Poor Ashcroft was screaming at the top of his lungs but no one responded. It was a terrifying situation. Ashcroft finally deduced that he was a ghost living in limbo. He hammered mercilessly at the soft, melting walls until his fists were bloody – but if he was a ghost how could he have bloody fists? He seemed to be flesh and blood, but how could the walls be melting and why were his fists bloody from banging on melting walls? The walls were white and padded. He was not a ghost. No such luck. His white robe was a straight jacket. He was tightly bound so he couldn’t harm himself. His white room was in the state asylum. Ashcroft was alive, but he was a prisoner. He would never be released. He couldn’t escape. He was locked in the prison of his mind.