Some Men Just Like To Watch The World Burn
It must've been close to 4 a.m. when Harley reached the door of her dingy apartment. Her skin was cold from the rain but her blood felt hot, racing through her veins and thumping in her ears. She watched her muddy hand grasp the rusted metal of the doorknob of it's own accord. She couldn't control anything anymore. The door gave inwards with a deep groan, inviting her into the dank pit she had been living in for the past 2 years. It was dark; the walls expanding into the shadows seemingly forever although she knew it was only a few miserable yards.
She stepped into the dark and let the bloody hammer fall to the floor with a dull thud.
It seemed to echo through the apartment like laughter.
"What have I done?" She whispered hoarsely to the empty room.
In that moment, everything that had happened in the past few hours, past few months, became real. All the chaos that swarmed Gotham's dirty streets had infected her mind like bacteria attacks a wound. She was poisoned. Ruined. Stained.
Her vision blurred and the room tilted around her. Her knees buckled under her and she fell into the bathroom door, knocking it into the wall loudly. Spinning, she doubled over above the toilet and vomited. The adrenaline had made all her nerves white hot, and her hands shook as she curled up on the floor. Her mouth tasted sour and dry. The linoleum floor was cold and strangely inviting; it pushed her damp bangs off her forehead and almost seemed to embrace her. It soothed her, it stopped her, like a brick wall. For a moment even her blood was still. She opened her eye carefully, as if the slightest movement would stir up the chaos again. Her vision was blurry at first, overwhelmed by the starkness of the bathroom. Her eyes focused on a small smudge of color sitting in the corner. Slowly it came into focus.
Her Joker's card. His card.
She shut her eyes again. He knew. He had known from the start that this was what she would become.
Of course he knew... She thought, bitterly. He made this. He made me.
This thought seemed strangely comforting, as if maybe she werent so disconnected after all...
Slowly, she reached out and touched the card's smooth edges.
A hot tear oozed its way onto the floor.
Her mind began to drift into the foggy memory that used to be her life.
Even then, he was her purpose.
Even then...
--------------------
AUGUST 4th, ONE YEAR EARLIER
Harley Moore entered her tiny apartment, struggling with the doorknob due to the mountain of books she was balancing.
"Oops." She giggled as 2 heavy volumes toppled onto the floor. "Gwen? You home?"
"No." her room mate called lazily from the sofa.
"Thanks a heap." Harley managed to shut the door with her bottom, and toss the remaining books onto the sofa.
Gwen eyed the pile of books as well as the engorged backpack causing permanent damage to Harley's spine.
"Hun, there's barely enough room to turn around in this joint. We don't need a library."
Harley shifted the backpack gingerly to the floor. "I'm halfway through my thesis. Its kind of a crucial thing. You wouldn't understand, Miss Starving Artist."
Both Harley and Gwen Williams had graduated from Gotham University last spring. Harley was tackling her graduate studies, hoping to become a psychiatrist. Gwen, the daughter of 2 aging hippies, was currently working 3 jobs and letting her degree in Fine Arts gather dust.
"Fuck you." Gwen smirked. She picked up one of the books on the sofa. "Infamous: The Deeper Complexities of the Criminally Insane. Sounds like a page turner." She threw the book back on the cushions and padded over to the kitchen. "Whats your thesis on, anyway?"
Harley reached into her backpack and pulled out the latest edition of The Gotham Times, flicking it open to expose the front page.
Gwen peeked out from behind a cabinet. "The Joker? Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Are you serious right now? He's one of the most fucked up criminals ever to check into Arkham Asylum." She hauled up one of the heavy reference books and opened it eagerly. "He's fascinating."
Gwen's voice rang from behind the cabinet, "Want some water?"
"Yeah."
Harley accepted the water without looking up from her book.
"Are you working tonight?" Gwen asked.
"No, not till tomorrow. You?"
"Obviously." She sighed and picked up her uniform off the back of the sofa and wandered into her bedroom.
Gwen scoured the pages of her book, tempted several times to mar it with her highlighter. The Joker's case had always fascinated her, and even inspired her interest in psychiatry. Her misty blue eyes flitted delicately over the page, resting every so often on a literary gem and smirking with excitement. This book spoke of chemicals and dendrites and misfirings...She wanted to know more. She'd always wanted to know more. The problem with the Joker was that noone knew his history. These intense behaviors could have sprouted from anything; family problems, an accident, abuse, neglect....
She brushed a finger over the glossy mugshot that accompanied the article. He was smiling a distorted, grotesque Glasgow smile. She smiled back.
She ripped her finger away, disgusted at herself. Slamming the book shut, she wandered off to put her glass away.
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Harley had put the thesis paper on the back burner for the past few weeks. August was often a pretty busy time of year for Connie Island, an aging amusement park on the outskirts of Gotham. It was mostly a daytime job, to fill in the hours she couldn't work as a cocktail waitress with Gwen. She had finally gotten around to scheduling an interview with a Dr. Quinzel, one of the psychiatrists at Arkham Asylum who had studied the Joker's case for many years.
Harley had butterflies in her stomach as she exited the subway station into the blinding sunlight. She was like a child on Christmas, a junkie before the rush. She was finally getting what she wanted: the history of the Joker. The mystery behind the madness; and most importantly the bulk of her thesis.
The lobby of Arkham was something less horrific than Harley had imagined. White walls, a front desk, and various doors that needed to be buzzed to be opened. The secretary was a bored looking middle aged woman with a boxy little nurse uniform, typing something rapidly into a computer.
"Can I help you?" she asked without looking up from her computer. Her voice was halted and annoyed.
"Yes, I'm Harley Moore, I have a meeting with Dr. Quinzel?"
She turned away from the computer with an aggrivated sigh and shuffled through some papers.
"4:30?"
"Yes."
"Come with me." She groaned, picking up a clipboard and pressing the buzzer.
Harley followed her through one of the doors that had clunked open, into a long, bare, hall. Unlike the crispness of the lobby, behind the doors had a cold, grey emptiness that made Harley shiver. In the distance, she could hear echoing screams and shrieking laughter- hopefully not from the same place.
She and nurse got into a large elevator, and up to the 3rd floor. This floor was the same sickening white as the lobby, however the windows were barred and the screams were only getting louder. The nurse opened one of the office doors and motioned for Harley to proceed in. The door locked behind her.
"Harley Moore, I presume?" A tall, stern looking woman sitting at the desk extended a hand.
"Yes."
"Dr. Quinzel."
Harley shook her hand and sat in a chair opposite the desk.
"I understand you had some questions for me for me?"
"Yes, I'm pre- med at Gotham University, and I'm writing my thesis on the mental disorders of the criminally insane," She pulled out a tape recorder and placed it on the desk between them. "More specifically, The Joker."
Dr. Quinzel leaned back in her chair, like a grandmother about to tell a fond story to her grandchildren.
"We have had the Joker in our custody several times over the past few years, due to his numerous escapes. I, personally, have had the oppurtunity to analyze and interrogate him." She leaned forward and looked Harley directly in the eye, "And we have learned next to nothing."
"What about his origins? His history? Has he told you any of that?"
Dr. Quinzel nodded, "Oh yes. Lot's of times. One of the habits he has adopted is to concoct entire life stories for himself on a routine basis. It's almost like a defense mechanism. Whenever a new scenario presents itself, the Joker reinvents his story. He has told us he used to be named Jack, Martin, Leon. He has worked as an engineer, a pilot, a college professor. The story behind his scars have ranged from self- mutilation, accidents, and parental abuse." She motioned to the corners of her mouth, where the Joker's scars would be, "He has no birth certificate, no known relatives, no social security number. To many it seems he might as well not even exist. It's part of why he is so difficult to track."
Harley felt disappointment hit her like a punch in the gut. No history? No explanation? Is this a joke?
A human being couldn't just appear. He wasn't a ghost. He was a criminal.
Harley rolled her eyes. All the doctors and therapists and detectives in Gotham and they can't tell her anything about this one criminal? She wasn't asking for a blow-by-blow, but HONESTLY?! A birth name would be nice!
She was startled as Dr. Quinzel's phone immediately rang.
"Hello?"
Harper turned off the tape recorder, just to be polite. Alot of good it had done her thesis.
"I'm coming down now." she hung up the phone and turned back to Harley. "I'm really sorry but I'm going to have to reschedule. They've taken the Joker into custody and are brining him in now."
Harley's heart jumped up into her throat. "I understand."
There was a weird sensation pumping through Harley's blood- something new, something dangerous- something thrilling.
She suddenly wanted to meet the Joker herself. See what the fuss is about. Why noone can crack him. It would be an adventure, a puzzle. A game.
Quinzel entered the elevator with Harley following, hastily trying to zip up her bag.
The cold doors rolled shut behind them. There was a silence in the elevator, nothing but her heart thumping in her ears and the ragged breathing of Dr. Quinzel.
The elevator stopped unexpectedly on the 2nd floor, causing Harley's stomach to flip. Quinzel pushed the 1st Floor button a couple more times, puzzled.
The doors rolled back to the whooping sound of psychotic laughter.
Harley jumped back, closer to Quinzel. She couldn't believe what she was seeing.
Waiting to enter the elevator were 4 white jacketed men, restraining a heavily sedated Joker. His face paint was smeared to reveal his ruddy skin, and his eyes were glistening with the drowsiness brought about by the drugs. A silver string of saliva trailed off his bottom lip.
"We're so sorry!" One of the men stammered upon seeing Harley, yanking the joker back out of the elevator. "C'mon back." He grunted.
Quinzel just flinched and pressed the Close Door button rapidly. Her gaze darted sideways to Harley, flinching at the thought of liability she had to this student.
As the door began to close, the Joker stuck a leg in between them, forcing them open once again.
"Doctor Quin!" He hollered, smiling his mutated long smile, "I've gotta say, I missed ya. Woo ha ha ha ha!"
"We can't talk right now, J. Let me take this young lady downstairs, then we'll see."
The Joker's eyes lolled slowly and drunkenly over to Harley's. She stared back. The gazes connected for no more than a few seconds, but it seemed alot longer than that. His eyes were a murky brown-green, lit up by his peals of laughter. There was an intensity in them, a power that Harley couldn't describe but held her gaze tightly, almost possessively.
"Quin, you didn't tell me you had a daughter." he hazily observed.
"This girl isn't my daughter, J. Please just step back out of the elevator."
The Joker let out another shriek of laughter.
"YOU DON'T WANT TO INTRODUCE ME TO YOUR DAUGHTER?"
"I don't have a daughter, J."
His gaze fell back upon Harley. "Don't worry, Doc. I'll just meet her next time I'm out."
The 4 men managed to pull him back through the doors with one final heave.
Harley met his stare one last time as the doors slowly closed before her, his ominous promise still echoing in her ears.
-----------------------
From that afternoon on, something seemed to have been planted deep inside Harley's brain. The thesis began to consume her thoughts, but it was more than the paper itself, it was the Joker. She spent hours pouring over books, articles, and stolen hospital documentaries. She had lost her job at Connie Island due to her constant tardiness. Even her attendance at school was suffering. Perhaps if she had attended more of the classes, she would have discovered her own psychological disorder: her obsessive and needy personality.
Gwen knocked lightly on Harley's bedroom door. She felt it was her duty as room mate and friend to make sure Harley hadn't died in the night.
"Harl? You awake?"
There was no response. Through the door, Gwen could here the ruffling of papers and the low murmur of a television.
She knocked again.
"It's OPEN!"
Gwen pushed open the door. Her nose wrinkled as a musty smell met her nose.
"Christ, Harl, when's the last time you showered?"
Harley didn't reply. She was sitting on her floor, surrounded by hundreds of printed pages and police reports. On her tiny television, a cackling joker sat, infuriating another therapist who had tried to peer inside his head. Above her, her work schedule was posted on her cork board, next to an unsettling mugshot of her favorite criminal mastermind.
"Well, I'm heading to work now. I'll see you at ten- we're both working the night shift tonight."
"Yeah, I know."
Gwen rested her head on the door jamb.
"Hey... We all know I'm not the best person to be giving out life advice...But really, Harls... I miss talking to you. Maybe you should give this thesis a rest."
Harley stopped rustling around in her nest of paper. She looked up at her best friend, her bright blue eyes seemed alot darker in the dim light of the television, set deep in her face as if she hadn't slept in days.
"I've tried. It won't leave me alone."
Gwen was a little unsettled at the ominous statement, but merely nodded and ducked out the door.
"See you later, Harley."
"Bye."
The door shut, and once again Harley was alone with him.
She turned to the television, and once again fell into that delightful, disturbing laugh.
She couldn't help but smile whenever she heard it, much like you can't help but admire the sparks from a burning building, or the way electricity cuts the sky in the summer storms. It was fun, it was beautiful, and it was chaos. It shook up her blood like a child shakes up a snowglobe. It delighted her.
______________________
Its was 4 a.m.
It was warm for September, and Harley and Gwen carried their jackets loosely over their arms, enjoying the slight lull in Gotham's streets as they walked home from the bar after their late night shift.
The streetlights and neon signs buzzed and hovered above them like dirty guardian angels. It was one of those rare moments when neither she nor Gwen had to talk or joke to smile. It was pleasant, calm, and it betrayed them.
"Excuse me," a man's voice sounded from the shadows of an alley, "Could you please help me? I'm lost."
Gwen grabbed Harley's hand and pulled her onward. They knew enough to not talk to creepers at night.
They approached the alley, and as they passed a burlesque figure in a mask stepped out in front of their path. He was holding a baseball bat.
"I SAID I'm LOST." He grunted, swinging the bat full force at Gwen's head.
It struck her in the temple, and she crumpled to the ground like a paper doll.
It happened so fast that Harley paused, unable to run, unable to stay, unable to scream. She felt an immense pain in her abdomen as the bat knocked the wind out of her.
"Gwen!" She shrieked, staring at her unconcious friend. The masked man clasped a hand over her mouth, and dragged her backwards into the shadows. Her heart pounded hard in her chest like a hammer, almost painfully.
With a heave, the man opened a door to an abandoned building. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. The room was mostly empty, with empty crates and cobwebs strewn across the dark like confetti.
A sharp pain struck the back of her head as the heavy man threw her up against an iron support beam. There was a thick chain wrapped tightly around it. The room seemed to spin around her.
The man was thick, but he worked fast. In an instant, something cold was wrapped around her left wrist.
He let her go, and she slid slowly down onto the dingy floor. Her arm hung suspended above her, and thats when she realized he had handcuffed her to the post.
In vain, she tugged at the chain, trying to free her wrist.
There was a heavy pulling sound to her left and she scrambled to her feet.
The man was dragging Gwen, still unconcious, into the building. A trail of blood was left behind her.
"Gwen! Gwen!" Harley shrieked again. She suddenly became aware of the tears flowing down her cheeks.
"Noone's gonna hear you down here, princess." The man growled from behind the mask. He was slowly pulling an empty crate up against the door. Harley was in a blind panic, she had no idea what to do.
He turned around to face her, kicking the baseball bat out of his way.
Ice cold dread hit Harley in the pit of her stomach. The man was hiding behind a clown mask, watery eyes reflected the glow of the dusty lightbulb above them even through the holes.
He was very close to her now. Close enough that she could hear the raspy breathing and smell the cheap alcohol. He pulled a pistol out of his jacket. He pushed it against her face, and Harley closed her eyes instinctively. The metal was warm against her cheek. It almost seemed to burn.
"Now you just got to do what I say, princess." The clown slurred lazily, running a dirty finger through her blonde locks.
Her back was up against the pole so hard she thought her spine would break.
The clown's hand moved down to the top of her dress, carefully fingering the collar.
"Take it off."
"P-please." Harley whispered hoarsely, "Please, no."
In response, her captor merely pressed the pistol harder against her face.
Slowly, her shaking hands began to unbutton the top of her dress.
Oh my god. I'm going to die.
"That's right, princes--"
There was a loud thud and the clown reeled backward for a moment. His gun fell to the floor with a clatter.
Harley looked up to see Gwen on her feet, holding the baseball bat high.
"Gwen!" The only word able to escape Harley's dry mouth.
The clown regained his balance, and charged at Gwen full force.
The impact of the big man caused her to drop the bat.
His hands quickly found their way around Gwen's throat.
"Let her go! Let her GO!"
Harley looked around helplessly.
Gwen was gasping, her legs flailing around uselessly like a tangled marionette.
Harley looked at the gun. It was about 4 feet away from her. Squatting down, she extended her leg until she was touching it with the very tip of her sneaker.
She couldn't reach!
"Please! Let her go! You're killing her!"
Harley threw herself towards the gun, her shoulder giving in with a terrible popping sound.
She cried out, but managed to kick the gun closer. She grabbed it with her free hand and stood, pointing it shakily towards the clown.
But Gwen was on the ground.
Harley looked at her best friend lying there, eyes glassy and open wide, staring and no longer seeing.
Her face crumpled into anguish.
"Put the gun down, princess. Your friends only sleeping."
Harley glared at him with rage.
"YOU STAY THE FUCK RIGHT THERE."
She looked again at Gwen's body. Her only friend. The only real person she considered family anymore, dead at the hands of this fat fuck. Her poor Gwen, died in some dingy warehouse. The last thing her Gwen saw was that face.
Harley hated this man. Every muscle in her body had turned hot with blood, her heart was slower but loud as ever, echoing in her hears like a cannon.
Her finger trembled on the trigger. Every inch of her being was urging her to pull it.
There was no part of her that thought logically.
She wanted this man dead.
And she wanted to watch.
"Please." The clown grunted, much less confident now.
Harley didn't hear him. Her ears were filled with chaos. Her heartbeat, the clowns ragged breathing, the barrage of thoughts screaming inside her brain, the shrieks coming from her white hot nerves.
A gunshot sounded through the noise.
The clown clutched at his chest, gurgling a bit before sinking down to the ground, dead.
"Sorry about that, I was getting impatient. It didn't look like you were going to finish him anyway."
Harley whipped around at the sound of the familiar voice.
The Joker stepped out from the shadows, casually walking over to where Harley stood, still chained to the post.
"What's the matter? He killed your friend. He was gonna kill you. Why couldn't you do it?"
He was inches away from her now. Harley looked into the eyes she had studied to religiously over the past few weeks. Her heart palpitated beneath her chest.
"I-I couldn't...The noise-" she cut herself off. If she told him about how loud her mind got, he would think she's crazy.
The Joker grinned. His teeth were stained red from the paint around his lips.
"Ha ha ha! You're not crazy. I hear it too. The chaos." He shook his head gleefully, "It's the best part. The best part about killing people."
He leaned in even closer. She could smell the oil of the face paint. The faint smell of gunpowder.
"Ya know what I love the most about the chaos?" He licked his lips loudly, "It makes everything... blurry. Whose to say whats good? What's bad? Its all just there, mixed up in your head." He tapped the side of Harley's temple gently.
"Chaos is the way everything really is. There is no bad and good. Everyone just runs together, making a mess. It's really great to watch." He threw his head back and laughed maniacally.
Looking down at Harley, their eyes locked. Something deep inside his murky eyes flickered with a memory. He leaned towards her again, as if to get a closer look.
"You look familiar to me."
Harley tried to breathe, "I...The hospital...elevator?" she offered.
The Joker's eyes lit up.
"Oh yes! Quin's daughter! Woo Ha Ha Ha! How could I forget!" He moved in closer, as if he were a family friend.
Harley's eyes darted down towards the gun he still held in his hand.
He grinned at her. "I'm not going to kill you." He licked her cheek, "yet."
Harley's heart nearly stopped.
"What's your name?"
"Harley." She whispered. He was close enough now to hear even the faintest breath.
"Harley, huh? Ha Ha! Harely Quin! WOO HA HA HA! A little harlequin!"
The joker licked his lips again, only this time they were pulled back into the largest of smiles.
"No, Harley. I have the strangest urge not to kill you. Maybe its because you're Quin's daughter...."
"I'm not her daughter!"
"Maybe it's because you're her daughter." He repeated, as if he hadn't heard, " Maybe it's because if I killed you, you'd die just as stupid as you are now. I want you to see things Harley, like I do."
He licked his lips once more, and slid something into her pocket.
Pocketing the gun, he walked over to Gwen's body. He nudged it softly with his foot.
"I really think you could."
And with that, he was gone. As if he could sense the future. Moments later, Batman crashed through the door and crate as if they were cardboard. A few policemen flanked him on either side.
"We're too late." He growled, acknowledging Gwen's body.
The police chief was at Harley's side, asking her numerous questions she couldn't hear, while fumbling with the lock on the handcuffs.
Harley fainted.
________
She got home just as the sun was coming up. She had barely been able to answer the questions the cops had for her at the station. She felt empty and used, like any piece of trash on Gotham's streets.
She stepped into her apartment, half expecting to see Gwen snoozing on the couch.
With a stab she remembered Gwen's glassy eyes in the warehouse.
The phone rang, most likely her parents, having heard the news.
Harley pushed the phone out of its cradle and let the pieces lie there.
She went into the bathroom and started the shower.
Steam started to fill the room, and she shrugged out of her dirty dress.
Something fluttered out of her pocket.
She leaned over to inspect it.
It was a joker's card. Obviously.
Leaving it there, she got into the shower.