Goodness, I am just on a roll here! Three stories in what, a week or two? And a fourth one on the way? Be sure to read and review, because I like reviews and I like constructive criticism. So, you know... do it, and all that good stuff.
Oh, and inspired by Regina Spektor's Blue Lips from her album Far. Amazing song, btw.
"...was she- your first kill?" He heard the words flutter into his head innocently and begin to dig in their claws. He inwardly cringed at the question, knowing full well she expected an answer. He looked up slowly, and met her curious gaze with his own. His expression was unsettling: a mixture of a warning and nausea. Harleen adjusted back into her chair, not to get comfortable, but in an attempt to scoot away from his glare.
"I don't remember," he replied. "I can't tell if I killed her or found her that way." His memory was fuzzy, that was for sure, but the little, pointed details he could recall seemed like razors rolling through his mind. "All I remember is blue lips."
It was dark in the house, a foreboding atmosphere settled around the front door, like a cat perched to pounce upon some unsuspecting prey. He was cautious, but turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open. Something wasn't right. He called for his mother, peering around the archway into the living room. She was normally curled up on the couch enjoying the latest in her series of trashy romance novels.
He called for her again.
No response.
He took a step into the room, edging around the sofa into the dining room and picked up a candelabra and held it in such a way that it was hidden behind his arm.
He sounded her name a third time.
He felt his heart miss a beat and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. She wasn't responding. She couldn't have gone anywhere. Her car was still parked in the nicely paved driveway of her suburban home.
Taking slow, even steps, he walked into the kitchen and surveyed it. There were dishes in the sink, and the refrigerator still had food. It wasn't like her to go to bed without having done the dishes. She was a bit of a neat freak. None of the food had spoiled, so she couldn't have gone missing for more then a week or so.
His heart was racing, now, as he passed through the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the second floor of his mother's home. He could feel the hysteria building under his lungs, which forced his arms to tremble. He was usually so sure-footed and steady. But his mother...
There were no lights on. He passed his old bedroom, it looking as if he had only left it the day before. The sheets had clearly been changed recently. There wasn't a speck of dust on his bookshelf. She was a neat freak, after all. His brow furrowed and he walked past, wanting so badly to leave, to pretend he never stopped by, never cared enough. He didn't want what he was sure to find at the end of the hall. He prayed he would only find an empty house, report his mother as missing, get a segment on the local news calling for everyone to look for her.
With a sick conviction, he pushed open her bedroom door.
He didn't want this.
He threw up on her carpet, doubling over and quickly wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. She was laying on her side, arms limp, legs limp... her gaze was vacant, face turned towards the bathroom door. The pristine carpet, which would have only been soiled by his vomit, was stained a bright red, stretching out around her like a giant, hole-less target.
Her throat held a gaping slash. If he had bothered to look closer, he would have been able to label her neck muscles, the veins and organs within. His knowledge of his high school anatomy class left his mind in that moment. He crawled towards her, mouth open and lungs absent of air. Hesitation met his limbs before he grabbed her wrist. Cold. He pulled at her, shaking uncontrollably, and scooped her into his arms.
He was sure there was someone screaming, but his ears were ringing. It felt like he was trying to hear over a jet engine, the pressure and discomfort filling his head. He lifted her up slightly, tipping her face towards his.
Blue lips. She had blue lips. The particular shade couldn't be found as a color in a hardware store when shopping for paint. It was a creeping hue, one that only appeared on the fingers, toes, and mouths of those who passed.
Her eyes were wide open, glassy and soulless. There was no laughter behind her crows-feet. His mother, the angel and sole love of his lonely life, lay without breath in his arms.
He was sure there was someone screaming.
He felt something warm and wet on his face, tears surely, and buried his face into her bloody neck. She was very cold. He was crying and squeezed her, hoping he could pass some warmth of himself onto her, some life or soul or spirit or anything. His grasp on reality was cracking. He cried harder, pleading silently for this not to be. He didn't want this.
But it wasn't silent. The screaming was from him. His voice was shrill and hoarse and desperate. He pleaded louder, sobbing. Sobbing. Squeezing and praying. Crying. Please, oh please God, no...
Harleen grimaced at his recollection. She knew he must have been the reason for her death, and could see how he could confuse having murdered his mother with having only found her. He was laying on her couch in front of her, hands shackled and folded over his stomach. His face was somber, almost tired.
"How old were you?" She asked quietly, with hesitation.
He gave it a moments thought, eyes darkening. "Young." Was all he said in reply. He could recall having only had his scars for a few months at that point. He was a monster when she had died. She didn't want to look at her only son because of what he had become: A gambler; a violent man.
She didn't say anything in response, but studied him a moment longer before jotting down a couple notes. Patient appears regretful when recalling his mother's death.
"Have you ever seen a dead body?" He questioned slowly, rolling his head to look at her. His gaze hurt her.
"...Yeah, I have." Her voice was unsteady, not out of nervousness, but from the tension lingering in the air between them.
"No, I don't mean at a funeral." He sneered a little, lips curling up and back from his teeth. Bitter. "The shit they do when embalming... All powdered and beautified."
She looked at him again, regaining composure and professionalism. He continued. "I mean a dead body. A corpse. One left untouched for hours or even days." He looked away momentarily, surveying the fabric on the couch. It was a busy, obnoxious pattern. It reminded him of too many kids stuffed into a room, all dancing around wildly. He looked away from the pattern, nauseated by its movement. "The skin... it gets all... blue- around the edges." He collected his words carefully, pulling them together and gently stringing them along. "The lips turn this... nasty little shade of purple-y, blueish..." He stops and glares up at the ceiling once more. He was going to lose it pretty soon if he had to continue to think about this.
"Why do you think that you killed her?" Harleen asked, glancing down at her papers again.
He closed his eyes, hands coming up to smush and grind the heels into the sockets. He wished he had makeup to hide behind right now, scare her off with a painted smile. "Because I did. Haven't you read my file?"
She had read his file, but his mother was never mentioned. He hadn't given a name to go upon, so they could never trace his parents. How could he have been tied to his mothers murder officially if he wasn't a person on paper? He had been in deep with the mob, for sure, she knew. They carved his face as a result of his betrayal or something... And now she found they had murdered his mother. She didn't say anything, just looked at him firmly and determined. She was afraid he might have gone to sleep at this point. He hadn't said anything for at least ten minutes and she simply sat with patience, waiting for him to continue.
"Mister Joker?"
He pulled his hands away from his eyes and rolled his head again, lips pursed.
"Would you like to continue, or should I have an orderly escort you back to a cell?"
The last thing he wanted was to sit back in his cell. Then he would be entirely alone with these memories. They were too real before his eyes, breathing and prowling around. Besides, the couch here was much more comfortable than any padded bed they gave him. "What would you like to know?" He replied, sickly sweet.
"Tell me what you're thinking right now. I can tell you're thinking of something. What is it?" There was the doctor he knew, always trying to sit square in the middle of his head. If only she knew...
He continued to stare at the ceiling, mouth poised to destroy her.
She was wiggling on the floor, hands bound behind her back, mouth taped shut. She looked scared. She was crying and was having a hard time breathing as a result. It was her own damn fault, he thought. Maybe if she wasn't such a little baby and didn't cry she wouldn't be struggling to breathe.
She was bruising, he was sure, around her face and chest where his fists had collided with her skin. Purple, blueish... yellowing. It was a rainbow of colors blooming across her delicate body. She was fragile, easily broken. He wasn't sure how long she had been there. He had picked her up in an alley. A prostitute, a common hooker. She was strung out when he got her. What filth Gotham let wander the streets, sleeping and servicing for drugs.
He felt nothing when he looked at her, except disgust and anger. She was dirtying the good name of women by what she did. Disgusting.
He kept his distance, prowling around the edges of the room. He wanted to break every bone in her body, but knew he would soil his hands if he touched her. He snarled, screaming, and flew towards her, slamming his fist against her cheek, anyways. She screamed behind the silvery tape, crying harder as her bones cracked beneath his hands.
He spat at her, shrieking insults fiercely. She continued to sob, and he mocked her loudly. Crouching over her, he fake cried, rubbing his bloodied and bruised fists against his face near the corners of his eyes. Oh boo hoo! He had broken a blood vessel in her eye and the white was filling with a crimson. He sneered at her, skulking back to the wall away from her.
He hated her and he didn't even know her name. She had dark hair, which was curling out on the floor around her head. Her eyes matched her hair, though he couldn't tell anymore since they were smeared with tears and blood. She was thin, with spindly arms and legs. She reminded him of a spider. He likened her to a black widow.
He left her like that for the night, tied up and broken. He returned before dawn. She was lightly sleeping, or passed out. He couldn't tell which. He woke her with a kick to her ribs, her eyes flying open. Well, the one at least. The other was practically swollen shut. He leaned down and ripped the tape from her mouth. She cried out, mouth opening and immediately pleading for her life. He smiled politely down at her, condescendingly, before letting out a giggle. He wanted to hear her scream.
She was praying out loud, now, tears seeping from her eyes and rolling down her face. She was a filthy mess. He got onto his hands and knees next to her, lowering his face to hers.
"Oh God!" She was whispering, her one good eye wide with terror. "Please, GOD!"
He laughed bitterly. Her breath caught in her throat as a response.
"God?" He asked, voice cracking around that word. "GOD? This is all there is!" He said it darkly, growling, like a commandment to follow closely. He had no God.
She looked at him in horror. It would be the last thing she would see before he took her neck between his make-up smeared hands, large and strong and long-fingered, and crushed her breath from her. He stared her down, fire in his eyes, and watched as her gaze became unfocused.
He shook her by the neck, smacking the back of her head on the floor violently. He was growling, screaming, yelling the phrase over and over as he shook her. "GOD? THIS IS ALL THERE IS!"
She was dead hours before he let her body rest. She was a punching bag for a while, a carving-practice body, an outlet for his anger and frustration. He cracked all of her ribs, with fists and feet and a two-by-four he found lying around. He hadn't stopped screaming the phrase. His face was flushed, ears pounding with the sound of his heartbeat.
And he stopped, a strangled scream of anger caught in his throat, when he saw her mangled face.
Blue lips...
The scream escaped and he grabbed her body by her dark hair, dragging her a few feet before stomping his boot into her face. Shrieking, screaming, breaking her mouth and those blue lips. He wanted them gone, destroyed. He wouldn't stand to leave her like that, a resemblance of his own... his own mother.
Harleen couldn't believe what she had just heard. That really was his first kill. She had known it from the police file. He had been tied to it with the DNA from his saliva after being locked in the asylum. And he was reliving it before her very eyes, brutal details and all. It made her sick to her stomach to know she was so mangled as a result of her decomposition. As if the poor girl had any control over the color her skin turned after death.
She wrote down the story, hand quivering slightly as she did, before looking back at him. He was staring her down, eyes sharp and dark.
"You know," he started, voice high and contemplative. "Blue... it really is a human color. You can see it under your skin in your veins. Blue veins. Not red, like you would think. Blood changed colors, like humans change. Quickly, and as a result of oxygen. When you drain blood from the body, it turns red. And its funny, really..." He laughed a bit, yellowish teeth displayed in a grimacing smile. "When you take all of the oxygen back out of the body, it turns blue again."
She shuttered as he began to laugh, and closed her notebook, setting it back in the manila folder designated for her patient. They were done with their session for today.