Bleak Insanity, post 1.

Here you go. Enjoy.

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Laughing. Eternal laughter. It almost seems boring now. How long has it been? Christ, I couldn't even say anymore. Must've been years by now. Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, hell even seconds and the miniscule particles the make up those. They all make up the same mess of destruction in the end. I still sit under this same stairwell. Seems like ages. Thinking back, I guess it's only been a few years or so. Maybe. Probably.
... But has it really been years? Spring moves to summer, as growing buds turn to blossoming flowers, only to die on the ground in the Wintry months. This is but a cruel mockery of our senses. Ow, what was that? Oh, another drip of blood in my eye. I think my head is cut. Maybe it's just my imagination.
I'm writing this down, you know. Well, I guess you'd have to know, if you're reading this, “Haha”. Hope when somebody finds this, its pages are readable. I think one of them got... something on this book. Everything simply runs to a crimson in my eyes now. My life is nothing but a shadowed mess from when this started, spattered with droplets of insanity and hope. Oh, I guess people might think I'm the crazy one. But I hope they see this for what it was. Believe me, I might be a little off, but these people are completely insane.
Trust me, I only work here. Security guard, have been for many years. The pay's pretty good, and so are the benefits. I started out as a janitor and worked my way up. That wasn't an easy task. I'll get back to the past eventually. The present is what's important. Damnit, it's hard to concentrate when all I can hear is that grating laughter. But as I've said, I'm almost used to it. This damned bleak insanity. Steals over you like the worst of diseases. Kills your sense of time, and your other senses as well, I guess.
Like I said before, I'm sitting here under a stairwell. It's kind of a safehouse of sorts. I don't feel as terrified here. Out there... one second could mean my death. Impaled, shot, stabbed, gouged or strangled. No soothing breeze to calm my nerves. No mother to say “There, there, it'll be alright tomorrow. You'll see.”. No sweet sound of a lover's imbrace. All alone, but not alone at the same time. Murderous people looking for me. Years I've been here, eh? I think I wrote that already. I wonder why nobody from the outside has come yet, but they must come eventually if you're reading this.
I guess I should write about where I am now. I've been rambling about nothing. This is a mental asylum. To be specific, Happy Trails Institution for the Mentally Unstable. Supposedly haunted by about a million ghosts, goblins and gremlins. All of these stories are lies of course. Reality is linear in execution. What's actually in here is much worse than a ghost, or some boogieman. One of the high-priority inmates here gets a hold of something sharp? Three years before this mess started, the old Number Five got his hands on a shard of glass. Twelve dead (Including himself) and seventeen injured before one of the other guards blasted through his forehead with his standard issue Glock. Grisly scene, I swear Five made a lunge at the guard before he fell to the ground. They covered it all up. Nobody cares about the lost souls in this hellhole anyway. Guess it'd be a good time to say we number our patients on their levels of insanity. Numbers One through Ten are the worst.
Number One is one terrifying bastard. He was commited here for the murder of an entire orphanage. Hundreds dead. Huge mess, they covered it up as well. Only ever saw him once, to my memory. He was the absolute visage of Hell. I looked into his eyes for one second, and I saw not one shred of sanity dancing behind them. He wanted to kill me, I could tell. Highest security I've ever seen. His room makes Alcatraz look like a Summer camp to be snuck out of to kiss in the woods. At least five guards posted outside his room at all times.
Damn, still laughing. Or maybe it's turned to screams now? I can't tell anymore. They flow together making an indulgence of pure emotion. Maybe I should go back to when this started. I know I'll never forget. Burned into my brain it is. I should give a little backstory beforehand though. A day or two before, to show the daily routine. Or maybe not. There were a few key players in this disaster. I'll go back to when I met them. That should do nicely.