You'll Live
In a sing-song tone: "I have your girl friend." He cackled in his madness, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sanity shattering laughter.
Bruce growled with growing rage and slammed the phone back onto the receiver with a force that cracked the shiny black plastic surrounding the phones guts. He saw red, watching as madman laughed with such malicious mirth that all the color seemed to melt from the room. He yanked at his hair and slammed his fist onto the thick mahogany table beside him in an attempt to release some of his pent up rage, then sat back down onto the soft seated yet hard backed chair he had previously occupied. He sighed.
It was that clown. That fucking clown. Again. How many times was he going to call before Bruce simply gave up and either offed himself or made that man wish he had. Rachel was dead. The Joker had killed her. Why was he taunting him?
The phone rang.
I can't just forget her…
And the phone rang.
She's dead…
He picked it up.
"She's never coming back."
He hung up. More red.
It was all so frustrating, heart wrenching. Sweat prickled at his brow and sent a shiver down his spine when the moist hot skin met the stifling dead cold around him. His home now…it should be inviting. But he wished the brick and cement would meet Mr. Wrecking Ball.
The phone rang.
I won't let her become a statistic, a mere piece of history.
And it rang.
She's not dead…
And he picked it up.
"Don't chase ghosts…"
And before he could hang up: "…because someone might start chasing you." Red on the floor.
Then he hung up. Red on the walls.
The room was bright and blinding, every surface imaginable spick and span with care and patience. Not his doing, not worth dwelling on. The atmosphere was severally inappropriate for the situation and did little to nothing for the uneasy feeling within him that grew with each second the madman didn't call, and each split second he spent listening to him. The room was too white and it gave him a headache, he couldn't imagine how his tormentor endured it.
But then…the glistening white phone rang.
I c-ca… I don't want to…
And it rang.
No! I won't let this happen!
And he picked up.
"STOP IT, JUST STOP IT ALREADY! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE!" Bruce screamed in a ragged voice that sounded as if it had literally ripped strips of pink-red flesh from his throat. He slammed the phone back onto the receiver, the broken receiver.
The madman was still giggling, watching with sick enjoyment as the bits and pieces spattered to the floor…then red.
But the phone rang.
So it hadn't hung up?
"…Master Bruce…?"
His eyes widened.
"Alfred…?"
"You're a horse and she's your broken leg…will you put it down or cut of the leg?"
Bruce's already red eyes watered as the newest rock was thrown at his mirror. His reflection was throwing the rocks, but he mirrored its every move. When he spoke, he was unsure weather it was he who said that, or another. He wondered if he had only thought it.
"Won't the leg heal?" He asked desperately, hoping this, whatever this was, would end.
Alfred paused at the odd question. "You'll live with a limp."
"But I'll live…" He mumbled quietly, gripping the white sheets tighter around his body.
"…You'll live."
* * *
Alfred hung up and turned to Dr. Arkham. "He still doesn't understand." He said softly, sadness evident in his voice.
The doctor shook his head in disappointment. Why must he be so difficult? At least the Joker knows where he is.
Then a thought occurred to him.
Maybe I shouldn't have had them share a cell…
Authors Notes
Inspired by this line:
"You'll be in a padded cell forever."
"Maybe we could share one."
I hoped you liked it, just something I whipped up before I dove into the cushy sheets of my bed.
Thank you for reading and Please Review!
Love and Straightjackets,
Miz. Jynx