I do not own Suicide Squad.

I'm really bad at writing letters in real life. Does texting count? ;)

The Clown Prince of Crime's Correspondence

My Dearest Dancing Harlequin,

Are you enjoying your institutionalization? I've heard they provide three hot meals a day and all peace and quiet and solitary confinement your little heart can take.

Do you still, my dear, wish to be like me, a part of me? Have they subjected you to electroshock treatments to drive it from your mind as I did? Did you dance for them?

Or do you now wish to have never met my acquintance, knowing now what what I am and what I have made you into for my own entertainment? Do you wish to have left your dear Mr. J. alone to rot in his own filth in Arkham in a perfunctory attempt to save yourself from madness and insanity? Or do you still twist and turn yourself into knots over me?

I myself continue to live and breathe quite unencumbered by such as trivialities as law abiding and citizenship. On the contrary, just the other night I robbed a bank, spraying bullets and chaos everywhere. You should have seen the rainbows of blood, my harleyquinn. They left beautiful patterns of death and destruction upon the walls and floor.

I would like to say I feel regret for leaving you there that night to be captured by The Batman. But you know I only ever look out for myself. And regret is only reserved for that which we truly wish to go back and change.

Still, it would be a lie to say I do not miss your displays of dog-like obedience and loyalty to me. These normally pigmented jackals I surround myself with break and run much too quickly for my taste. On the other hand, you, my chemically pale girl on the fire, I have no doubt you would throw yourself in front of a bus for me. Or at the very least, a speeding bullet.

And so I am compelled to include within this correspondence, a token of my everlasting indifference to your deep devotion to me. Enjoy it, my dear Harley, for it will be the last of me you will hear of for quite some time.

In Mayhem and Anarchy,

J.

No return address. No fingerprints, no fibers, no hair.

Clean and crisp, written on plain paper in neatly penned cursive and delivered in conjunction with a small square cardboard box.

Addressed to Prisoner 738421.

The gift itself was a bit more eccentric.

A rabid, live, pure white rat with beady red eyes.

The guards did not let her keep it. But it was she and not the rat that bit most when they tried to excise it from her groping, clenched hands.

When they did manage the retrieval, she screamed and cried and slammed herself face first over and over into the bars of her cell until she lost consciousness.

When she opened her eyes again, she requested a cup of tea. And read her book quietly. Calmly.

Keeping her madness to herself.

A little Hannibal Lector-esque, yes. And probably not anything like the Joker would do. I don't know, I didn't really consult him. *shrugs*

But during filming, Jared Leto actually wrote a letter to Margot Robbie as the Joker. And included a live rat as a gift.

So I had to write this.

And now I'm done.

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