Clash
It's hard to live his way: sometimes you have a handle on things. You know exactly what's going on. You don't need anything, you don't want for much, and what you want you can get. Food? Easy. Drugs? Easier. A good laugh? Easiest.
Happiness? What about happiness?
It's hard to live his way: the madness descends in the night. You lie alone in your bed and stare at the blank walls—is that a shadow? Of course it is, idiot. But whose? Is anything real? Of course not. Is anyone real? No. What about her?
Well, what about her? You must get more specific than that.
She doesn't feature in his mind when he has a handle on things. He's the laughter, then; all that matters is the laughter. The world is his stage, the people his puppets, their lives his props. Arrange them all in a way that's funny; something that will entice the slightest giggle from his audience. Sometimes she's the audience. Sometimes he sees her through the laughter, but only because she's the only one who's really laughing.
It's when the madness descends that he knows her, when it takes hold that he sees her. In its grip he wants her.
Well, he wants her anyway. It's like a dull throb somewhere between his hairline and his toes. It's always there, but the laughter hides it from him.
When the madness comes he knows it, though; it takes him up and tosses him around. The madness is the part that wants her, he thinks.
Is he right? I dunno. Maybe. Possibly. I guess.
But is he wrong? I dunno. Maybe. Sure, why not?
He likes her there when the madness has him; deep inside her he hides from the shadows. He likes her there in the dark with him; she covers him and keeps him safe. From himself? Maybe.
Then why does he want her dead? Well, does he? Really, he does? Huh.
Did anyone stop to tell him that? I dunno. Maybe. Probably. Not.
The Laughter kills. That's what the Laughter does; it kills. Everything always seems so clear when he's in the Laughter. But is it? Is he seeing the truth?
The Madness knows her. The Madness knows everything. It speaks to him in the dark and tells him strange things; things the laughter doesn't know. It tells him about himself—the Laughter doesn't know him very well at all, according to the Madness. And he sees the truth in it, and he sees her and he wants her again-
-But in the light he goes back to the Laughter. The Laughter is easy. The Laughter wants fun! The Laughter wants death. He can do that. The Madness wants him, but the Laughter is easier to please.
It wanted her death, once. Really wanted, you know. Not a whim or a short spurt of anger; just a thought; a command. It would be better with her dead. Make it so.
Would it really, though? I dunno. Maybe. Could be.
The Laughter told him it would be good, so he did it. Well, he tried. It didn't work like the Laughter wanted. And she came back.
He was pleased to see her through the Madness. Her face lessened its voice; her arms silenced it. The Laughter was dead when he had her; the force of her presence destroyed both.
The Madness didn't care; it came back and whispered when she was gone. And the Laughter took over when it left him. The Laughter was cold. But, sometimes, the Laughter remembered the desire. Despite the command, the Laughter could feel it pulse. Sometimes it didn't know what it wanted.
It's hard to live his way: he lived two lives. Each drowned the other. Only one thing was consistent.
He was the Laughter; the Laughter knew everything, could do anything. The Laughter kept him going; it was powerful. He could see her laughing through it.
But he was held by the Madness; the Madness knew him; it loved him. It saw the truth, perhaps. It could see her, and it wanted her. Did he? Was she the Madness?
I dunno. Maybe. Possibly. Probably. All he knew for certain was one thing: the Madness brought her.
His thoughts chattered in his head and said strange things. But the only one he remembered was this:
He existed for the Laughter. He lived for the Madness.
The hand that shook him awake was warm, and the embrace that caught him as he shot up was warmer. The ice that was him melted into it, and he slumped onto her. The night was quiet again, and the room was dark. But the darkness had changed; it was warm darkness. Friendlier shadows.
Soft lips brushed his forehead and he pulled them down with him then to him. The shadows seemed nearly gone in the vibrantly black room. The silence of their breathing drowned out the buzz of his thoughts. The lips closed with his and the mad terror of sleep vanished: he was warm and safe in the brilliant dark.
It was a moment one lived for.