Laughing

The cackle rang through the cells, rattling the bars of each, the prisoners mumbling and groaning. Not complaining. They were terrified of the man who was cackling. They may be murderers and killers, rapists, drug dealers, but they were still human. And they were afraid of him. The guards too, they let him be. They had seen many strange things in this place that smelled of darkness and lives gone to waste. The lights were out, but for the fluorescent ones that let the guards patrol. The moon peeked in through the windows of those who were lucky enough to be in cells with windows. The cackle danced and cheered. People waited, ears perked, chills ringing down their spines, for what would come next. He had only been here for eleven days, but he had already established a habit, a tempo. He had no complained when he had been brought in. He was not fighting, as some of them did, in denial, not angry, as others were, spitting at, swearing at the guards. He was holding them by the shoulders as if they were friends that had grown up with him. And then too, he was laughing, head thrown back, long rockstar hair crawling down his back, laughing. The guards were too much in shock to say anything.

The cackle rang, the prisoners waited, eyes open, if they closed them, they soon found that they would see his face in the darkness. They preferred to look around their small cells than see his face in addition to hearing his laugh. The wheezing started. The coughing followed. And then gasping as he caught his breath. A few minutes passed in silence, and then snoring. Jolting, jerking back awake. He didnt murmur. He didnt talk to himself. He always had an audience that he spoke to. He knocked on the wall between him and the neighbor to the right of him, and spoke to the man. His neighbor’s voice trembled as he answered.

No one would say anything to him, not the guards, not the prisoners. The first day, the meanest, toughest, also possibly dumbest guy had tried to. Pushed him around, smacked the metal tray on his head. The guards watched, they picked their battles in this place. This was initiation, not a battle worth fighting. Blood streaming out of his nose, drip drop, pattering to the ground, hair still, too still. Chest started heaving. Then he drew his head up, eyes staring at the ceiling and laughed. That cackle. Eyes were white, nose was bleeding, face was pale. It was an eerie sight. The laughing did not stop as the man with the pale face and bleeding nose and rockstar hair began his dance. It was graceful, feral, a hyena and cheetah at the same time. It was not sane, it was beyond comprehension.

When it was done, the man known as The Tower, the man who was in this place because he had broken a bouncer’s back on his knee in a bar fight, had gone on a killing spree, had ripped the head off of someone, had in total killed eleven people, The Tower was on his back, his throat ripped out, blood spurting out of it weakly.

The cackle started again as dawn rose.