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Oscar Branning was haunted.
Not by ghosts, but by the boys at young offenders.
That fact didn't stop him from being what they called a "gobby newbie," rather he continued. Not that he could exactly rein it in. If he were given the ability to shut himself up he would. But the words poured out all of the time like a constant stream. Even before he wound up here, everyone would tell him to just relax as if it were that easy. He needed to speak, make a noise, anything. Because when he didn't, his chest hummed at him and buzzed. He knew he was too loud even when he tried not to, but he just couldn't help it.
It felt wrong. The absence of words felt wrong. Not that he enjoyed reading or anything.
That's what got him in this mess.
He just couldn't shut up.
The violence was routine to Oscar by now. He'd finish his meal, walk back to his cell and await what lurked around the rank corridors. At first he imagined if he ate quick enough he could sneak back. But someone was always watching him. Someone's eyes were always raking into the back of his skull. Someone's presence always followed him. So when he tried it, he was punished for trying.
So he stopped.
He stopped trying after that.
Oscar stood up, kicking out his chair and brushing off crumbs from his jumper. His eyes were lidded wearily as he scanned the room for signs of Mike and his gang.
They weren't there.
He grimaced and left the room well aware of what was waiting for him.
He stepped into the hallway and began walking, his fingers tapping the outside of his thigh. His heart didn't race, atleast not as much as it did in the beginning. There wasn't any dread either, he just supposed he'd grown far too used to this.
Was that weird?
Oscar shook his head in answer to his own question.
His senses heightened as he got closer to the corner and he could hear the once soft tapping of his shoes mutilate into an echo inside his head; the walls seemed to close in on him; bile rose in his throat, replacing the taste of bread on his tongue.
And then he was grabbed.
First by the arms and then by the shoulders he slammed against the brick wall, letting out nothing but a little grunt and a wince. That had gotten yesterday's bruise that hadn't quite exactly healed. "Remember Micheal, not the face," he wheezed, his hand fisting Mike's shirt to ground himself. It hit a nerve within the other boy and a fist landed square on his stomach. Oscar bit his lip as he doubled over, rolling to the floor.
After that he disassociated.
He felt legs kicking into his ribs, then another pair, and then another accompanying that one. A hand grabbed him by the collar of his clothes and hit after hit landed upon his chest, the boys laughing together. They yelled threats at him he wasn't paying attention to, all too similar to ones he'd heard before. He didn't care. It was a waste.
Oscar snapped back to reality momentarily, "Hit harder! This is boring!" He laughed out hysterically.
The boys looked at him if he were insane. He probably was.
"Are you taking the mick?" Mike spat, cocking his head.
"Maybe," he pouted blankly.
Mike threw him to the ground and kicked him in the side as he began to walk away, his minions doing the same before catching up. He could hear them calling him strange and that he needed help.
Honestly? Probably. Oscar thought grimly as he picked himself up off the floor.
He didn't realise it at first as he walked away but he was shaking. Furiously. His hands seemed to be blurs as he brought them up to his face and inspected them. He sighed and shoved them into his pockets.
Finally, he reached his cell.
The guard standing nearby opened the door without questioning his messed-up state before shutting it with a grunt, locking him in it in silence.
Oscar let the facade fall after that.
He stumbled towards his bed, in the far corner of his cell, pulling his hands out to clutch his ribs as he leant over in just barely disguised pain. His hands were still shaking and his arms ached, his legs giving way just as he flopped onto the bed. He discarded his jumper, throwing it into the far corner. Carefully, he slid his shirt up, to reveal a fresh purple bruise in his side. He touched it hesitantly, biting his lip to suppress a pained whine as he brushed over it with a feather light touch. His hand trailed around the expanse of his once soft stomach, pressing at more bruises, some from nights before this one.
He pulled his shirt back down, and tugged his covers over himself, slowly turning over to the side that hurt the least. He stared at the wall and when the buzzing feeling didn't come he let out the baited breath he had been holding. The bed felt horribly rough and the fabric itched the skin that was bare, which he blamed on the adrenaline that seemed to course through him. His bed wasn't comfy usually anyway but it felt wrong nonetheless.
Angrily he kicked his covers off, sitting up and carefully resting his back on the headboard. He let his head roll back slightly and then yet again all fell silent.
And then he started laughing, just as crazy as before, dare he say more manic even. Tears came with it. They ran down his face and he was just thankful he was alone. He couldn't let anyone see him like this. He laughed. Laughed because it was all so sick and twisted.
Laughed because he was the joker and it was his job to laugh.
Laughed because he was alone in here.
Laughed because nobody cared.
And he doubted anyone would when he got out.