A/N: Joker does not belong to me.
Inspiration, if you guess from the contents of this intended drabble (emphasis on intended), does not belong to me either.
Also, this piece would sound much better if read while listening to a certain symphony by a certain dead man.
Wearing an expression resembling a maniacal glee in the blood gushing from my own now, crooked, nose, rather than the intended fear, reform or even regret, I watched in mock intrigue the numerous hands, with their vice-like grips, shove my unresisting form into a steel, high backed chair.
With an abnormally paced speed, a number of thick, leather straps were tightened around my hands, torso and legs, while over my head was placed a foul-smelling burlap sack.
Laughing loudly beneath the rough cloth, causing it to rub raw patches into my already scarred skin, I licked my lips in a bemused fashion, anticipating what's to come in this round of torture.
Good old-fashioned beatings, with a number of blunt and in some cases of downright cruelty, pointed, rusted and blisteringly hot objects yielded nothing but disappointment and dissatisfaction to the "higher-up hopefuls" of my reform and/or demise.
Consulting their repertoire of affliction led them to try hydrotherapy, hypnotherapy, psychotherapy, shock therapy, drug therapy, or anything else ending in "-erapy" for that matter, also to no avail.
Beneath the thick bag I heard the distinct and progressively distant thud of footfalls, and eventually the resounding sound of a click, as a heavy door was closed, and locked, in place.
I licked my lips again, but out of comforting habit, because I realized with a set of more higher pitched giggles, they had left me alone.
Becoming increasingly aware of the odd silence of the room, I peered through narrowed murky eyes in the darkness, restlessly clenching and unclenching my bound hands into fists.
I was in the middle of a very grotesque, and slightly perverted, but mostly effectively distracting thought concerning a rusty nail, a cat and a match when a horrifically loud and abrasive noise blasted from the speakers on either side of my head.
(Craftily put in place by the orderlies before they left)
The speakers were so dangerously close to my ears, that at first I could discern nothing but a single, homogeneous cacophony, but at some length, an estimated three minutes or so, the noise had detached from within itself, and various rhythms and strains of melodies were recognized as being played simultaneously, yet being in a state of constant discord with the other musical notes.
The outrageously loud din was so jarring and so adequate for it's malevolent purpose that it took a ridiculously large amount of strength for me to gather my thoughts and wrack my brain to appease the nagging feeling that had crept upon me.
In sudden realization, the name of this new and unusual torture came to me in an instant, followed by the bitter and raucous laughter of a madman.
I really enjoyed classical music, I always have, but even more so at the though of how fitting it seemed for an artist, a freak, like me, and at the epiphany of this current crime, it was all just too funny.
Straining against the reins tied tight around me, and thrashing my head violently from side to side, I squeezed out the bellowing laughter deep from within my bowels, matching the music, almost, in its volume.
And I thought my jokes were bad, I remember thinking to myself briefly, before a chorus of violins are heard, causing another crazed and nearly apoplectic paroxysm of my body, harsher and much more hoarse guffaws accompanying the spasm.
I feel my lips spread wider, into an even more demented and slightly bitter grin, while my chest heaves with the heavy breaths of someone so close to the edge, and my eyes were alight with a frenzied rapture.
Through those neighboring speakers, at full volume, played to its most majestic degree, was Beethoven's 9th Symphony, the fourth movement.