The Laughter in the Room

It always began at night, like clockwork. A stillness would settle over the house, thick and suffocating, before the first sound would escape her lips. It wasn’t laughter as most people understood it. It was guttural, almost animalistic—a sound that clawed its way out of her throat, echoing through the dimly lit room. Her face would contort, her eyes wide and unseeing, as if she had become someone else entirely.

The family called it the change.

We had seen doctors—many of them. One had said she suffered from OCD, another from an anxiety disorder, and yet another had confidently declared it was a hormonal imbalance. Weeks ago, the latest in the long line of white-coated figures had finally labeled her condition: Schizophrenia. The word hung in the air like smoke, filling every corner of the house with its weight. We were told to follow the prescribed regimen of pills and therapies, but nothing seemed to work.

Tonight, as the sound of her laughter filled the air again, my mother and younger brother rushed to her side, clutching the Qur’an. They began reciting verses, their voices trembling as they blew their breath on her face and ears, as if the words themselves could pull her out of whatever abyss she had fallen into. The room reeked of desperation.

I stood in the corner, holding the mood stabilizer in my hand. I knew it wouldn’t cure her—nothing ever did. But it would calm her for a while, quiet the storm long enough for us to feel like we had some control, even if it was just an illusion.

“She’s possessed,” my mother whispered as she clutched her prayer beads. My brother nodded solemnly, his eyes wide with fear. A few days ago, we had visited a local scholar who had breathed on a bottle of oil and declared it holy. He gave us a locket, promising it would protect her. My mother had tied it around her neck with trembling hands, her faith unwavering.

I didn’t believe in any of it—the holy oil, the verses, the locket. To me, it was all part of the same absurd play we were all acting in, each of us reciting our lines with conviction, hoping it would make a difference. But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t.

After a few minutes, I handed her the pill. She swallowed it reluctantly, and slowly, the laughter subsided. She sat on the mattress, her head tilted to one side, staring at something none of us could see.

But tonight, I tried something different.

“Look into my eyes,” I said, kneeling in front of her. She hesitated at first, her gaze flickering, but eventually, her wide, unseeing eyes locked onto mine. I held her gaze, steady and fearless, and began speaking softly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe. Positive energy is flowing into you, and negative energy is leaving you.”

Her breathing steadied slightly as I spoke. “We’ll count backward together now, from five to one. With each number, you’ll feel lighter, freer.” My voice was calm, even as my heart raced.

“Five,” I began, and she echoed the word, her voice trembling.

“Four… three…”

Her voice softened, her muscles relaxing ever so slightly.

“Two…”

“One. Now close your eyes. Let the positivity flow into you with every breath in, and let the negativity leave with every breath out.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed, and for a moment, the room felt still, almost peaceful.

My mother watched from the corner, clutching her prayer beads, her expression a mixture of hope and suspicion. My brother was silent, his eyes darting between us.

I sat back, exhaling slowly. Maybe it had helped. Maybe it hadn’t. But at least I had done something.

“She’s calmer now,” my mother whispered. “It’s the verses. They’re working.”

I didn’t argue. What was the point? Maybe they were right. Maybe I was the delusional one.

I looked at my sister as she sat there, her face blank, her laughter now replaced by a heavy silence. Was she a victim of her own mind, or was she caught in something bigger—something unknowable? I thought of my own condition, the bipolar swings that had ruled my life for as long as I could remember. Some days I felt like a god, invincible and untouchable. Other days, I sank into a pit so deep it felt like I would never climb out. And in moments like these, I wondered if my highs and lows weren’t just another manifestation of the meaningless system we were all trapped in.

The house felt like a stage, and each of us was playing a role. My mother, the believer, clinging to her prayers and rituals. My brother, the follower, reciting the words he barely understood. My sister, the subject of it all, a vessel for whatever chaos had decided to inhabit her. And me, the skeptic, the one who watched it all unfold with a strange mixture of detachment and despair.

The doctor’s prescriptions, the scholar’s blessings, my mother’s prayers, my sister’s laughter—it was all part of a grotesque, absurd dance. A Kafkaesque comedy where no one knew the rules, but everyone pretended to.

I sat down on the floor, my back against the cold wall. My sister had stopped laughing, but I knew it was only temporary. The cycle would begin again, as it always did. And I would be here, playing my role, giving her the pill, trying my futile experiments, watching my mother pray, and wondering if any of it mattered.

Outside, the wind howled like it was mocking us. I closed my eyes and thought of Camus: “Life is absurd, but we must imagine Sisyphus happy.” I opened my eyes and stared at my sister, wondering if she too was pushing her own boulder up an endless hill. Or maybe we all were.