Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own the wonderous Joker or Arkham Asylum. They belong to DC comics.

Warnings: Depressing themes, references to murder and animal abuse.

It Starts With A 'J'

He was shoved down into the stiff medal chair, leather straps in place around his left ankle and buckled across his torso, holding the straightjacket in place. He let out a strangled yelp when one of the security guards tightened the soft leather 'collar' around his neck, smirking at the inmates discomfort. The guards then left the room, leaving the patient with his therapist.

"Hello Mr. Joker, how are you feeling today?"

The Joker scoffed as best he could and glared daggers at the elderly man behind the desk in front of him. "I'd be better if I could breath."

Dr. Arkham frowned and called in an orderly to loosen the collar. Joker sucked in a grateful breath and squirmed in his straightjacket. "Any chance of getting me outa this one to?"

"I'm afraid not. It's mandatory for patient of your status to where a straightjacket when out of your cell, as well as the collar around your neck." His answer was mechanical, as if he'd recited it hundreds of times before. He probably has.

Now, 'collars' were an interesting accessory in Arkham, they were used to identify a patients status in the asylum. Blue ment docile, Green ment mischievous, Orange ment hostile prone, Red ment aggressive, White ment extremely dangerous, and Black ment unpredictable. Black was usually reserved for those with some kind of personality disorder like PPD, SPD, or AvPD.

The Jokers was White.

The only good thing about the collars was that visitors usually thought White was the docile color, oh what fun. He couldn't remember how many times his had been stained red. Joker giggled at the thought.

Dr. Arkham raised an eyebrow. "Care to share?"

Joker looked up and sent him a mischievous smirk. "Not really, you ahh, wouldn't get the joke."

"I can try." The doctor smiled calmly, expectantly.

The Joker giggled to himself, already thinking up a quick, time killing joke. "Oh-kay… So a man goes to his doctor, all crying and desperate and tells him: 'Please doc, I'm always so sad! I cry so often and feel so miserable! Is there anything you can do?' The doctor immediately begins thinking and, remembering the circus in town, comes up with the perfect treatment. 'I know!' says the doctor. 'The circus is in town, go see Pierrot the clown! He'll surly make you laugh thus eliminating your depression!' But the man just cries harder and exclaims: 'But Doc! I am Pierrot!' HAHAHAHA!" The madman then throws his head back and bursts into fits of laughter, his already large smile becoming wider and stretching the skin over his grisly scars.

Dr. Arkham merely looked on, a pitying frown on his face as he watched the man before him laugh and struggle to breath, tears beginning to stream down his face. It soon became a pitiful site indeed, wild laughter turned to uncontrollable sobs and hiccups as the younger man began to, of all things, cry.

A few minutes later found the Joker quite and calm, his head down shamefully while silent tears occasionally streamed down his reddened cheeks. Dr. Arkham looked on, smiling softly. His guess was it had been a long while since the young man had cried like that, if at all.

"Feel better?" He asked softly.

The Joker sniffed and curled up on himself as best he could being chained down. "'spose…"

"Good. Would you like to continue? Or would you prefer going back to your cell?"

Joker bit his lip. Continuing ment more questions and probably even more embarrassing moments, but going back now ment he'd have to face not only the security guards and orderlies who just loved to screw with him but the other inmates as well. Something told him walking out of there with flushed and tear streaked cheeks wouldn't be very intimidating.

"I-I think I'll stay." He mumbled.

Dr. Arkham struggled to keep back his excitement, finally they were getting somewhere! "That's a wonderful decision, what do you say we move you on to the activity portion of your therapy?"

Joker raised an eyebrow but kept his head down. Activity portion? He had never made it passed the oral examination, who knew there was an activity portion? "Uhh, sure doc…but, can I wash up first?"

This whole thing was seriously chipping away at his dignity.

* * *

"Just paint what you feel, no one will judge you." Mostly said for the benefit of those who severely sucked at art. Dr. Arkham sat in a medal chair a short ways away, clipboard in hand and smile in place.

Joker held the long wooden paintbrush loosely in his right hand, glancing at the doctor before looking back at the blank canvas before him. Normally, the large art room was occupied by an assortment of patients and their primary therapists but for the sake of the inmates very lives the doctors felt It'd be best to have the room empty when the Joker was in.

The Joker sighed and licked his lips, an annoying habit he knew but he couldn't help it, the scars were very bothersome. Never, ever in his life would he admit it but at that very moment, he was nervous. Dr. Arkham wasn't the only doctor in the room, no, he deemed it necessary for four others to join him. He was sure it had something to do with his sudden 'breakthrough', or whatever he had called it. 'It was a moment of weakness' Joker would think, and that's the only thing he allowed himself to think.

He glanced down to the small metal table beside him, eyeing the small assortment of colors he had at his disposal. The blonde scoffed, how did they expect anyone to paint anything with less than twelve colors?

Finally, he decided to wing it. He picked up a tube of blue and squirted most of it out onto the table into a neat, gooey little pile, doing the same for the orange, white, black, green, purple, and red. He dipped his brush in, starting with the blue and made a few messy streaks toward the bottom of the canvas. It almost looked like a water fall before he streaked the black through it, giving it a plaid-like pattern. He did the same with the red, lining it on the outside of the black.

Now it looked like the edge of a blue, black, and red plaid bedspread.

Okay, that was a start. He stuck his tongue out in concentration, slowly getting into the painting. The Joker hummed tunelessly as he swirled his brush in a nearby cup of water to rinse out the past colors and dipped it into the orange. Another couple of streaks found him staring at the crude outline of a cat.

…He could do better than that, better than 'crude'.

Using the edge of his fingernail, he straightened and smoothed out some edges on both the 'cat' and the bedspread. Better… but not good enough. More and more streaks and flicks of the brush and…there! Now it was looking like a cat!

Joker smiled proudly to himself, suddenly glad the canvas was facing away from the doctors, he didn't want them to see just yet. He looked over the picture, feeling something was missing. His eyes widened and he giggled to himself, dipping the brush first in black, then in white before wildly filling in the background a dark gray.

Almost…it still didn't look right.

"Hmm, aggh, something's missing…" He mumbled, scratching the side of his face with a paint stained hand.

"Is something wrong?" Dr. Arkham asked worriedly, not wanting the hostile man to suddenly become enraged over something mundane, which was known to happen.

"Oh cool it Doc, I'm thinkin' here…" The Joker never stopped glaring at the picture, slowly becoming frustrated with the project. Glancing down at the paints smeared around the table, he figured it out. The blob of purple he had set out was completely untouched, he'd soon fix that. Quickly rinsing the brush he smeared it in royal purple and gave one swift stroke of the brush across the painting.

The little orange cat now bore a proudly worn purple collar.

The Joker smiled proudly, though a bit wildly and dropped the brush on the table. "Hah! Done!"

Dr. Arkham snapped up from his seat followed by the others and made their way to the Joker, the canvas still out of site. "May we see?" the doctor asked carefully.

"Go for it." The Joker shrugged, still smiling and crossed his arms.

Each stepped forward and gazed in proud amazement at the painting. It was a bit rushed, that much was obvious, but all other if any flaws could be easily overlooked. Staring back at them with curious bright green eyes and thin white whiskers was a nice, orange little kitty with white stripes on its tail and head along with white boots and a single mitten. The purple collar complemented its eyes nicely and a slight smile shown from its black outlined lips, softly highlighted in red.

"Very nice! Do you have a name for it?" Dr. Arkham looked behind him to find the Joker was no longer there, but instead in front of the paints table, his back to the doctors and obscuring their view of whatever he was doing.

"Yeah, I got a name for him…" He turned around and hid something behind his back. He smiled and narrowed his eyes. "His name's Tomas."

Dr. Arkham and the others subtly stepped back in fear the madman had conceived a weapon. "Was Tomas a pet of yours?" The doctor asked carefully.

The Joker glanced to the painting, a small frown in place of the twisted smile. "Was…" He chuckled madly, slowly bringing the cup from the table to plain view. "but I killed him." A wild jerk of his arm and a flash of red later, the painting was ruined, drenched in the deep red paint that had been mixed with the little water that was left leaving a thin watery paste.

The cup had been dropped to the floor, the blonde man watching, disconnected, as the red dripped to the floor to add to the growing puddle that had spread over the grey concrete and most of his uniform in the splash back. All except Dr. Arkham had jumped back in fear and surprise and had pressed themselves against the wall when the Jokers arm had flung out.

In Dr. Arkhams mind, this was the best time if ever to ask what he had wanted to from the very moment the young man had been escorted into the asylum. He cautiously walked up to him, his clipboard griped tightly in both hands, and attempted to gain his attention. The Joker looked up, dirty blonde locks doing nothing to hide the pain and loneliness in his eyes.

"Joker…what's your name?" The doctors voice was calm, reassuring, curious. No one had ever made it this far with Joker in therapy in the six months he'd been there.

The young man winced slightly, scared lips contorting into a thoughtful frown. "I'm pretty sure…it starts with a 'J'."

Authors Notes

I'm pretty sure this will be a oneshot, I don't know, what do you think? I feel like it was rushed towards the end but the idea of what the Joker did while in the asylum had been gnawing at my brain for the past couple of days. Lol. X) So I just wanted to get the idea out.

Please, if you had enough time to Read, take a few seconds to Review as well! I really appreciate it!

Love and Straightjackets,

Miz. Jynx