The Laughing Man
Gunn is an exemplary citizen. He’s faithful to the Party. He would never go against Party policy, not in public. Not in public.
But every night, Gunn breaks the curfew.
Only the members of the Party Police are authorized to be on the streets past the curfew. The penalty is severe. Yet every night, Gunn opens his hab-unit’s balcony window. He’s lucky that his job within the Party means he has a balcony. His balcony is small; all he can do there is stand and watch the street below.
But Gunn can also access the fire ladder from his balcony.
The plan formed in Gunn’s mind slowly. At first he didn’t even realize it was a plan. All he knew was that he was standing in his balcony one evening, staring at the citizens below, all of them in their Party drab clothes, one hour from the curfew. Everybody rushed to get home in time, yet everyone kept their distance, as the Party commanded. A Party Police patrol waded through the crowd down the street, an island in a sea of fear.
And then the wind hit Gunn’s face. And the wind brought the smells.
Water. Salt. The sea.
Gunn knew it was impossible. The sea was too far away.
But he felt the smells.
And the smells brought the memories. Souvenirs of an erased childhood. Of a different world, where there was no Party. Where freedom was not equalled to sin.
The sea.
Impossible, and Gunn knew it.
But what about something else? Something minor? Some kind of small misdemeanour? Breaking the curfew was exciting and terrible. The mere thought made him tremble.
The plan formed.
Like every night, Gunn opens a drawer and sticks his hand in, then up, and his fingers touch his black balaclava. Gunn is proud of it: he made it himself out of the last Party sweater that he had to replace. He puts it on.
His lights are off, but Gunn pulls back his curtains just a little before stealing a peek.
He steps back. He racks his short-time memory, and as it always does, it works. All clear.
Gunn half-opens his window and steps out into the balcony. He crouches and waits. One minute, two, three. Ten.
No sound but the thumping of blood in his temples. Sometimes he hears a cat. It’s amazing that cats are still roaming the streets.
The fire escape is just there. It’s old and it creaks. Gunn already knows how to use it to avoid the noise, but still he’s cautious, as usual. The silence is deafening, a roar in his ears.
And then his feet are on the ground, and he runs.
Gunn remembers the first nights. The fear. The terrible, omnipresent fear. The relief afterwards.
But also the rush.
The fear is not gone. Not entirely. But caution has given fruit. Gunn is sure luck has also played a part: he’s no fool. But night after night he escapes, and he becomes better every time.
Gunn sticks to the walls. He has prepared a route away from street lamps and security cameras. His job with the Party helps: he knows the cameras are no real good by night.
So Gunn traces his path away from home.
Like every night.
Tonight, however, is different.
First he hears the steps, then the shouts.
A man almost runs into Gunn, but Gunn steps aside and hides in an alley. The man has no face. Gunn knows that’s not true, but it certainly seems so: all he has seen is a mask with a smile.
The Laughing Man.
The enemy of the State, the Party and the People.
The Party Police come right afterwards. They have torches, their beams bouncing furiously up and down. Gunn pulls back against the wall, his heart threatening to bump out of his chest.
But they run on. An officer stops by the alley, takes aim and shoots a gun in the direction the Laughing Man has taken.
Gunn almost moves to cover his ears with his hands.
Almost. But not quite.
The police officers shouts something Gunn doesn’t understand because of the ringing in his ears, but more armed people appear and then run off.
Gunn waits. He’s grown used to waiting. Ten minutes. Twenty.
What time is it? How long has he been away from home?
Gunn has never been so afraid. But he knows he has to get home, so he walks up the alley and takes a peek.
Nothing.
When he gets home, Gunn is such a wreck that he uses the front door. He realizes he’s still wearing his balaclava, so he tears it off and stuffs it in his pocket as he takes the stairs up. Once home, Gunn sighs.
He then realizes what he’s done.
Gunn walks to the balcony. He has to close and lock the window.
He’s there. The Laughing Man. Lying on the floor, unmoving.
Injured?
Gunn just stares at him.
And then…
“Gunn.” The voice behind the mask seems familiar. But Gunn cannot be sure.
“How do you…?”
“I know everything about you, Gunn. I know what you do. Every night.”
Gunn’s pulse accelerates.
“Don’t worry. If I truly was an enemy of the Party, you’d be dead by now. Funny that. I’m the one doing the dying here.”
Gunn doesn’t move.
“Do you know why you do it, Gunn? Why you get out every night?”
Gunn says nothing.
“I’ll tell you why, Gunn. Freedom. The Party took it from you, and you want it back. So every night, you go out, in order to recover a small portion of freedom. The wind. The stars. The sea.”
Gunn steps back, trips and falls.
“That’s why I’m here, Gunn. We’re the same.”
Gunn shakes his head.
“We’re the same.”
Gunn closes the window and locks it.
He falls by his couch, and stays there. Morning comes, but he doesn’t move. Afternoon, evening, night.
What’s happening?
Gunn is a good citizen. All he has to do is call the Party Police, tell them The Laughing Man is here. Tell them he threatened him, so he was so afraid he hadn’t called before.
But Gunn remembers.
He remembers the sea.
Night falls. Darkness embraces Gunn.
Finally, he stands. He walks to his balcony, unlocks and opens the window.
The Laughing Man is still there.
His body is, at least.
Gunn realizes the Laughing Man has a piece of paper in his hand. He pries the fingers open, then reads the note. It’s an address. Gunn searches the body, and in a clever pocket within a pocket, he finds a key.
He stands in the night, address in one hand, key in the other.
Gunn bends down and grabs the mask. He doesn’t even look at the Laughing Man’s real face: he simply puts the mask in his pocket, takes his balaclava and puts it on. Then he leaves, using the fire escape as always.
He’s going to check the address, and ponder whether the people deserve a new Laughing Man.
~~~~
This is my entry for this week’s Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Choose a Title and Go. This week the challenge was to write 1000 words using one of ten titles Chuck has chosen form different sources.
I liked the first one in the list: The Laughing Man. And I even dared to pay homage to V From Vendetta (the comic book) by Alan Moore and David Lloyd. I hope you like it.
