The cold steel door swings open slowly, creaking under its own considerable weight. The door is almost a foot thick, but then that's a necessary measure in a place like this. Padded walls, reinforced doors, guards on every corridor equipped with stun guns packing enough charge to bring down a large bull. Madness can give people abnormal resilience. Even the sturdy veteran security guards are not invulnerable from the spine-chilling screams, and in some cases, laughter, of the 'emotionally troubled' occupants of the cells.
I, on the other hand, feel quite comfortable in the company of madmen. Perhaps this says something for my own state of mind. But more likely it's because they fear me. Fear what I can do. It would be true to claim that some of these inmates have perhaps… digressed, since their admittance to our happy family, but then every science must have its sacrifices. The damage I've inflicted upon them is barely noticeable in comparison to their already ruined psyches.
Fear, to those who receive it, can feel exciting, full of life. The type of fear that reels masses of mindless drones in to the cinema year after year. Fear, to those who provoke it, can have a similar effect, although at the other end of the scale somewhat. There's something of a sadistic delight in seeing others succumb to the paralysing effects of terror. As I discovered, the ability to induce the most disabling of human emotions is elevating, raising the instigator high above the mortal mindset of his victims. Fear is a most powerful weapon. There's something excitingly primal about it all. The sensation of power, to be able to reduce the most hardy of men into screaming, sobbing figures that beg for it all to stop. This, this feeling of ultimate control, is what I have pursued all my life. Untangling the complications of the human mind, stripping it down to the bare bones, those most primitive sensations. The easiest, and most satisfying, of which to rouse being fear. To me, it provokes an airy feeling of wonder and ecstasy. Much the same way that a song can make people swell with a contentment and pride, suddenly grateful for whoever they're with at the time, lulling the scene into a rose tinted haze. Watching them crawl. Hearing them howl and cry. Like music. Music that makes you feel so alive, filling you with Dutch courage. A transitory sensation of assurance and superiority, like you can deal with anything. And the warm buzz settling in your veins afterwards.
Even now, as I stroll past the cells of my subjects, they cower at the sight of me, the association of horror imprinted irreparably on their minds. One motion of my hand, one sharp movement towards them enough to make their hearts pound hysterically inside their stout chests. I watch them recoil, and I'm breathing smoke, walking on water. I have control here. This is my realm. I stalk down the corridor, acerbically floating along, savouring the sweet taste of fear and irony. The tormented now in command of the definitive hegemony. And these thugs, exactly the type who made my life hell all those years ago, they shrink at the mere sight of me. The gangly, brittle streak of bones that writhed under fists and feet.
At the end of the hall I approach my humble office. The only gap in the door is a foot wide Plexiglas window, across which was a notice that read "please stand away from the glass". They escort me inside, and bolt the door behind me. I feel like stretching out in cosy contentment and yawning sentimentally. I would've, if I hadn't been strapped into a straight jacket.
Home sweet home.