A/N and disclaimer: Don't ask what inspired this bit. I don't even think I can explain it this morning. Trust me, there was a lot more floating around in my head but most of it was images and feelings, nothing I could get on paper and be understandable.
As an assignment in therapy, Harley begins keeping a diary and hands it over to Dr. Leland on a regular basis. Most of her entries are mundane as she knows what the doctors will be looking for but one day she can't resist writing something truthful.
I own nothing. DC owns everything. Though if they'd ever let me rent, I'd be happy.
I know.
I know that it's not healthy, normal or understandable.
I know that I end up with bruises, black eyes, broken bones, burns, concussions, scratches, and wounds of all sorts that most people aren't even aware of.
I know the pain is often so bad that it's like it's a blinding white light, blocking out almost everything else.
But that's the key word, "almost".
Beyond the pain, there's something else. Something else that I would never have admitted that I felt, at least not until I first felt it.
Ecstasy.
Yes, it hurts. I've never said otherwise. It hurts just as much as anything, possibly more because I never resist. But each blow is a kiss. Each wound, a caress. All of the marks, the scars, everything…remind me that I'm wanted, that I mean something.
Even reading it on paper it makes no sense. Keep in mind, that if I didn't matter, I would never have woken the first morning. I would have slept on while he put a gun to my head and got rid of the extra baggage. The very fact that he didn't surprised both of us.
From the beginning I think I surprised myself. I knew what he was capable of and from the first blow that sent me reeling I felt that dark, hidden part of me come alive. I heard it whisper, soft and hissing, "Yessss….." And I liked it…
That's when I knew. I knew that I was addicted to that deadly affection. Addicted to the knowledge that my life was always hanging by a thread. My body craved his hands around my throat, blocking my air. Even as I would black out I could see his face above me and I'd be lost in waves of bliss even as I passed out. His very nature was a drug that I willingly gave my whole being to. When we were separated I'd begin to shake and twitch, just like any other junkie on the street craving their "fix".
His fist, his touch.
That's my drug. What I have always craved in the darkest parts of my being. The desire to surrender total control of my life. Not just to anyone, but to him.
I've learned.
I've listened.
I am aware of what the others say. That he has no measure of caring for me or my life. That I am nothing but a mirror and a toy that he'll toss away when he's bored.
He's tossed me away more than once and has come looking when I don't return. He's cracked me, yes, but not broken beyond repair. He always seems to stop short of that.
And that's why I'm still here.
Love is a drug. No matter how it's administered. Some people prefer their drug in whispered words and the holding of hands.
I prefer mine in brutal blows given by stark white hands and a man with a laugh that chills others and warms me. I'll happily gorge myself on any form of touch from him, more so when it's the painful blows that remind me that I'm his.
I know that it's not healthy, normal or understandable.
But then, doc, what relationship is?
-From the diary of Harley Quinn, given to Dr. Leland.