For my first fanfiction, I decided to do something from my favourite movie, The Dark Knight. I know the whole "Joker's Daughter" thing has been done to death, but I wanted to try and create my own story, hopefully something with a dark tone and diverse plot that would make this a good read.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from the Dark Knight movie, or any from the DC Universe. I only own my own characters.
PLEASE NOTE: This story contains dark themes and scenes of mostly violence and threat, with strong language and later on has gory moments with murder, torture and sexual content. Also throughout, scenes discussing and showing mental illness and distress. That's why it's rated M, but I'd say it's suitable for teen and up, of the non-faint-hearted. If you don't like it, don't read it. But of course there's humour and light-hearted moments, and some serious fluff and corny father/daughter moments, as well as fluffy romantic scenes.
Enjoy. This is for the Heath's Joker freaks, and is dedicated to his work and his unbelievable talent he left behind. R.I.P Heath Ledger.
Prologue
It's so cold in here.
I mean, it's so cold.
Doesn't this place have central heating?
I bet they do it deliberately. They make it cold in these rooms on purpose, to punish the undeserving scumbags in this wretched place.
This pen is trembling in my right hand. I have goosebumps prickling up my arms. My feet are dancing underneath this desk, with my right leg jiggling impatiently.
It's because I'm not outside.
Once again, the barred window up above me is blindingly distracting. It's yelling at me, that I'm a prisoner.
Everything is telling me I'm a prisoner.
I know that. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't.
Sorry, let's get back to what I should be writing down, because everything I write should have a meaning. Just like my father said yesterday, that every playing card signifies something in life.
Recently, I was asked what my earliest memory was. I explained I had too many to talk about. So I thought, a genius idea would be to write them all in here, like a diary.
But I can't. I'd be here forever. Besides, I don't want to talk about all of them. This paper might become smudged with this awful pen's black ink, which of course would resolve in making my hands even dirtier. In fact, the dirt buried underneath my gnawed-upon fingernails matches the colour of this ink splashing everywhere.
I'm getting distracted again, aren't I? Sorry. It happens. It's been happing since I was nearly seven. I can't focus on anything academic. Who wants to do that, anyway?
I only concentrate on things that matter, which I have been doing over the past few days. I've flicked my stringy hair over my shoulder, sighed, carried my heels into the big world, done my job, and laughed.
Now I'm here.
I've been told to write down my thoughts and feelings in this book, you see, as well as explain how I got to be here today, starting from as far back as I can remember, and by that, I mean, very far back.
That's an awful lot of explanation to swallow. Right now, it's like I'm going to take a glorious bite out of my whole lousy life, tasting every aspect of it on my taste buds, and telling you how it tasted. It's tasteless, maybe with a hint of blood to it.
Okay, I should really start now.
I'm sorry, I get this from my father, talking and talking and never shutting up with my similes and philosophical life lessons.
I get a lot from my father, in fact.
I don't think it's wise to go on about how I was as a baby and toddler, because I was like any other "goddamn noisy brat", as my mother told me once in an argument.
To some up, I was troublesome. A little, boisterous, screaming, violent brat.
That's how my mother described me.
My father described as an adorable, creative but dangerously rebellious little thing.
I think I prefer that description.
Although I can't explain all my earliest memories, I can, however, tell you the first word I ever said.
Daddy.
I fondly remember dad recalling this day. I was coming up to a year old, and I was just managing to stay upright in my cot. Dad said he was busy neatly piling up some money to buy me some new petite pink baby clothes. According to him, I was watching him admiringly from my cot, even though I was a baby. I started giggling at him when he got frustrated with himself, making silly noises as he kept losing count.
And after a few minutes I just gargled, "Daddy!" out of nowhere.
Dad said it was a moment of triumph as he'd been trying to get me to speak for months and months.
Shows that I got his outstanding intelligence. Even under the age of a year old, I was managing to tie little words together, even if it was just 'daddy' or 'mommy'.
Dad said even when I was around two years old, I knew the kind of dangers that swarmed around in this world, always prepared to scare me, jumping out from behind the corner. The danger was always ready to teach me everything about life.
You see, for as long as I can remember, I've been exposed to delicious danger. I've been exposed to all kinds of strange happenings. Even as a young girl, I would witness objects that would spark my mind. Objects that caused danger, which of course I wasn't aware of until I was a bit older, but I was always fascinated with them.
I was never a little girl for ponies and unicorns. My bedroom walls were exposed with my grubby drawings of bats and skulls, which I started to sketch on my walls at three years old, when my dad first bought me colouring pens.
That's when drawing became a part of my life, as a way to escape this strange world.
Up until I was fifteen years old, I lived in a tiny flat in the little isolated Gotham Town, which just on the outskirts of Gotham City. It was so cramped me and my parents struggled living there, but it never mattered to me. Dad was always out and about, and mom drifted away from me as I grew from a toddler to a child, so I was almost always alone, which was what I wanted. I spent most of my time in my bedroom, drawing all kinds of gory scenes of murder and witchcraft, dark spells and serial killers on the lookout for the man who killed his wife.
We lived off a flat consisting room with a running tap and an ice-cold shower, a stove and a refrigerator, two squeezed-in bedrooms and a room consisting of a 1970's dying television set, a torn apart sofa, a table, a fireplace and one single photo of my grandmother, but the most memorable place, one single hallway, where a lot of the arguments happened.
I currently reside in the City. I don't have any money. I don't earn because I haven't got a job, but I don't need one. I steal money to get the stuff I need. As a matter of fact, I don't even do that anymore. I just steal whatever I want. So what? It's not affecting anyone but the cops' stupid justice system. I don't need a job at this current time because I am doing much more exciting stuff.
I don't go to school. I was expelled when I was thirteen, but I didn't care. I couldn't stand the sight of other kids. They all stared at me like I was some kind of outcast, like I was a freak. Just because I wore something a little more outlandish and gothic, but, this city is chock full of judgemental people. The whole world is full of them. They're the ones who are freaks, roaming around this place like they're actually happy to be here.
Gotham Town is run by the same people in Gotham City, including the piece of crap they have for a "police force". It sucks. Gotham's full of people who take no notice of the smaller kind, who are all hypocrites. It's such a joy to have a police force that's so appalling, because they let you get away with murder. Literally.
I'm just lucky, you see, because I have my dad, who looked after me, on his own, since I was ten years old. I'm eighteen next year, and I have no grades, no friends and no ambitions. I don't even have love anymore. Love is overrated.
But you know what I do have? Many other things that some other teenagers won't have. I have skill. I have defence. I have intelligence. I didn't need math or science to make me clever, just the pure brilliance of me and my father's genius minds. It's all about genetics, you see. Thank goodness I inherited dad's intelligence and not mom's. I inherited a lot of things from my father, a lot of dangerous things, but mostly all my mother's looks were passed down to me, which isn't bad, because my mother is a beautiful woman.
When I was a child, my father was out all day most days. Sometimes never getting back until very late. I never panicked though, because I knew he was going to return every time, and he did. Without fail. He always came back to make sure I was fine, to see if I was defending myself, to see if I was being strong and making sure my mind hadn't been broken. He was always the one spending time with me when no one else gave a care in this darkened world.
My father's a criminal.
His name is Jack Napier. Well…it was.
It was, you say? Well, that'll be explained if you read further on.
So, what does that make me? The child of a scummy murderer? Not really. More like the child of intellectual genius.
But if you must know, I'm the daughter of a psychopath…but it's okay. Like I said, I've been exposed to danger from a young age, exposed to pure darkness. I've seen the sensation it brings to dad, and I've felt that adrenaline, I've touched the sharp end and examined an endless amount of funny expressions, filled with shock. Shock that a young girl like me could be so cruel and so heartless. I've learnt now that hating my father just because of what he is, is nonsense. I can't break the unconditional love I've always had for him, even if his is somewhat a little broken.
I don't want to be a friendly citizen. It's mentally and emotionally impossible for me to do that, anyway. Dad has always told me Gotham is a place that needs to improve its established order, to get rid of people who will only make it worse. People like the Batman and Commissioner James Gordon for example.
At this moment in time, Gotham is still a pitiful place. Our District Attorney, Harvey Dent is dead, after a madman ran rampant around the City. I got caught up in this madman's ways.
That's how I lead myself to be sitting here, right now.
No one's ever going to stop him from doing what his mind tells him to do, because he can't control his mind. I've seen him be beaten down by his overpowering brain. What goes on inside his head is pure evil. Trust me. I know.
How do I know?
Who is this madman?
A tortured soul, that's who he is, and I know, because, I've seen his soul be ripped apart.
Since seeing that soul be ripped away, I've had to unleash the pain and horror that's been inside my head since before I can remember. I can't help it. I didn't want to happen, but the way I see it now, is that it's part of me.
They tell me I'm destined to be this way.
I've let Princess Jane escape.
Dinner hour has arrived now.
Finally, I can escape the freezing cold. I can have food to melt in my mouth, at last.
I get to go and see this madman again now.
Therefore, I get to go and see my daddy now.
Have you put the pieces together now?
Surprised? Don't be.
Think I'm crazy? Don't think that.
Do I disturb you? Well…I think I disturb everyone, with how I am, but everyone in here disturbs each other with their actions and their speech. It's okay. I'm used to the morbid minds of these people. Why? Because I have one, too, but don't let that put you off.
When I return, I can begin to tell you an interesting story. It's not a horror story, it's a nice story. I swear. It's about a father and a daughter. They went through hell, but, you know, you still loved the living daylights out of one another.
Without that love, they wouldn't have ended up being murderous, insane killers.
It's hard to explain, but I'll try to.
I've been asked to write down how I feel, and if this is the only way to explain properly, then so be it.
Please read on if you like what you see so far. And yes, it's very deep, but too bad! :D
R&R, thank you so much :)