Bone, Blood, and Flesh
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Wrotthis is all on my iPod touch. Sorry for the grammar and spelling.
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Joker grabbed Robin by the neck, his long thin fingers squeezing the flesh, licking the red, scarlet lips that were spread into a smile across his pale, ashen face.
The boy wonder cried out, a chortled half-croak sound that came from the bottom of his throat. He clawed at the psychopaths hands, trying to get them off so he could breathe. His eyes widened as he stared up at the moonlight that came from the ceiling; a hole from a fight a few weeks back let the faint gray light and cold rain flood through.
Joker threw back his head and laughed, smashing Robin into a steel pole. The boys head cracked against the metal, and he saw light pass in front of him. He slid to the ground, a small whimper emitting from his throat; he fell silent.
Joker stood above him, grinning as he flipped out a pocket knife. His lanky build allowed him to loom over the half-conscious boy, his face and body left in the shadows, the light streaming past him, creating a silhouette. The rain poured past him, the grey light flooded around him. His hands curled around as imaginary throat and his legs jerked occasionally, wanting to kick something.
Robin wearily looked up, lifting his body up with his arms, and lifting his head slowly so he could meet Jokers shadow ridden eyes. He sat up, sudden strength flooding his limbs, and met his aggressor in the eyes.
One question lay on his mind, it hung in the air: where was Batman?
Joker threw back his head again, letting that cackle out into the open air. Robin suppressed shivers as he tried to slide back. The villain simply stopped suddenly when he heard the movement over the roar of the rain and let his head fall back toward the young hero. He frowned, those scarlet lips looking so wrong as they did so. He watched the pale white boy, his face cast in darkness, try to get away.
Had he finally broken the Boy Wonder?
Robin ignored the villain as he watched him. He knew the Joker was watching him, he knew that he wouldn't make it. But couldn't one try? He put his arms back behind him, his gloves ripped and his fingers and hands covered with dirt and blood. His blood. The blood that ran from the cuts in his arms, down like rivers that fell past his fingers, in between them and into the soot and ash and dirt. He would grab the uneven cobblestones and pull his body back, skidding over the wet dirt.
Joker simply watched, an amused expression on his face. He began to whistle a cheerful tune, one that didn't match the scene around him. The broken boy that pulling himself away from him, the blood that ran over the grim on the floor.
He chuckled once the cheerful, happy carefree tune was finished, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He then smiled: sadistic. His eyes looked crazed and his green hair looked faded in the light. His unearthly skin was an ashy color and his purple suit was ripped and dirty, blood splatters that weren't his over the sleeves.
He took one long stride and grasped the boy wonder by the neck again. Robin gasped, a surprise, shocked look entering his face as he was lifted, broken, from the ground.
Joker slipped out the pocket knife again, placing it on the tip of Robin's mask.
"You know," he whispered, "Uncle Jay was just trying to give you a hug. But you didn't want one. And Uncle Jay is sad."
He began to chase the outline of Robin's mask with the pocket knife, cutting deep in. Blood seeped out and fell over the whites of the mask, which were wide. Robin gasped, a cry of pain ripping from his throat as he screamed, the knife going around his mask.
Twice around.
Joker just worked, a bubbly laugh escaping his mouth with very level of pain that emitted from the boys cries. He just smiled and laughed, cutting around the outline of the mask.
All the while holding him by his neck, slowly suffocating him. Once he was done with the mask, the blood almost completely covering the entire bottom half of his face, he slashed across Robins chest, opening his costume up. Head wounds always do bleed to the most, he thought as he inspected his work.
He dropped the boy, who was now a crumpled heap of bone, blood and flesh, and turned around. The pocket knife was covered in blood but he pocketed it anyway and turned around. Sticking his hands in his pocket he began to cheerfully whistle, almost skipping as he left.
All the while, Robin lay there, bone... blood... and fles
I was in a Bleh type of mood. And no, he isn't dead.
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