A/N Hey guys! I wanted to give this story a try- it's been burning in my mind and I had to write it out of my system. I'm really keen to improve so any advice and criticism will be greatly appreciated. Also, it's un-betaed, so please correct me if I got anything wrong. Thanks!
A Laughing Tale
In every heart ever created, lies a small Pandora Box. Inside this little chest, beyond the shrouds of humane sanity, there hides a mystery of the human psyche. It's a locked alter ego, a shadow reflection, an inner Joker laugh.
It patiently waits to be unleashed.
Hidden: Black lifeless eyes. Razor-sharp bloody smiles. Screeching laughter of scratching nails against chalk board and shrieking peals of tearing metal. A demented dance of knives, gunpowder and whimsical twirls.
All it takes, to unlock this special box, is a frozen moment of despair and agony. The death of hope, the tears of blood, a murdered heart and a broken prayer.
Once the correct key is pushed into place, it will trigger a whirring cascade of clicks and flips, as pins and tumblers are pressed down and manoeuvred in exact precision to snap open the lock.
All it takes, is just a single moment of timeless horror, to splinter the mind, shatter open the cage, and awake the grinning madness within.
History: Jokers were more commonly known as jesters or employed fools, existing to fill in the void of pointless sources of entertainment. They were regarded contemptuously as pets and mascots, earning their living through amusing and criticising their own masters. They dressed in flamboyant bright colours, donned eccentric motley hats and were characterised by their distinct mocking laughter. In front of their audience, they would sing and dance and tease the royalty with pointed fingers, making them realise their own follies and made them laugh.
If they weren't good enough, if they got too carried away, if the joke was too insulting, if it was not funny enough, if the joker was anything but their job description, they were punished and executed. Out comes the order, off with the head. A clean efficiency of guaranteed entertainment.
So they walked on this fragile string of spider silk, knowing any moment it could give out, that any moment their laugh could be their last.
The Joker: it's not a person, it's an identity. It's adopted when you have lost everything the world could possibly offer you.
It's when total hysteria envelops you and you begin giggling at your own pathetic plight. But you have a mouth and a pair of working lungs, so once you start, you escalate to screaming laughter. Either way, you never stop because the moment you do, reality and horror comes crashing down, and you know that's the end. The whistle of a swinging axe that cuts straight through your own self-fabricated illusions of jubilation.
It's a cursed life. But it's a life.
So, you wear the best clothes you have: a deep bruising purple coat, acidic green shirt, sloppy red paint, and wear a mask of bone white with fringes of electric green.
You beat your victims with clubs of bones, tear them open and swallow pulsing hearts to quench the hollowness. You bury the broken bodies with spades. And you grin and laugh like bloody diamonds.
Your new name is easy.
It's all written down in history.
It's fun to kill. You don't even try to deny how much you enjoy it. Seeing those perfect business men, and their home-staying wives and little whiny snot-nosed toddlers running around; it just itches, you know? It's fun to shake their perfect, little glass worlds and crush their unfinished dreams and smash their self-constructed kingdoms beyond recognition.
Oooooh, a family gathering? Like a tea party? I just love tea parties! With cakes, biscuits and other sugary junk, with idiots pointing out their little pinkies as they sip tea.
My big brother wasn't so keen on them. He was more into cars and knives and funny white powders that made me sneeze. Wasn't too fond of me either, ya know? One day, I kept whining for him to join my tea party. And he took out his big flashy knife and showed me just how much of a freak he thought I was. Hahahahaha! He did a pretty good job, didn't he?
Aren't you a bunch of terrified little things! You're just like the three little piggies, and I'm the big bad wolf!
What is it? Speak up 'cause I can't hear yooouuu… you don't want to die? Leave the missus and the brat alone?
Oh, are you crying now?
Stop the waterworks. And don't look so scared. Don't look at me like I'm some kinda monster. Don't look at me like I'm the last thing you're gonna see before I burn you all alive. I mean, you're all gonna die eventually, so I'm just being helpful, ya know, making sure you guys go out with a BANG!
Oh lookey, the little one just pissed itself. Why so serious? I was only joking.
The trigger pulls back and fire and broken glass burst from the barrel.
You look at your victims. As close as possible. You stare and stare until the screaming parents and the crying children turning into ribbons of crimson, splatters of red and burning flesh.
But all you see are reflections of yourself; spinning mannequins with vibrant toxic colours and blank eyes of sharks. No, they are not running frantically away from you and screaming with horror. They're just joining your special dance, tumbling jerkily with the accompanying knives, fire and guns.
And they laugh and laugh and laugh right along with you with their mouths opened like gaping bleeding holes.
Death, honestly, never looked so funny.
A Joker's laugh is a cocktail of insanity, suicide and recklessness.
It's all a game of Russian roulette. It's a steady walk of sidestepping, square by square on the chess board, full of empty faith that the next bullet isn't meant for you.
But life is such a joke and everything is just too funny (it's almost painful to stop). Your cheeks don't ache anymore and your face has become a permanent grimace. And you just keep on laughing because didn't mummy always say you looked best when you smiled?
It's about filling in the void of pure nothingness with empty gulps of air and cold blood. You have nothing left and when you're consumed by rage and self-hatred so powerful, you just laugh yourself hoarse through the blinding tears.
But you can't stop now. Life is still continuing, the audience and the stage are waiting and the show must go on. You have to give it your all or nothing, but eventually someone's going to give in sooner or later. So you continue your merry little dance along the edge of the knife, laughing crazily along.
A laughing tale: It needs a hero with a funny little joke. It needs bouts of unstoppable laughter. It doesn't require an ending.
The laughter is the only true weapon in the arsenal. Laughter in the faces of screaming pain. Laughter in the faces of tears and pleas. Laughter in the faces of all unimaginable horror.
It starts with the triggering of tragedy. A box that should have remained closed.
It's when you face:
The scalding pain of burning toxic waste like nails biting into skin. The mirror reflection of the incurable horror you have transformed into.
You have faced the worst of the worst.
You have faced it all.
And you haven't stopped laughing since.