Am I Mad

Prologue

Prologue        

The hallway of prison cells stretched on, endless, the atmosphere was imposingly dismal; the dim light of the flaming torches only made the reaching shadows grow longer, feeding the darkness instead of beating it back. The stark bareness of the halls was enough to stifle even the brightest sense of good humor. Two guards stood watch over the prison, surveying the ghostly stillness of the cages around them, their swords hung with a sinister warning, gleaming at their sides. In the lantern’s glow the red of their uniforms looked wet, as if they had been swathed in fresh blood. They paced back and forth from one end to the other, crossing paths with a curt nod before continuing on with their long trek to the other end of the mostly inhabited prison cells. They walked with the single-minded intensity of soldiers; their personalities wiped clean from their person, their faces hidden behind crimson helmets. These men were carbon copies of each other, no discernable differences they moved as one, marching prideful down the prison hallways.

In the darkness a low moaning howl filled the air slowly, the sole despondent note hanging in the air before the loud warning of one of the guards as he hit the bars with the hilt of his sword cutting it off abruptly, and then nothing else could be heard except the discreet mutterings and stifled whimpers of the pitiful. As one of the guards passed the cells he peered in at their inhabitants. A Dodo bird dressed in a painters smock sat in the corner of one with a thick iron band around his neck, his feathers rumbled and dirty as he cried silently to himself, in another a family of hedgehogs huddle together close, whimpering, they shrunk away as the guard drew closer, the whites of their eyes shone with fear in the torches light. There was the sound of a low chuckle, the sound of the powerful relishing in the control they posses over the weak. The guard moved on to the next cell still chuckling, but stopped short as he saw a man lying face down on the floor, unmoving. He looked closer hoping the man wasn’t dead, giving a small shudder of disdain at the thought of having to clear away yet another dead body.

“Oi you, get up you lazy bum. Oi! I said get up!” The guard called out gruffly, tapping the metal bars with the hilt of his sword. The man on the ground didn’t move, he just lay there without a word. Aggravated the guard grabbed hold of the door, rattling the bars with the strength of his grip, as he peered over at the small sign that told the cell number and the prisoner’s name. his eyes squinted, her rubbed the plate clean from dust and cobwebs that had accumulated over the years for those who had ben forgotten.

“Kingsford, Ambrose Kingsford—”

“No!” The sharp whisper cut the guard off mid sentence; the sound rang out in the air with the imposing power of a gong. Slowly, very slowly, a snake being sung from a basket by the clever melodies of a charmer, the man rose from the ground until he was sitting on his knees in the middle of the cell, back hunched and head bowed. The man, Ambrose, slowly reached for the ground where he picked up a ratty looking old top hat and placed it delicately on his head; his long white fingers looking like ghosts of spider webs against the dark matted fabric.

“Oh how the feathers do fall from the foolish crow, when he flies so high but he does not know, oh no, does he know, that crow, does he know he’s a raven searching for his haven as his bloodless feathers fall from the sky beneath him.” The man spoke the poem in a lyrical voice, and then began to laugh, quietly at first but his laughter soon grew into a crescendo of manic laughter. The hairs on the back of the guard’s neck stood up in fear

“What was that?” The guard asked, his confusion evident as his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, he shuffled his feet with the nervous half step dance of a frightened horse.

“Come sir can you tell, as to why in heaven or in hell, is a raven like a writing desk?” the crazed man said in a chuckle. He played his fingers in the air as though he were conducting an orchestra. His eyes rolling in his head.

Taken aback the guard bared his teeth in irritation, he hated jesters and time wasters and it was clear that this man here was one of the worst. “Not another word Kingsford—”

“That’s not my name.” he whispered, his voice cold and emotionless.

“Kingsford if you say one more word I’ll have your head.” In a flash of movement, almost undetectable by the eye the man in the top hat was on his feet and at the bars in a moment, his long fingered hands wrapped around the guard’s throat in an iron vice grip. The guard’s eyes bulged in shock as he dropped his sword in shock, his hands grappling at the ones around his throat, trying to pry the iron fingers off.

“Not if I have yours first.” The man said as a sickly sweet smile stretched across his pale face, teeth barred in triumph, his lips, blood red and trembling. A pair of luminous blue eyes glowed with a demented fire as his dark hair streaked with white curled over the wide brim of his top hat. There was a thick scar that ran its way across his throat in a painfully bright red arc, his long face looking hallow and robbed of life as he gazed unfeelingly at the man who was now at his mercy before him.

“Kingsford please,” The guard pleaded but with a quick twist of the man’s hands the guards neck broke with a snap that echoed through the halls and he crumbled to the ground, whatever else he would have said was lost.

“Kingsford is gone, dead and gone; it’s the Hatter now.” He whispered and the small demented smile curled back over his lips as he sat back down in the middle of his cell, humming and muttering to himself in the darkness as the shadows began to grow once more, completely submerging him in darkness.