Center stage

He licks the sides of his lips in a languid and almost hypnotic fashion.

The motion is distracting only because it forces you to stare at the scars, and the way they twist crudely in those powdered white cheeks. The lipstick around it is more of a clumsy smudge. It reminds you of a child with a crayon who is not able to color within the lines. The ironic association easily makes you cringe for he is nothing more but a terrorist in clown make-up and whatever depth that lurks beneath that is something most people will never touch with a ten-foot pole. But you're not most people, and you are willing enough to touch that surface with a ten-foot pole if said pole also has a knife at the end which you could use to stab it with.

You love a challenge and nothing is as absolutely spellbinding like the case of the Joker, whose crimes and madness flirtatiously mingle together, and gives the man a certain richness that makes every loony in Arkham pale in comparison. It only took you three months to secure a therapy session with him and in those moments of waiting, you are able to study him through the initial psych tests and the surveillance footage of his behavior during the worst killing spree in Gotham City yet. You are nervous to meet him for the first time but the basic reasons aren't enough to justify your apprehension.

What you can only do is summarize the emotions into three things.

First, there is nausea.

The Joker sits across you with a smile that doesn't show teeth and he looks at you like he already knows you and he keeps licking and smacking his lips that you can't help but begin to feel that it's somewhat suggestive. You ignore that disgusting assumption and pretend to write something meaningful in your clipboard. The silence went on for five minutes between the two of you but neither is obviously going to talk first. You also start to notice that his fingers are the only part of him that betrays his agitation. He would tap or scratch the table with them, or even draw circles with his middle finger. He watches you the whole time as those fingers performed separately from the rest of him but it's going to take more than that to unnerve you.

Still, on the second thought, there is also terror stuck in your throat as you try to breathe as inconspicuously as you could, afraid to call attention to yourself, no matter how ridiculous it may seem. He narrows his eyes at you now and leans in slightly. He breathes in, closes his eyes and mutters. "Peach."

You grip your pen as if you can gather strength from it. "What does that mean?"

"You smell…" he licks and smacks those lips. "…like peach."

Now it is your turn to narrow your eyes at him. "You can smell that from there?"

"I have heightened senses," he remarks as he pushes his hands closer with his fingers splayed and you glance at them to see how much ink and paint smeared his skin.

"Mr. Joker," you clear your throat, a pause for effect, to see how he will react to the address. He didn't say anything to correct you so you went on. "I am Dr. Harleen Quinzel. You're here in Arkham to get her better and that will only happen depending on your cooperation. These sessions will hopefully aid you in recovery."

"Thank you for the clarification, Harls," he replies. "I thought I was here for permanent lock-up because I wasn't an upstanding member of the society. I mean, I was hardly a model citizen. But I didn't know Gotham cares enough for me to get better."

"I care." You pause. "And I'd rather you refer to me as Dr. Quinzel."

"Don't care for Harls? How about 'pumpkin pie'?"

"No."

"How about 'my sweet'? 'Sugar sticks'?"

"I will not respond to an infantile nickname, Mr. Joker."

He leans back and taps his fingers continuously now like a succession of notes and you wonder if he ever played piano before. The movements did not seem at all random.

"You know," he drawls out the words as he licks his upper lip before he continues to speak again. "Your name sounds a lot like…Harlequin. I used to have a harlequin doll."

The Joker leans forward again and there is a gleam in his blank eyes for the first time. "They say that harlequins are slow in the head but are acrobatic nimble creatures. Ever watched a harlequinade before, doctor?"

"No." You answer and readily ask. "Have you?"

"Well, of course." He grins awkwardly, showing his bleeding gums. "There are five characters in a harlequinade. There is Harlequin who desires Columbine but Columbine's father Pantaloon doesn't approve. So he tries to rip them away from each other by asking the aid of his servant Pierrot and Clown." He points at himself and giggles.

"Fascinating," you reply.

"We're not at the best part yet," he continues. "You see, Clown was some lousy jester in the earlier plays but he evolved. He became…more daring. He…pulled elaborate pranks, made everything so…" he licks his lips again, "…viciously funny. He is a fool and therefore wants to make everyone around him fools as well. He embodied…" He closes his eyes. "He was chaos! He wants to make everyone laugh but the expense is…all too real sometimes. People don't always get his jokes. After a while, the other fools begin to laugh at him and not with him, and Clown, well…" he opens his eyes and stares into you with a quiet malice that surprised you more than you expected. "Clown doesn't like that."

"I'm sorry," you manage to say.

"He got better with the jokes though, at least he found them funnier and they—they just don't laugh as much anymore," The Joker runs his hand through his hair tinged in ugly green which was wet and curled everywhere in his head. "Clown doesn't care if they laugh or not as long as he's having a good time. Those morons who don't have a sense of humor to relate to him, well—" he smacks his lips together. "Joke's on them!"

"Clown sounds very lonely," you offer, still sounding sympathetic and cautious as you listen. You avoid writing anything down, knowing it is better if you engage with him.

"He's a comedian, of course he's lonely!" The Joker pulls himself near the edge of the table again. "But you know what happened to Harlequin?"

"What did happen to her?"

And that is when he cackles. The sound of his laughter filled the space that separated you from him. It is chilling and precise with no amount of pretense or disguise.

"Harlequin is a boy, silly pumpki—doctor," he answers. "Doesn't speak much but very nimble. Interesting you think he's female. Perhaps you picture yourself as part of the stage now, hmm? Isn't that what you shrinky dinks call projection?"

"There is no stage," you didn't mean to make it sound defensive but you can see from the way he smiles again that it's exactly what he heard. "This is not a play."

"There's always a stage," his voice became rough all of a sudden. "And I'm always playing. You know what, doctor? I think, uh, I think you want to play…but you're...not ready." He shakes his head. "You're too vanilla. Too like them. Pedestrian. Getting stampeded by the flock, that's you. So what…what you need…you, uh," the Joker puts his hands together beneath his chin, interlacing his fingers. "You need to aspire for more."

You glance at your wristwatch. "That's all the time we have for today, Mr. Joker."

"We have all the time in the world, you and me."

"The day after, you mean. These sessions have a strict time span."

The Joker breathes out a "he-he-he"

"Progress takes a lot of patience and hard work from the both of us, Mr. Joker, but we will get there." You push your glasses back and add, "You will get better under my care."

"I like it when a girl takes the lead in a dance," he replies, raising an eyebrow with an expression in his face that could be taken as seductive. You wince.

"Until then, Mr. Joker." You get up and push the button on the wall to call for security.

"Aim high, Dr. Quin," he calls out as you open the door. You look back at him.

"Or in our case," he says, "aim as low as you can. What's down there is always more fun." He giggled. A special kind of insane in another league of his own.

This Joker.

You shake your head, realizing how more damaged he is than you already assessed. You closed the door behind you and walk to your office with your eyes on your clipboard. As soon as you made sense of what you are seeing, you freeze as soon you reach the badly-lit corridor. You didn't write anything of significance, only a doodle of a face with a long winding smile etched on it. Nausea hit you immediately and the terror lowered its weight on your head, ready to crush you. These two emotions hit you back and forth from one another and it's beginning to feel very suffocating from where you stand.

There was another emotion whose name you knew but will not admit to.

It wasn't an emotion but more of a visceral inclination.

Something a moth might feel as it hovers around the flame.

Curiosity.

You are smitten with curiosity.

And it happens to make the nausea and the terror wonderfully appeasing as soon as you welcomed it.