"Why are we even providing him therapy now? Don't the other inmates get put in solitary confinement as punishment?" I hurry to keep up with the long strides of David Stone, the head of the Psychiatric Board, as we walk down the brightly lit corridors of Arkham Asylum.
"Well it's been a while since he's had a therapist. Plus, we feel that if he isn't in contact with other people he'll... act out. More so than he already does."
I play it cool, to act as if my well being is my primary thought. "Well, that's comforting." I scoff, convincingly irate.
"He'll be in cuffs and shackles." Stone bargains.
"Cuffs? Why not a straitjacket? Isn't he prone to self mutilation?"
"Well… Yes, and not just self mutilation - but…" He runs a hand through his hair, noticeably anxious. "Okay, I didn't want to give you this in case it scared you off – but I think you should be aware of what you'd be getting yourself into." He pulls a blank DVD from somewhere in his coat and hands it to me. I eye it dubiously.
"Remind me again why I'm getting this bundle of joy as my new patient?"
Stone's voice becomes earnest, his gray-green eyes meeting mine directly. "Harleen, your patients respect you. They like you. They listen to you; consider you worth hearing. You've never had to turn over a patient to another therapist, that alone puts you above many of the therapists here."
I nod, considering his words.
"We've stopped with video surveillance as we feel it gives him a…" he pauses, trying to find the right words. "Stage, so to speak. You know; an audience for him to perform to."
"So I'd be completely on my own in a room with him?" There's no hiding the incredulity in my voice.
Guards had long been disallowed from the therapy rooms since the Joker often found them more fun to pry at than the professionally trained psychiatrists. So I knew that wouldn't be the case either.
"Well, yes. We no longer conduct his sessions in the office of the therapist. We found that it was making it too easy for him to delve into their personal lives."
"Makes sense..." Is all I can provide as I try to absorb the offer I've just received.
"This is the, err, reason he needs a new therapist. Just... uh... just brace yourself, okay?" He motions towards the DVD he's just handed me.
I sigh heavily. "I'll try."
Back at my office, I fire up my MacBook and insert the DVD. My hands are shaking with anticipation. The little window pops up immediately and I take a deep breath in attempt to slow my heart rate before clicking play.
The camera is situated between the two subjects, a few meters away. I recognize the brunette woman as Ainslee Callahan, the world-renowned psychiatrist who abruptly cut her career short after her first and only session with The Joker; the very session I was about to witness.
Across from the young doctor sits a pair of impossibly broad shoulders, dark coiled hair and a strong face laden with ridged scars. His posture is slouched and uninterested in his straight jacket, but he immediately props himself up when she places her pen to the notepad.
"Hello Joker, my name is Doctor Calla-"
"You ever been raped, Doc? I'm sure in your youth you've put the thought into a few of the inmate's minds. You're a bit older now, a bit more conservative, but I'm sure that you were a real tease once upon a time."
I note that they are in what would appear to be Ainslee's office. Behind her desk are shelves full of family photos and personal trinkets, but The Joker's eyes do not leave his therapist. Instead, he is picking her apart by her appearance alone.
"No ring I see? Couldn't tie down a husby?" He asks the forty-something year old.
"I don't see a ring on your finger either." I cringe as Ainslee's calm facade slips away.
"Oho, you psychiatrists - always deflecting!"
The brunette remains silent; a wise choice.
"You people love talking about the past. The past, the past, the past!" He flails his head about haphazardly.
"So how about we go back to then, hmm? Do you wanna know what happened to my beloved?" He was nodding encouragingly, his tongue tracing his bottom lip rapidly. "Yeah?"
Ainslee nods hesitantly.
"Okay, so, I had a wife who, like you, slept around a little too much for my liking." Ainslee's face portrays her contempt at his blatant assumption of her. "A lot too much, actually. She'd always come home with theses mysterious marks on her neck. And her lips would be slightly… slightly swollen, from kisses too hurried to be gentle."
He was enjoying himself, fidgeting and twitching all the while.
"So, one day I decided we'd have a little chat about her suspected escapades. She didn't admit to it at first; not even when I showed her one of her boyfriend's hands. You know, the old 'they could be anyone's hands' line. But the confession was positively gushing by the time I'd shown her his left eye. That she recognized."
"Then it was all crying and 'I'm sorry' and 'I'll never do it again' yada yada. But I wanted to make sure I really got the message across…"
Suddenly he was out of his straight jacket, flinging it to the floor before calmly jamming his shoulders back into their sockets. I find myself audibly gasping at the terrifying occurrence. Ainslee appears too shocked to retaliate. She sits motionless as the Joker pounces across the desk. He grasps the now-screaming therapist's head and – kisses her?!
Wait a minute… he isn't kissing her; he's biting her – tearing the flesh beside her mouth from her face and ravaging her lips.
Her screams become gurgled, the sound of blood pooling in her mouth.
He grasps her face, thumb digging into the fresh wound on her cheek. She quietens, eyes the size of golf balls as he leers down at her.
"Now, everybody who saw her knew that those lips of hers belonged to me."
With a sharp 'crack', he slams her head against the tiled floor and stands.
Ainslee reels, semi-conscious and spluttering.
The Joker strolls up to the camera. His great size now becoming fully apparent as he bows before taking the camera in his hands and aiming it at his beaming face.
"Hope you enjoyed the show, I'm here every Thursday!"
I pause the DVD to get a better look at his features.
Seeing him up close for the first time, I feel an instinctual clench; as if my insides are dissolving.
His eyes are an intense, deep brown, surrounded by a thin row of dark eyelashes. Eyelids that slant downwards slightly, giving him the illusion of perpetual sadness.
I was immediately drawn to his lips - not the scars, or Ainslee's bright red blood that currently accompanied them - but the lips themselves. They are full and shapely and, well, beautiful.
I take in his strong jaw and straight nose - ever so slightly curved downwards towards the tip. He even has freckles, I think idly. How strange that a mass murderer would have freckles.
His skin is a light almond color, even though he hadn't been allowed to see the light of day in months his tan still put my pasty skin to shame.
I press play and watch the camera crash to the floor as security guards barge in. The footage abruptly ends there.
I lean back in my chair and let out the lungful of air I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My heart is still pounding as I try to process what I've just seen; what I'm about to unleash upon myself.
A part of me doubts my ability to control this case, as any normal person would after witnessing what I just had.
The other part of me is equally sure that I was the only person for this job. I didn't loathe him automatically, like most of Gotham. I knew no one that he'd killed and that already made me a better candidate than many of the staff members at Arkham, who had lost loved ones by The Joker or his extended hand.
Besides, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't the patients that attracted me to my job.