Author's Note: My First Story, hah!
Human Condition
"Only those who step outside of the frame, see the full picture,"
A crease. A crease in her new silk cut blouse. Mrs Victoria Grey hated creases. The stiff, cold flat of a hand came down upon the offensive fold, as if will alone could substitute the necessary hot iron. The crease instantly reformed under the retreating palm, showing defiance that Victoria Grey found quite impertinent.
The hawk eyes now turned to the organized kitchen top before her; once again, she could not abide mess. If you can't keep your physical possessions regulated Victoria, her mother often said, then what hope is there for the rest of your life? It was a saying she intended to live by, and once Victoria had put her mind down to a task, not even an extraordinary event like an earthquake or a flood could shake her mind from its ordinary, predetermined path. Gotham was such a chaotic city, everyone in Gotham could benefit from a little direction.
The pencil skirt's resolutely inelastic waistband dug, constraining and constricting, into her emaciated middle, her hips and thorax bones jutting out in such a manner like an underfed model, but it could be attributed, in this case, to a consistent diet of coffee and vicodin, sprinkled with nicotine and the occasional sleeping pill in the mix. Years of pressure, competition and little red grades circled on exam sheets had marked the 30 year old face of Miss Victoria. Her pallid skin stretched over concave cheeks, tight, with no wrinkles marking a recurring passage of smiles. Not even the birth of a daughter a little less than a year ago had allowed any warmth, or a plump demeanour to creep into her face.
Mr Marcus Grey could be found sitting silently at his old-fashioned, 'properly made', oak desk, a substantial distance between him and the rest of his household; a distance that transcended into most of his working life. His eyes scanned the paper reposed on the desk; another company being sued by another customer for another idiocy that no one would be blamed for. A disappointing lack of homicide, he noted. Marcus Grey had first felt his affinities with the courts years before, the day his father deemed books such as 'To Kill a Mockingbird' intellectual enough for young Marcus; back when pyjamas covered with amusing drawings of toy aeroplanes filled Marcus's drawers.
Today, the name was Mr Grey, and suits were worn all day, everyday, even on Sundays. Especially on Sundays.
The house itself was a large one, reminiscent of a particularly expensive show home; devoid of of taste, of life. Mr. Marcus Grey had purchased it two years, after learning about its availability from an acquaintance from the Gentleman's club he occasionally frequented, and immediately purchased it. The transaction was quick, smooth; so devoid of any bumps or problems, that itself seemed suspicious. But in the high end area that this was, no one asked questions. One simply accepted. And, just like the obstreperous creases on Mrs Grey's blouse irritating her to no end, this lifestyle revolved around appearances. Every house on the street was a Pandora's box, a hidden lair; every house appeared to be the same from outside viewing, but open the door and each house had a very different, often very nasty story to tell.
Everyone knew that Mr. Loveless, a high end banker who had recently purchased the penultimate house on the street, was a blatant alcoholic. The noticeable stench of brandy seemed to seep from every pore of his being, all his clothes reeking of the individual smell that is alcohol. But of course, no one dared to question. Everyone knew that Mr and Mrs Jones, who inhabited the fourth house on the lane, had scarcely any money nor posessions left. The house had been abandoned, disregarded; all that was left was a small camp bed up in the marital bedroom and a few necessities, but doubtless they would too soon vanish. But once again, no one dared to question.
And both those houses appeared to be exactly the same, from the exterior.
Of course, Mr and Mrs Grey had their problems too; they were not immune from the casualties of life. However, their lives had been forever intertwined since the birth of their daughter, a summer ago. Children were not high up on the long list of priorities for either of them; however, never the less, young Freya Grey had been born, with the same blanched skin and sharp cheekbones of her mother, and the bundles of blonde curls from her father. She appeared to be a strange combination of the two; she had neither the permanent acerbic look of her mother, nor the rough, childish features of her father.
Her large eyes seemed out of place amongst her delicate features, always giving her a startled, frightened look, yet they constantly beamed bright, just as the eyes of young children should always do; young children with absolutely no knowledge of any of the horrors of this world. Young children who simply know of good, and have no concept of bad.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
Freya grew up a happy child, if admittedly a very sheltered one. After a minor incident involving the neighbour's children and her dogs, Freya mainly remained on her own, sometimes in the company of the various nannies her parents had assigned to her. She was a very skinny child, due to being a born a few weeks premature, but otherwise perfectly healthy and happy, if quite silent.
For you see, Freya had perfected the best poker face she possibly could. She soon realized that, in regards to her parents, an outburst of emotion was especially displeasing. A sprout of tears was frowned upon, and soon Freya managed to perfect smiling, even in the deepest of sadnesses. She could make people believe she was happy when she was sad; she could make them think she didn't feel anything at all. It was much simpler that way; no fuss, no mess. Whereas some children could make themselves cry simply to get attention, she had quickly found out this method never worked on her parents. To get her parent's attention, she had to be obedient, and disciplined, and most of all quiet. And never rebel. For she would rather be loved by her parents than be hated by them. Isn't that how it was supposed to be?
There was one area in which Freya disliked her parents deeply though; their boundaries as to where she could go in the city. The furthest she had ever been taken by her nannies was the small park two blocks away, and never any further. Oh how she longed to go exploring around the city, see the different sights, meet new people. One day, when she was six years old, she stumbled upon a map of Gotham her parents had hidden in the car, and she looked over it caressingly, imagining the different characters that might inhabit all those streets, the many different places one could visit in simply a day. She looked at all the names, memorizing them, repeating them over and over in her head until they became imprinted on her memory. For once, Freya decided to break her one rule and confront her mother about it.
"But mama, look at all these places! Could we not go to at least one of them?"
"No, we can't Freya,"
"But please mama, it can be any of them, I don't care! Why can't we go to the Arcade, or maybe the palisades, or the Narrows?"
Mrs Victoria Grey's eyes narrowed dangerous, like an vulture circling her prey.
"No Freya, we can not go to the Arcade, nor the Palisades, and most certainly not the Narrows. Now be quiet! This conversation is going no further than this,"
There was something about the way her mother said 'The Narrows' that confused little Freya. It was almost as if she was spitting the word out, as if she couldn't even bare to think it, let alone say it. There was such disgust laced in her voice when she said that one word that Freya hoped she would never hear that tone again. What was it about the Narrows that could be so bad?
Of course, Freya had never brought up the subject again, and dutifully handed the map back to Mrs Grey when she had demanded it, but not before she had torn out the page featuring the Narrows and circled it sloppily with a red pen. Her mother had spiked her curiosity; she didn't know what this place was, and having heard the tone in which her mother spoke about it, she supposed any clever person would have avoided the Narrows.
For a while Freya dreamed about finding the Narrows, of exploring it, of spending a whole day simply wandering around. It seemed a pitiful dream compared to some, but none the less it fixated in her mind, nagging at her for days on end, but the idea didn't come into fruition until the 10th July, just after an eight year old Freya had broken up from school for the holidays.
Her dad had already departed for work, and her mother was preparing to leave for a day of leisure (which, unbeknownst to Freya involved shopping for a few hours, before stumbling into a bar and getting so intoxicated her limbs felt numb), when the current babysitter, a 21 year old grad student by the name of Olivia Flynn rang and explained as to why she had to cancel. Her mother was upstairs in the bathroom, trying to hide her ashy skin with a rather large amount of foundation, and Freya didn't dare answer the phone. Listening to the message afterwards, she didn't understand most of it (What on earth was a thesis?) but she immediately realized Olivia wasn't going to be there for the day. And, without thinking nor hesitating, she pressed the delete button on the machine. This could be her chance.
"Now, Freya, I want you to wait in the living room until Olivia gets here. She won't be long, other wise its all coming out of her pay," Stated her mother, fastening the clip on earrings she had bought herself on a previous leisure trip. "Be a good girl, I don't want to hear of any trouble when I get back. You understand?"
Freya nodded sweetly, and her mother swiftly disappeared, after all, what reason did Freya have to lie? But Freya had been patiently preparing for months now, in her endless amounts of free time, to prepare in a most child-like way. She had packed her rucksack with the utmost care and precision; inside was the map (for directions) a torch (for if it got dark) 5 dollars (in case an emergency happened) and a pack of gummy bears. This, to Freya, was all she needed. So, she bundled herself up in a big duffle coat; a deep navy, so she could be discreet, and off she set.
Her heart raced a little bit, wandering down the street, going further than she had gone before. She had worked out in her mind that to get to the Narrows wouldn't take that long, as in Gotham the area she lived in was actually quite close to the Narrows itself, which made her more confused to why her mother hadn't taken her there before. The walk itself would take 15 minutes, her eight year old brain reckoned. More than enough time to get there, have a wander around, and head back.
It was surprisingly easy for Freya to read the map, but as she began to turn the last few corners, the streets became darker, houses more dilapidated. Gone were the pristine, shiny mansions of her street, only to be replaced with run down convenience stores and bums littering the street, crying for money. Freya felt her legs begin to buckle, and her nerves begin to weaken. Maybe there was a reason she shouldn't have come here, maybe she should just turn back now. But she had come too far to simply give up, and besides, what's the worst that could happen? Contemplating this, she kept on going, trying to keep her confidence levels up, desperately trying to stop them from plummeting.
Freya's hands couldn't help but shake as she examined everything around her. But both out of fear and excitement. This was so different. As if she had been transported into a whole different portion of the world, not just walked 15 minutes down the road. She wasn't enamoured, but enthralled, soaking in every little detail. Her eyes scanned the tops of the building, looking at the broken rooves, the sooted chimneys, the-
"Hey, watch it asshole!"
Her whole body collided with someone, and she fell back in petrified shock. Rubbing her eyes, they fell upon a boy, who couldn't be any older than her, with black spiky hair, crooked glasses and an air of adult confidence that seemed strange when mixed with his incredibly childish form. Standing up, she found she was almost a few inches taller than him, but that didn't seem to faze him.
"I-I-I'm truly sorry," She managed to stammer out. She had never really offended anyone before.
"Christ what were you doing? And what kind of sucky accent is that, you've got?" He awkwardly straightened his glasses out, and now, seeing clearly, he gave her a once over. Obviously deeming her alright, his demeanour softened.
"Sorry I'm just...not from round here,"
"No shit," He chuckled, and she relaxed, tension easing out of her body. He clearly wasn't angry any more. "I'm Tony, but people call me Buzz,"
"Buzz?"
"Yeah, you got a problem with that?"
"N-n-no. I'm Freya,"
"You're called Freya and you think my name's strange? Christ. What are you doing here anyway. You lost?"
"No, I'm just...exploring," She could see the look of confusion on his face.
"You're exploring...in the Narrows?"
"Yeah. I usually live near Cathedral Square. I just thought I'd come and have a look at the Narrows. I've never been here before," She stated. Suddenly he snorted.
"Of course you haven't! You're obviously madder than I thought. Why the hell would you want to come here, when you live near Cathedral Square?" He stared at her as if she was completely insane, and she glared back.
"I just wanted to see what was here. That's not a crime is it?" She snapped.
"No," He laughed. "Look, obviously you don't have a clue, and nobody knows these streets better than me. You could do with a guide, no one's going to let you in anywhere, just wandering round on your own. I can take you to some real interesting places,"
Her face remained smiling, but inwardly she hesitated. She had no idea who this boy was, and some of the language he used really was foul, but there was such an honest air about him, that he didn't seem capable of harm or bad intentions.
"Sure, that would be lovely," She replied.
"I want somefin' in return though," He stated, staring intently at her bag. She instantly clutched it to her chest.
"Like what?" She said worriedly.
"Ok, gimme your pack of gummy bears and we'll call it even, alright?"
She nodded, and pulled them out of her bag. He didn't say anything, but simply grabbed them in his right hand and led her out of the alley.
"See, right now, you're on Parker Lane; one of the better areas in the neighbourhood because here you're going to find some of the more classy whores, you know, the more expensive ones. The ones that keep themselves on the lower class drugs, that've got the sense not to completely lose their head, you know what I'm saying?"
As he continued, Freya was amazed at how candid and unflappable he seemed about a subject that seemed so sordid to Freya; he mentioned drug dealers, murders, any form of strange going on that had occurred in these parts. Things that Freya had only glimpsed in the newspaper, before her father quickly snatched it away to look over his usual court cases. Never in her life had she heard such stories, such scandal. Coming from a place where it seemed to her, nothing exciting nor stimulating ever happened, this seemed so peculiar. Sure, she had been content to let her imagination fill her days with endless fun, but here, now, hearing about street brawls, and muggings, and underhanded dealings in plain moonlight.
It was like something out of a movie.
Buzz seemed quite surprised at how amazed she was, and how she marvelled at every little detail, but he didn't mention it. He appeared to revel in the attention, and everytime she got more excited, he would up the anti, raising the tone of his voice, quickening the pace. He was loving it just as much as she was, thought neither of them would admit it.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
"D'ya wanna see some of the others?" He asked, as they walked through another alley. Freya quickly looked at her watch; it read 2:00. Her mother, she hoped, wouldn't be back until 4:30. Hopefully, that would be enough time.
"Sure," She asked, walking slightly quicker. "Who are the others?"
"Oh, y'know, just some of the other bums that live around here. Just let me do the talking alright; one word out of your mouth and they're gonna laugh us straight out of here,"
"My accent isn't that bad!"
"Sure thing, miss prissy pants. You keep tellin' yourself that,"
The street he dragged her onto seemed even more impaired and decrepid than the last few; every crack illuminated by the harsh glare of the sun on the ground. A bunch of youths were kicking a football around in the middle of the street, while some girls watched on from the side; at first glance Freya estimated they were 13-14 but as she edged closer, she could tell they weren't much older than her; they couldn't have been more than 10. Suddenly this seemed like a bad idea; Buzz might not be threatening, but any one of these kids could be.
She looked around, looking for any way of escaping, any way of leaving. She realized, in regards to the map, she had absolutely no idea where she was. If Buzz left her here, or abandoned her, she would have no way of getting back home. She continued searching nervously around, until her eyes fell upon a boy standing far across on the other side, hanging back, sitting down on his lawn. It was obvious he had no desire to play with the boys on the street, yet still he sat there, watching on. His brown hair reflected the bright sunlight, surrounding him in a strange golden aura. There was something off about him; Freya could tell just from across the street. As if he was slightly out of the time, out of sync, than everyone else.
She realized she had been staring intently at the boy, and quickly turned away, looking back at Buzz. She had been so interested in the golden boy that she hadn't even noticed that Buzz had begun to talk in low tones to the other youths on the street, who ever so often glanced at her. She overheard 'down the street' and 'new' amongst the jumble of words, but everything else was so hushed it was impossible to distinguish. Suddenly, Buzz turned around and walked back to her. By now, she noticed both the other girls on the street and the strange golden boy and turned to stare at her.
"Right, I just told them you're called Lucy and you've moved in down on Garold's Lane, that you're new and everything, and you're just wandering round. They ain't gonna intimidate you, or anything, as they think you're one of us. If they found out you lived on Cathedral Square, well," He chuckled. "You wouldn't last very long I can tell you that,"
She frowned, but made no antagonistic remark, but nodded at the boy across the street.
"Who's he?"
"Oh, I think that's that Napier kid," Said Jack, squinting behind his glasses. "His family moved here a year ago. They're a strange lot, keep to themselves. Everyone knows his dad's an alcoholic though. He comes round at night, piss drunk, swearing his head off,"
Freya felt a pang of sadness in her chest.
"Why doesn't he play with the other boys?"
"Because of his scars,"
"Scars?"
"Oh yeah," Smirked Buzz. "A proper Chelsea Grin, he's got," He began to mime a knife cutting steadily through the corners of his mouth. "No one knows how he got it, just showed up with it. But no one wants to look at that all day though. Must have hurt though,"
"Poor guy, that's awful,"
"Hah. Don't feel sorry for the freak. He's the one that made himself a loner by beating up Johnny his first week here," Buzz pointed at one of the oldest boys playing football; the boy was obviously Italian, with tanned skin and dark hair, and a full frame. However, it was hard to imagine the golden boy, or Jack, managing to beat up someone so big.
"Still, that's a horrible thing to happen," Frowned Freya. Buzz simply shrugged, turning around to join the football. Freya felt strange, just standing there, watching on. Maybe she should say hello to that Jack kid. Buzz had told her not to talk to anyone, and he had said that Jack was, in his words, a 'freak', but didn't someone deserve the benefit of the doubt. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, her mother had once said, which seemed strange, as her mother was vinegar itself, but it could apply here. Working up the courage, she began to wander over to the Napier house. She felt a few stares from the girls on the other side of the street, but soon they turned back to watch the football, and all the boys running around. A few alarms in her head sounded 'Danger! Danger!' but she ignored them. The naive eight year old that she was thought nothing bad could come from just talking to someone.
Freya approached the iron fence, surrounding the house, but didn't dare cross. She noticed Jack had been watching her all the time she had been ambling over, and there was a look in his eye that she couldn't quite place, a look that made her shiver.
"Hi," She said, stuttering slightly. "I'm Lucy,"
He didn't reply, but simply stared back, even more intently. Freya felt her cheeks begin to flame up, but she managed to hold the blush back, fixing a neutral mask on her face. FInally, after what seemed like an eternity, he replied.
"You're not from around here,"
Even though sunlight was glaring in her face, Freya could tell from his tone he was smirking.
"Yeah I live on..." What was it Buzz had called it? "...Garold's Lane,"
"Of course you do, Lucy,"
There was that smirk again. Even his voice made her shiver. Hidden, almost undetectable, was such a coldness in his tone. Like everything he said had an underlying harmful intent. There was something in his voice, that didn't seem just a consequence of his horrible living conditions. Of course, Freya, being eight, couldn't place it. Not back then. All she knew was there was something, something about this boy, that made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
Suddenly, the a ray of sun illuminated Jack's face, and she recoiled in horror.
Huge, puckered scars extended from each corner of his mouth. Freya stared and stared and stared, not realizing how obvious she was. They were crusted over, and God, they were horrible to look at. But morbidly, quite fascinating. And she continued to stare, and stare, and stare.
"Lucy!"
A loud voice broke through her trance, and she turned around to see Buzz yelling at her, with a somewhat horrified look on his face. Turning back around, Jack had disappeared. But the image of those scars burned in her mind. She shuddered, and ran back to Buzz.
"What the hell were you doing?" Buzz hissed, gripping her arm and pulling her back down the street. Despite the fact he was small than her, he was much stronger, and she yelped in pain. Quickly he let go, a sorry look in his eye.
"Look, sorry, but you were being really stupid," He said, pulling her by her hand down the street. "I told ya about Jack, and what d'ya do? Go up and talk to him!"
"I just wanted to see," She mumbled, feeling a bit dejected.
"Yeah well, I dunno what you were thinking, just don't do it again, alright?" She nodded. "You better get home. Thanks for the gummy bears,"
"You're welcome," She smiled. "Oh, and Buzz, can I come back sometime?"
"What?"
"You know, come back,"
"You want to come back, here?" She nodded innocently.
"Its just..." She trailed off, staring down at her shoes. "I have no one else back home,"
"Christ what are they putting in the water up in the posh neighbourhoods," He sighed. "Alright, bring us a packet of chocolate buttons next time and you got yourself a deal,"
"Where will I find you?"
"Eh, around midday I'm usually here, doing something. You'll find me don't worry," He smiled, and turned away, back through the looking glass. Freya smiled too, before looking down hastily at her watch. It was 4:25.
Oh no, she thought as she ran back, I'm going to be in so much trouble.
Author's Note: Basically, this is another Joker-Origin story. I just find them so fascinating; how you can play around with young Jack and mold him to your liking, yet you also have the pre-formed character of the Joker to use. I don't think that made any sense, but hopefully it will do soon!