Melanie genuinely cared unlike the others who worked in the asylum.

"I'm fine," he said, smiling, as he gave the same answer he had earlier with an additional remark. "Actually I've never felt better."

He had such an engaging smile. He was extremely intelligent and incredibly creative ... and he looked really good in his red sweater and blue jeans.

Samuel Beckett was a desirable man. It was a shame he was insane.

Strangely, he had a firm grip on reality. He seemed quite normal for someone who was crazy.

Melanie shook her head chasing away her stray thoughts. "Good," she said pleased. "Shall we have our session outside today?"

He had a feeling she'd make this suggestion. "Sure," he said easily, gesturing to his legal pad sitting on the night stand. "Can I write?"

"Please," she said accommodatingly.

He was onto her although he hoped she wasn't like the others.

Please don't tell me you think I'm writing nothing but madness. You don't believe that do you, Melanie? He thought as he regarded her. What I write is not even close to madness -- exaggerated fiction maybe, but even you know art often imitates life; life imitates art.

Legal pad in hand and a pen behind his ear, he followed Melanie to the nurse's station at the end of the hallway. As she leaned over to signing him out on the clipboard, he admired her sensuously curved hour glass figure. The things he could do to her, he licked his lips. He'd give her anything her heart desired, and then some ... it was too bad she thought he was insane.

They walked down the cobblestone path that wrapped around the asylum's manicured grounds. He figured it cost the city a pretty penny to hire gardeners and grounds keepers to keep the facility's lawns, shrubs and trees looking good.

Birds chirped their welcome. He breathed in the crisp, clean air of the great outdoors that had become a bit dreary. Which was only natural -- there was less sunlight in the fall.

He felt the chill in the air, it had a bite to it, and he shivered slightly. Yes, fall was definitely here.

"Are you cold?" Melanie said concerned.

He smiled appreciating her concern. "I'm fine."

Yes, he was. He had such an engaging smile. She'd love to feel his warm lips pressed against his. She bet he was a good kisser. Not only that, she bet it was nice and safe in his embrace. She bet she'd feel pretty good after being in bed with him.

His soft brown eyes searched her face. Was she checking him out? It was almost too good to be true.

She hoped her chargin wasn't showing on her face. She felt so helpless and lost. She was out of control. She was falling head over heels in love with this man.

She was a doctor and he was her patient. And to feel the way she did about him was definitely wrong.

Not only were her topsy turvy emotions a violation of her ethics and commitment to the Hippocratic Oath, Samuel Beckett was ill, she reminded herself. She shouldn't be flirting with him, but he was so *damn* attractive.

"Sit down and take a load off," she said lightly, smoothing the wrinkles rippling across her long black skirt, as she sat on the wooden park bench.

He took his place on the left of her. He crossed his legs, balancing his legal pad on his muscular thigh. His gaze, reflecting a mixture of wonder and pleasure, danced across the fall foliage.

Gesturing toward his legal pad, Melanie said, "What are you writing? Another novel?"

He heard the interest in her voice, but he knew better than to make too much out of it. "I don't know," he said casually. "I'll have to see where my muses lead me."

"Hmm," Melanie mused thoughtfully.

"Do you believe in muses?" He asked, curiosity layered his voice.

"You'd be surprised what I believe in," she said, her firm cultural voice rang true, as she held his gaze.

The passion he saw swirling in her emerald eyes amazed him. He exhaled slowly to regain his composure.

"Would you like to read what I'm writing?" He was taken aback that he'd made such an offer. It wasn't like it bothered him. He didn't have a problem letting people read his work. Except he knew better than to trust anyone at The Cottage, and that included her. But he did trust her. Implictly.

"I'd love to," she said pleasantly accepting his manuscript.

She read quickly becoming engrossed his well crafted tale. He had a strong voice and an engaging style. His characters were well developed and easily likable. He had a good mix of dialogue and storytelling.

She read and re-read, but she didn't find anything crazy. Matter of fact, his manscript was very tight. It was concise and well written. It definitely wasn't a manuscript written one would expect to read by a man who was considered mentally unstable. Maybe he wasn't insane.

There had to be a mistake because in her opinion he was an ordinary, normal guy who had a passion for his craft. He had an incredible gift, the gift of creativity, a talent he used with great skill.

If Samuel wasn't insane, why in hell was he at The Cottage? The answers to that question appeared to be darkly ellusive.

He met her critical, analytical stare. "Well, is it any good?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "It's very good."

He nodded. It meant a lot to him that she liked it.

"Samuel, you've got to get out of here," she said with certainty.

His eyebrows furrowed together tightly. "I can't. I'm crazy."

"You aren't crazy," she said convinced.

He looked at her with interest. "Oh?"

"I think you may be the victim of unfortunate circumstances. In my professional opinion, your family had you committed because they didn't understand you," she said.

Cupping her cheeks in his hands, he leaned forward and tenderly kissed her lips. His mouth was warm, firm and wet. He filled her up with his masculine essence, laced with sensitivity and passion.

He drank from her sweet petals. He hadn't kissed a woman in so long. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like. It felt so good ... he wanted more. He pressed his mouth softly over hers. His body ached. He savored her intimate affectionate touch as their exchange became more heated and intense.

"Samuel," she murmured, her feelings subtly expressed in her voice.

"I love you," he said huskily.