I wish I could tell her. I wish I could tell her so bad, it hurts me inside.
I came so close to telling her the other day. We were sitting around in my kitchen, my normal, human, linoleum kitchen, and she was looking down, swinging her feet, thinking about nothing in particular. I thought about how pitiful she was, and how strong she could be if she would only allow herself the dignity to do so.
She really is brave.
She is the bravest person I've ever met, the bravest woman there is. She puts up with him, he abuses her, she takes all his shit, and she always comes back. She's helpless, sure, but brave. Never try to stop a woman in love.
Yeah, right.
The only thing stopping a woman in love is herself.
It's people like me, who never gather up enough courage to confess their affections, who end up withered and old and die alone.
I guess I'd better get used to that idea now, because she's never going to see me the way I see her. And I don't blame her. She's not that way. She would never love a woman. She has him. Hell, I'm not even human. I'm a freak accident, an error in nature, a union of two things that should never meet. Maybe that explains why I have these feelings for her. I know it isn't right, but . . . I see her and I want to envelop her in my arms and hold her until she feels safe again. I want to protect her from that sadistic, ungrateful clown. I want her to be with me, to smile when she sees me. I want to open her eyes, I want to make her see what he does to her. I want her to realise her true potential.
Because only I know the amazing person she can be.
Poison
-Chapter 1-
When she comes to me, she's bleeding and broken. I open the door, already knowing who is outside, already knowing what has happened to her. I tell myself that this time, it will be different. That this time, I'll act differently, I'll treat her like a friend, with no other interests. I tell myself to be strong, stand as stubborn as a rock or tree. Nothing can get past me.
I open the door. The dried tears have left streaks down her face, dripping white face-paint onto her costume. She's wiped them away in a hurry, I can tell, to hide it from me. She crosses the threshold, as she has a million times, and stares at me with those big, blue eyes, and I melt at once. So much for strength.
I let her in, and she makes herself comfortable. At least, as comfortable as she can be with her injuries. She's limping. That's not a good sign. She tries to cover up the pain in her leg, but a wince and a stumble gives her away. Her shoulder's bleeding, too. That bastard. I'll kill him someday, if I ever get the chance.
"Thanks, Red," she says softly, avoiding my eyes, as if what I'm doing is completely selfless.
She's sitting on the couch, staring at the plant on my coffee table, lost in thought. I can't help but notice the curve of her chin, her painted lips puffed in a pout, the stray curls of tangled, blonde hair that tumbled down from underneath her filthy jester's hat. She's a complete mess. But she's incredibly beautiful.
"Want something to drink?" I ask as nonchalantly as possible. I try to sound calm, but instead my voice comes out in an awful, high-pitched squeal.
She slowly shakes her head. Her mind is on other things. She's unusually quiet tonight—he must have been horrible to her head as well as her body. I feel sick, and excuse myself to the restroom. She doesn't respond, only stares at the bright, potted flowers on the coffee table, not really seeing them. I make a mental note to replace the vibrant pink petals, carefree and merry, for something more realistic.
Once I'm alone, the bathroom door shut safely behind me, I sink to white, tiled floor. I breathe in deeply, taking in the carbon dioxide from the ferns that I've hung from the shower curtain. Still resisting the urge to throw up, I try and calm myself down. It doesn't work. All I can think of is her being beaten by that laughing maniac, and taking it all as a symbol of his love. She says it's just his way of showing his emotions. Bullshit. He doesn't love her. Hell, I don't think he could love anybody. And she knows it, I can tell when I see her with him. She thinks, as a little child would, that maybe if she pretends it's true, then it will be.
And then I think of how happy she is when we're together. Shopping, planning a heist, dressing up . . . .her smile is beautiful when it's not put on a leash. I want to save her from the ugliness that threatens to swallow her whole.
But why do I want to save her?
Why do I care so much for her? I've never cared about a single human being before. So why her?
Why?
Because I love her.
I love her with all my soul.
And she will never know.
A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts.
"Red?" calls a tiny voice from the other side of the door. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," I say after a moment. She was worried about me.
Another pause. "Are you crying?"
I take a deep breath and, feeling weak, use the wall to stand myself up. Steadying my emotions, I open the door. She's standing there, staring at me through the most caring, concerned eyes I have ever seen.
"I'm ok," I say, smiling sadly as I stare into her face. Her gaze relaxes, but does not break.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
I can't tell her. I can't. She's the one that's bleeding and broken, not me. So why is she the one coming to my rescue?
"It's fine," I say, shaking my head. "It's nothing."
She frowns. "Oh, don't be like that, Red." She pouts again. It's always the pouts that get me.
Then she smiles, and her eyes light up with the rest of her face.
"Aw, cheer up, 'hon," she says. "I'll be alright in a couple of days. It's nothing."
Then she grins again, as if her body isn't screaming out in pain from her injuries, as if all her happiness is in this room and there's no ugly, burning world outside this house to plague her. All she knows right now is that I'm sad, and she wants to make me happy.
She truly is the most amazing person I have ever met.
"Harley—"
I really am selfish.
"Yeah, Red?"
So selfish.
"Can I tell you something?"
What am I doing? Now is not the time to be greedy. So why do I want to take her in my arms and feel her warmth against my body? This is wrong. No. Not happening.
"Sure thing, Red."
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I can't tell her. I can't burden her this way. I know she does not feel the same, so why, why, am I telling her? Because I want to kiss her. She's so beautiful, I want to stand beside her forever. I want to hold her and run my hands through her yellow hair, and—
No.
I'm not.
This is not the time. She's bleeding, her mind has been torn apart, she needs my help, now is not the time.
"Red?"
She's staring at me quizzically, waiting, worried. What should I say? Should I tell her it's nothing, should I just move on? I'll make up something, something believable. . . .
Standing before her, I notice how tiny she is, how emancipated. She's lost weight. If this is because of that goddamned clown, he's going to receive a few punches from me personally. Her hair is golden, like sunlight. And that's what she is. Sunlight, pure and simple. Helpless and bright and shining for all the world to see.
I feel my eyes begin to burn. Oh, god, don't cry. She can't see me cry. . . .
"What's wrong, Red?"
Her voice is like liquid glass, tinkling and bright. Her eyes beg me to take her into my confidence, and I want to. I have to. She's my Harley Quinn, and she has the right to know.
In a sudden flurry of movement I wrap my arms around her neck and I bury my face in her curls. She jumps a little at first, startled by my sudden embrace, but then relaxes.
"Ivy? What's—"
I shush her quietly, and she falls silent. She squirms a little, but I clutch her tighter, feeling the heat from her body press against me. She's tinier than I expected.
"Red—"
This might be the only time I get to hold her.
"Red, you're—"
She fits perfectly onto my shoulder.
"Red! You're hurting me!"
Her shrill voice clears my head of her scent. I leap back at once, horrified. "Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean—" I stammer, my words falling like hail, fast and painful.
She backs away, nursing her injuries. "It's ok," she says softly, but her eyes look like broken glass. Poor child. She couldn't take care of herself even if she wanted to.
I want to say something, but I'm afraid it will only hurt her more.
Great.
I must be really screwed up.
What kind of a sick creature ends up hurting the person they care about most? A sick one, that's who, I think to myself, feeling disgusted.
Her face is closer to mine now, her dirty face shining up at me. Those blue eyes, usually bubbly with joy, are narrowed in deep concern and frustration. I want that blue to be pristine, untouched by the charcoal that surrounds them, that consumes her. She's too beautiful for face-paint. That darling, fragile girl . . . why does no one realize how breakable she is? The police, the doctors, the Batman . . . him. Why can they not see the flower that blooms faintly between her ribcage, that spark of virtuous life? Do they not know how their actions cut into this girl's very soul, destroy her a little bit at a time? No, they would never stop to think about her. And why would they? She's a criminal, a murderer, a psychopath. What they don't understand is that the psychopath made her, and it is his influence, and his influence only, that twisted this fragile girl beyond recognition. Their sympathy is nonexistent. Perhaps they are even less human than I am.
I just want her to be happy.
That's all I want.
So, I lie. I tell her that's it's nothing, that I'm just worried about her. I give the usual explanation: stop doing this to yourself, it's dangerous, don't go crawling back to him. And I mean it. I mean every word. I just neglect to explain the reason, the very selfish, horrible reason, why I don't want her to go back: a greedy part of me wants her all to myself. I want to surround her with a bubble, take her to an island or a rainforest, or a secluded corner of a quiet forest, and keep her there; away from the sirens, the bloodshed, the torture and pain. This girl, this wonderful, bright, shining girl, deserves better than this.
I smile down at her, and she relaxes. How easily her worries can be dashed with simple smile.
"Don't worry."
She turns her head, knowing I'm hiding something. I smile again, and her face copies mine. She knows I'm not telling her the complete truth, but she doesn't press the issue. I half-wish she would. Then at least I would know if this was just some crazy notion my mind created out of nothing, or something . . . real.
"Go and get yourself cleaned up," I say, eyeing her tear-stained face splattered with paint and who knows what else. I suspect the lipstick smeared on her face to be of a more sinister crimson, but I decide not to inquire.
She gives me a soft smile, and willingly pads off into the hallway. I hear the bathroom door shut behind her, and shortly after, the sound of running water. Momentarily alone with my thoughts, I think over ways to lighten her mood. A movie . . . yes. Something distracting that will subdue these raging emotions that seem to be coiled in both of us.
Later, she is curled up beside me on the couch. The television projects its harsh glare throughout the room. It's late, a little past midnight. She's still awake, watching the final scenes of Vertigo. There are bags under her eyes, but she still looks beautiful. I don't know why. Maybe it's the way her face looks on with a captivated sort of intrigue and suspense that only Hitchcock can elicit, or the curve of her lips as they open slightly, or the way her shirt clings to her chest, accentuating her curves. I find myself distracted from the film, though it has reached its final, heart-pounding scenes. An urge to be closer to her possesses me, and I casually slide my arm around her waist. She inadvertently leans toward me, in what I take to be a friendly manner, but I like it all the same. Silently cursing myself for being horrible again, I pull her closer. She rests her head on my shoulder. Her hair, falling in long, slightly damp blonde waves, smells wonderful. There is no other way to describe it . . . it's just . . . her.
The credits roll by, and I reach for the remote, but Harley doesn't move. I look at her. She's asleep, the poor thing. I never knew anyone who could fall asleep as fast as she can.
Gently, ever so gently, I slide out from under her limp head and lay her across the couch. I turn the television off, and silence returns to fill the emptiness of the apartment. She looks so innocent, her face relaxed with the peace sleep brings. I wonder what she dreams about. Whatever it is, I hope it is filled with warmth and love.
I kiss her forehead softly, brushing the stray wisps of blond from her closed lashes. Standing, I am filled with a new and resolute determination. I want this girl to be happy. Whatever it takes, I will see to it that this girl's scars are healed, the crease in her eyebrows, the glint of worry in her eye, all erased.
One day, she will find peace.
And I will help her, even if it kills me.