Signs of Madness

He sits across the corridor, muttering words underneath his breath. Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, but he doesn't seem to care. He seems to be telling someone that he didn't mean to do what he did, but that's standard, after all, who in here really wanted to do what they had to do?

His left hand strokes the material covering his right shoulder, fondly at first, but as the day go past the stroking becomes almost feverous, he rips holes in his uniform and the guards are angry that they have to replace it.

After they change his clothes, he goes back to just talking again, for a little while. Sometimes he just repeats the same word over and over again: Edgeworth, Edgeworth, Edgeworth.

I never expected to see Manfred von Karma like this, but then again, maybe I had. I had worked alongside him in many a case, seen the brilliant mind in action that brings such glory to the von Karma name, but I've also seen the mania behind his eyes, the mania that shows he will do anything, anything to achieve his goals.

Even I'm not like that. If I'm guilty of any crime, then it is the crime of being an opportunist. I see an opening, any opening at all, no matter how small, and I seize it. Carpe diem.

At the end of the day though, we're both murderers. Both well publicized murderers, in fact. After all, everyone knows what happened between him and Worthy.

There's not much to do in here, apart from watch and wait. But sometimes I'm not sure if I'm waiting for my death or his.

He starts to stroke his arm again, but this time he rolls the sleeve all the way up. That way I can see the scratches on his arm: pale yellow lines at first when he just pushes into the skin, which go back to normal after a few minutes. Then they start to become angry red gashes that linger for hours on end.

Then he starts scratching till he bleeds. Scratches and scratches and scratches almost as if he's trying to remove something from inside his shoulder; he hasn't talked to himself in a while now, after all, that is merely the ifirst/i side of madness, and he is surely well past that.

The guards notice his strange behaviour, and they take him away for a few days to clean his wounds and bandage them up, but as soon as they leave him alone again he rips the bandages off and it all happens again and again until there is blood pouring onto his hands and over his arms, and he doesn't look shocked at all.

Then—a triumphant yell. He holds a hand above his head, forefinger and thumb held closely together, the empty space between them is enough, for say, a bullet. The scratching stops, and he kisses the empty space, but because it is indeed empty, he misses and kisses his bloodied fingertips, the first smile I have seen him smile in this blasted place plastered on his face.

I recognize it as the smile of a man who can die happy. When they take him away this time, he never comes back.

It's a bit disappointing, because what else am I, Damon Gant, meant to do trapped in this tiny little cell now that there's nothing to watch? It's not like I can go swimming.