Harlequin
I wonder what's its like a to be a psychopath, to have voices inside your head ranting a million miles per hour, to have the urge to hurt someone...badly... when you know it in your head that it's not right. I learned everything about how to distinguish them in a crowd of people, I learned the little idiosyncrasies they all seem to share, but nobody ever taught me what makes them that way. Nobody ever taught me why they do the things they do. And I'd been dying to know...
That was, until I met him.
Surreal is the best way to describe that place: the Arkham Asylum. Thousands resided here, some insane, some made insane, but it always felt empty. Long dim hallways, half -faded florescent lights, occupied by moths and god knows what else, and a series of doors with dirty, fist-sized windows –it had a kind of aura that made you want to check behind your back every time you take a step.
I had the same feeling you got at the first day of school: the feeling dread and excitement mixed to form noxious sensations in my stomach. With two guards behind me, I walked through a small beige door marked 11. The first thing I noticed was the smell, a pleasant blend of fresh linen and cranberry and, at once, the tingling in my feet and the stiffness of my arms all melted way; I don't know what I was expecting but this was not it. The room, like all rooms, was derelict: the once white walls, now yellow, were decorated with drip marks from the falling rain, the black and white tiles cracked, and a single florescent light bulb drooped from the ceiling.
A forlorn twin size bed rested in the back corner, and on it, looking more pitiful, was the Joker.
The infamous Joker: Batman's arch nemesis. The only pictures I had seen of him were from the textbook, black and white photographs of a man laughing hysterically. The photograph had produced nothing but fear and innate curiosity, but now...
He leaned against a pillow, drooping, his long legs half folded and half hanging from the side of the bed. His hair, shining midnight green, hung loosely to his chin with a part in the middle. His paper white skin, under the harsh light, exposed all of his blue veins. And of course – stretching almost to his eyes from both sides of his lips were the scars – giving him the illusion of a perpetual smile.
"His feet are rather small; not like a clown at all," that was my idiotic thought as I stood in front of him, gaping.
"You gonna talk, doc?" he crooned. I dismissed the guards and closed the door behind me.
"So, tell me a little about yourself," I asked, seating myself beside him.
"Well don't you know everything about me? I'm sure they've got hundreds of files about me. So sorry you had to read all that, doc."
That was true; they did have hundreds of files on him: his crimes, his victims, his associates, but nothing about him.
" What is your favorite color?" I tried again.
"Ha! Can't you tell?" he jerked his legs and stood, facing me, throwing his arms into the air, "Green, of course. Perfect, pale green!"
I was bewildered, but I must have looked scared, because he suddenly sat down and giggled into my ear, "oh, don't worry, doc, I'm not gonna hurt ya." Then he pulled away slowly, muttering, " not just yet..."