Smile
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Frustration ripped through me as the flesh parted, blood flowing onto the knife. I cupped the cheek with my left hand, and worked with my right. My tongue stuck out a little, the concentration causing perspiration to sprinkle my forehead. It should not be this hard.
"Jackie, when you finish dinner we can play a game of Candyland." My mother promised. I have never seen a woman who could compare to the Motherly beauty my mother possessed. She knew I was addicted to Candyland like a bum is to booze. That didn't stop her from offering up a game after dinner, though we must've played it five times already that day.
I smiled broadly at Mother, happily shoving soft, steamed, seasoned carrots into my mouth. She picked up the napkin, dabbing some of the juice from the corners of my mouth.
"Don't eat too fast, you'll choke!" My Mother laughed. She ruffled my hair and kissed the top of my slightly tanned forehead. I looked solemn for a moment, and she quickly stated. "Aww, honey why so serious? C'mon, let's put a smile on that face. Think of Candyland." My face brightened up almost instantaneously.
I heard a key being jammed into the door key hole, the lock twisted, and the door swung open. My Father stood in the doorway, booze in one hand, fingers clenched into a fist in the other. The keys dangled from the keyhole. I, of course, didn't know he was drunk, he just looked plain scary to me. But he was drunk. Very drunk.
"Kathruneee." He slurred, staggering inside. "I'm gonna kill youu." He slumped over the island, before pushing off to the sink behind him, puking into it.
I remember my eyes being wide, wondering why Daddy was being so mean to Mommy. My mother stared at my father, and then shot her worried eyes towards me.
"It's okay Jackie, your father doesn't really mean it." She smiled at me, tickling my chin to lighten the situation for me. I could tell in her eyes that something was wrong.
"Katherine!" My father stood upright, remains of vomit dripping from his chin. He grabbed a rag on the counter, wiping his chin clean. "C'mere." He staggered forward, running back into the island.
My mother rose obediently, staring at me. "It's ok Jackie." She seemed to promise, giving me a kiss to the lips, then the cheek, and one last one to the forehead. "Go play in your room, and I'll be right in to play Candyland with you." She smiled, wiping some lipstick from my cheek. I nodded as she let go, and jumped down from my chair, running into my room. I was only in there for a few moments before I heard a scream. Scared, I cowered into the hall to see if my Mother was alright.
Her face was caked with the flour we'd used to bake cookies earlier, while around her eyes blueberry juice was smeared. She held a kitchen knife, holding it from her chest, outwards, alarm in her eyes. I saw them flit to me, but she immediately brought them back to my father.
"Don't do anything hasty." She told my father, before he lunged at her. She stabbed him in the back, and the two collided with a wall. He was down on the floor for a moment, in which she took the time to write 9-1-1 on the wall with his blood. It was enough of a clue to me. 911 was the number I was ordered to call should anything bad happen. I slowly slunk away from the hall, dipping into my parent's room, and grabbing the phone off of the receiver. I pushed in 9-1-1, to hear the dial tone, and then a woman's voice.
"911, how may I help you?" She asked lazily, as if it was a line she repeated over and over and over.
"Help!" I whispered, for my father not to hear. "My Daddy is beating up my Mommy! She had to stab him to tell me to call 911! I don't want her to get hurt and I'm scared!" I finished, tears welling up in my tiny brown eyes.
"Honey, what's your address?" The woman asked, seemingly more alarmed than before.
"Um…512 Markson Avenue." I remembered the address I'd always write in the upper left corner when writing to Grandma, who had only died a few months ago.
"Okay honey, someone will be right over." The woman replied.
"Hurry!" I remember crying. I put the phone down, running back into the hall. What I saw was a bloodied corpse on the ground, my father straddling my mother. The knife she'd used earlier was now being plunged into her chest, over and over and over. My heart raced quickly, and I felt nauseous. I threw up my carrots onto the ground.
This attracted my Father's attention. "Hey Jackie!" He cried out happily. "Look at your Mom, doesn't she need to smile?" He asked menacingly. I nodded my head obediently, not knowing what else to do. "Well don't worry Son, here's a foolproof trick." He told me, holding up the red knife.
He propped my Mommy's bloody body against the sitting chair she'd use to read me Dr. Seuss. I forced myself to step closer and to not let the tears fall, thinking that maybe if Daddy saw I was brave, he wouldn't hurt me.
"See Jackie, you just stick the blade in the corner of the mouth like this." My father stuck the blade in my mother's mouth, holding her cheek with his other hand. "And curve up!" He jerked the knife up, causing half a bloody smile to cross her face. I gasped a little out of reflex, and hesitantly stepped back. "Oh don't worry Sonny boy. Next, you stick the blade in the other corner…" My father now held my mothers right cheek, while the blade rested in the left corner of her mouth. "And jerk up!" He ripped the knife up, creating a complete bloody smile.
Why didn't Mommy say anything? She looked like one of those clowns you see at the circus, with the big red smile, painted eyes, and a perfect white face. Blood drizzled down her chin, dripping onto the apron she wore.
"Is Mommy ok?" I asked slowly, despite the fact that I already knew the answer.
"Oh she's wonderful." Daddy replied, stepping towards me. "Why so serious, son?" An odd look crossed his face as I began backing up, and he quickened his pace. Before I knew it his left hand cupped my right cheek. "Why so serious?" He asked sadly, sticking the sticky blade inside my mouth. "Let's put a smile on that face." He smiled widely. I heard police sirens nearby, and so did my father. A moment passed, both of us frozen before a knock sounded at the door.
"Oi! Is anyone in there?" A deep voice demanded. My father turned to me, his eyes wild.
"Why so serious?"
"Ay, uh Boss." A clown called out to me. I stared at him, my own eyes wide and wild. "Are-uh you ok?" He asked, a heavy Brooklyn accent soaking his speech.
"Of course I am." I replied hastily, eyes narrowing at him. "Why?" I demanded.
"Well it's just that you don't normally stab your victims-" I cut him off before he could finish.
"What the hell are you talking about?" My eye twitched. "I always use a knife, it's my shtick." The clown shook his head.
"Naw-naw Boss. I mean, you don't normally stab your victims with the head." The clown gestured to my gloved hand, which sunk into the blade of the knife, and the head of the knife, which currently rested on the deceased corpse's chest. Blood dripped down my gloved wrist as I released the grip on the knife, allowing it to fall to the floor.
"Give me your shirt." I ordered, and the clown obediently removed his shirt. I ripped it up into a single long rag, removing my glove. I bound up my hand and replaced the glove, one hand now bulgier than the other. "Thanks goon." I pulled a gun from my coat, pulled the hammer, and shot the clown square in the chest.
Taking my knife from the floor, I straddled the clown, removing his mask, and then sticking the blade in his mouth. I jerked up. A scowl ripped across my face, my scars pulling a little.
"Yeah, he's the one who called." The male police officer confirmed, investigating the apartment. The corners of my cheek stung, with stabbing pain at every little move. Just the air seemed to make it feel as if my face was on fire.
"Name?" Another police officer asked.
"He won't give it. Says his mouth hurts too much." The first one replied. It was true, when the police officer first asked; I had been in too much pain to reply.
"We'll need it." The 2nd police officer obliged, staring at my bloody mouth.
Two men came in with a large yellow tarp, bringing it over to my mother.
"Wait!" I croaked, blood spurting onto the ground. The men glanced my way. "Let me say good-bye to my Mommy." I begged. The police officers motioned for the men to let me have my moment, and they all shuffled into different rooms. I leapt down from the counter, and walked over.
I sat down in front of my Mother, summoning the strength to give my mother some words, even if it did hurt me. "Mommy, I love you." I began, almost hissing at the pain. "You were the best cook ever, even if you were the worst Candyland player. I will never ever forget the day you almost didn't let me have a cookie, but then let me have it after I hurt my knee. I won't forget what your carrots taste like, or how much fun it was to make cookies today." Tears began to dribble down my face, and I moved a hand to wipe the salty liquid from it. My mouth began to quiver, and I wished it would stop.
"I also want to let you know that you were the prettiest lady I ever saw, and you dressed the best, and your hair was the best." I believe I began to ramble at that point. "And I'm glad I got your brown eyes instead of Daddy's blue eyes, even if I did get his blonde hair instead of your brown." I then remembered something.
"I also love that you would make something funny, even if it was sad." I forced a smile, but it stung horribly. "You look like a clown right now Mommy, you'd say you look like one. I wish I had a mirror to show you." But I didn't dare move. If I did, those men might think I was done. "And I promise Mommy, I will make sure they punish Daddy for this. This can't be fixed. It can never be fixed." So much for making the situation 'funny'. I began to hear shifting in the other room, so I wrapped it up fast.
"I really love you Mommy. More than Grandma, more than Grandpa, especially more than Daddy. I really love you Mommy. I love you." I couldn't stop repeating that line over and over. I wished she could hear me. Just hear me say it. "I love you."
I let the tears fall, not bothering to wipe them, no matter how badly they stung my cheeks. I leaned forward, giving my Mommy a kiss to the forehead, then the cheek –above the blood- and lastly, a small peck to her lips. I stood up sniffling, and men came in, placing the tarp over her. I will never forget what her face looked like the last time I saw her. I vividly remember the single thought in my mind as they slipped her body into the tarp, and began to zip it up, feet first.
At least Mommy can finally be happy.
Then the court case, 14 years later.
I was nineteen by now, 9 years before present day. I stood in the crowd, fists gloved and clenched. A black mini-fedora hat covered my short colored hair. Green tips poked out, as the hat was used more of a prop to cover my face. My face was painted white, black circles around my eyes, red paint smeared neatly along my mouth and scars. I wore a black overcoat, a pinstripe vest, a black collared shirt, and black slacks. My shoes were…black of course. The session had already begun.
"The Court hearing of Jack Napier Sr." The Judge read bleakly, clearly bored. Talking commenced, and my father was called to the stands. He was pale and thin, his hear greasy, and slicked back. He began to speak.
"Not a day goes by that I don't regret my actions. I was drunk, intoxicated, I had no idea what I was doing under the influence." He sputtered on. My eyes narrowed. "But I deserve to live, don't I? I served my punishment." He shrugged.
How dare he. How dare he try to take the easy way out. I zoned out as more talking began, and pulled out a pack of cards. They were worn at the ends, as I'd taken them from my parent's room. I shuffled, setting the Joker card aside, and played a made up game I had configured to pass the time. I don't know how much time passed, but my head snapped up when I heard the Judges horrifying words: "Ok, let him go."
"Wait." The Judge paused, leafing through her papers. "I have noted here that Jack Napier Jr. is present in the crowd." She glanced up. "Jack Jr.?" She asked.
"Don't call me that." I rose to my feet, a snarl on my face. My father stared at me, a look of realization dawning. I removed my hat, tossing to the side, and revealing short green hair. "He doesn't deserve to have his name succeeded." I continued. "He killed my mother before my eyes, and if it weren't for the police's arrival I'd be with her." My eyes were cold, and the Judge wore an uncertain look on her face.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, pulling out a detonator, and holding the trigger down.
"Now." I sighed. "Call off all security. Now. If I let go of this detonator, then all of you are blown to smithereens. Me as well. Hence the name 'Suicide Bomber'. However if you let me do my 'thing', then-uh, I'll let you live." I sighed. No one moved. "Good."
I turned to my father, who was shaking in the stands.
"You had the nerve to kill her right before me. For 14 years I've had that practically illicit image engraved into my memory. It's the first thing I see when I wake up, and the last thing I see before I fall asleep. I'll be eating at freaking Taco Bell, and I'll see my mom, screaming and stabbing for her life. I'm mentally insane. Not a freak. Mentally insane." I enunciated on 'not' and 'freak' stepping forward each time. "Chuckles, get your sorry ass over here." I called to the man in the crowd. He slipped on a clown mask, before coming forward. I handed him the detonator, careful that his thumb was under mine before I released. I pulled out a switchblade.
"Now I'm going to avenge her. Right here, right now. In front of every single one of these people." I motioned for a lawyer to get up off of a seat, and pulled the chair over to the witness stand. I stepped up on it, cupping my father's hesitant face in my left hand.
"Why so serious son? Put a smile on that face." My father quoted my mother. This enraged me to an amazing point.
"Don't say that!" I screamed, causing the whole courthouse to shut up in shock. "Don't ever say that!" I screamed.
"Don't go and freak out on me son. Show me you're sane." My Dad ordered.
"Just like you said 'Daddy', you stick the blade in, and jerk up." I slipped the knife into the corner of his mouth, ripping up. Blood poured from his mouth and he howled in pain while wincing. My emotions were unaffected. I turned to the audience who from the moment I stepped onto the chair, up until now, had been hidden from the image that was my father's half-carved face. Gasps came at me, and I smirked. "Scary, eh?" I asked, before turning and cupping the other side of his face. "In and up!" I cackled laughter, slicing the other side of his face. He howled in pain again, his hands shooting up to feel his face. The audience stared at me, horrified.
"Just think. I had to watch him kill my mother. Kill her. Stab her. Over and over and over." My eyes darkened. "Lucky for you, I'll spare the stabbing." I pulled out a simple hand gun, pulling down the hammer. I turned back to my father. "Have fun in hell you sick bastard." I growled, pointing it at his heart, and pulling the trigger. The shot echoed throughout the building, and everyone began to scream. I fired a shot at the ceiling. "Hey! Shut up!" I growled. The room grew silent, and I could literally see the perspiration beading onto my audience's forehead.
"Wanna see a magic trick?" I asked curiously, firing a shot at the window, shattering the glass. "Now you see me…" Chuckles leaped out the window, detonator in hand. "Now you don't…" I took a running sprint, leaping out the widow. Was I crazy? Yes. Was I a freak? No.
That's where I got my calling card. I stayed true to my word, destroying the detonator afterwards, thus making all the bombs in the building forever idle. It turns out I had accidentally left the Joker card from my mother's deck of cards in the courthouse which is where I got the 'calling card' and the name. Dad was also my first victim to get the Glasgow smile treatment. That was back in Chicago. Since then, I've moved territories, from Chicago to Sacramento to Gotham. I got my college degree in Sacramento, taking night classes, and wearing facemasks to hide the scars.
When I finally got to Gotham, there was a swirl about the dead billionaire's dead son, and Gotham was in little bits and pieces. It was hard to get a job, and it was hard to go anywhere without scum making fun of my scars. That's when the Joker was reborn. I began to rip of Mob Dealers, trying to see how much I could get out of each job.
Then it hit me. Humans are incredibly materialistic. It's kind of pathetic actually. I prefer a more, mental approach. I tell multiple stories of how I got my Glasgow scars, but only one is true. That happens to be the one I just told.
I'm not stupid either, and I'm not in denial. I just can't let it go. I can't. I really can't. I've come up with multiple ways to express the way I feel everyday. The ways that threw my life into the toilet:
I would tell the story about how I got my scars. Only one was true, the parental killing story. This didn't stop me from lying occasionally.
If the victim seemed worthy enough, I'd tell them the story about my knife, and then gut them with it afterwards. If they didn't seem worthy, then I'd still tell them the story, but I'd shoot them afterwards instead.
I would paint their face. I'd paint it the way he painted her face. Then I'd carve the face.
But there was one problem. There was one little phobia that kept me from having the time of my life during my killing spree's. Her face. The way the Glasgow was literally in every aspect perfect. Even her blood seemed to drip down towards her chin just right, leaving one trail of scarlet fluid running down her throat. The way the ripped flesh curled into an utterly convincing smile. It stuck in my mind day and night, night and day. I had to create a face that beautiful. I needed to create a face that beautiful.
As I stabbed the dead corpse –correctly this time- I began thinking. What if there was no perfect match? I could grow old trying to recreate the incredible image that was my late mother. Maybe if I was drunk…no. If I was drunk, then I'd probably get caught by the police. Hell knows what trouble I'd get into while intoxicated.
I snarled with anger, stepping up, away from the bloodied body. I took the knife, making sure it wasn't a favorite, and I stabbed it into the wall. I pulled it out, stabbing the wall again. This was incredibly frustrating.
Why can't I let go of the memory? Because I was abused by my father as a child? Because I watched my mother die?
No. I knew the answer to this. I definitely, deep down, knew the answer to this. Somewhere.
I wanted other people to feel how antagonizing it was for me, even if they didn't get to see their loved ones die. I didn't want people to judge me by the scars. I didn't want people to judge my practical homelessness. I didn't want people to think I was a freak. I….want to be heard. I want it. I want to be heard. I wanted people to listen to my story, feel a fraction of the pain I felt just from hearing the story, and say 'It's ok. We can hear you. We heard your story.' I want to be heard.
Even if it meant dressing up like some psychopathic maniac.
Even if it meant killing dozens of people daily.
Even if it meant carving every victims face.
Even if it meant causing stress on me, every time each carving didn't turn out my definition of 'perfect'.
Even if it meant attracting some loser who enjoys dressing up like a bat and beating the living shit out of people for a hobby.
Even if it meant making said loser go mentally insane.
Even if it meant a life of unhappiness for me.
I just want to be heard.
That moment, the apartment door busted open. The Batman stood there, staring at me. I stared back, lost in my moment of melancholy to do anything about it. He wouldn't kill me. The Batman never really attempted to kill me. Except that one time he threw me off of a half-constructed building. But he caught me. I heard an earsplitting gunshot, the sound of shattering glass, and a deep inhale from the Batman. Then I felt pain.
At first I was slightly alarmed as I hit the floor. I felt dizzy, fatigue, and a hell of a lot of other odd feelings. Then the burning began. It hurt. It hurt like hell. But that made me laugh. I couldn't twist the situation around verbally, like my Mother would've done, so I did the next best thing. I did what people do when someone lightens the mood. I laughed.
My laughter caught the Batman off guard.
"You've just been shot. You know that, right?" His raspy voice seemed even more inaudible than it normally was.
My laugher echoed. "Yes!" I screamed. "Yes I do!" My fists clenched.
"You should be dead by now." The Batman seemed confused. Why wouldn't he.
"Why so serious?" I choked. It was getting harder to keep consciousness. "Put a smile on that face Batsy!" I struggled to breathe and laugh. One would have to stop. I chose breathing. I continued to laugh, seeing black splotches sprinkle my normally accurate vision. I knew the end was near.
As a natural smile spread across my face, and a wave of black swept over my vision permanently, one single thought trailed through my head.
At least I can finally be happy now.
--
A/N:
Inspired by: the end of Milkweed by Jerry Spinelli
Disclaimer: I don't own TDK
This was a little snipped brought on by the ending of Milkweed by Jerry Spinelli. I hope you liked it. I hope I kept the Joker in character and/or put him in to a position that would create Nolan's Joker.