A/N: This is a little series of drabbles I thought up involving a young Joker (a.k.a. Jack). The "birthday" concept is not mine. I borrowed it from Mitch Albom's fantastic book The Five People You Meet In Heaven, a read I would highly recommend. The Joker is also not mine, thank goodness. Every drabble occurs on his birthday. Sorry that they're of such varying lengths. .
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TODAY IS JACK'S BIRTHDAY
He is six years old.
His mother places the cake she spent all day baking on the kitchen table in front of him. It has six tiny candles and says "Happy Birthday, Jack!" in clear block lettering. She even tried to make a little clown face out of frosting in the corner, right next to the melting red candle.
"Make a wish, Jackie," she whispers in his ear.
Jack frowns for a moment, thinking about his wish. Then a smile comes to his eyes and he blows out the candles with one hard burst of air.
As Jack eats his slice of cake (he had specifically asked for the one with the smiling, happy clown), he thinks that it tastes a little burnt, but he doesn't mind much. He gleefully keeps chewing the same bite of blackened chocolate cake, and doesn't even notice that the red wax that had dripped onto the clown looks just like a bloody tear.
--
He is twelve years old.
"Really, son, I expected better from you," his father says, a frown on his face. "You're so smart…when you want to be. Just look at that A-Plus in science! But this D in History isn't acceptable. So, you'll be getting all of your presents tomorrow, instead of today. Understand?"
Of course he understands, and he nods, trying to look shame-faced. However, inside he's really laughing because he's seen his father's old report cards. Seen the Ds and Fs and teacher comments of "Needs Improvement." If it weren't for crime, he thinks, their family would be living on the street. But fortunately for them, the mob gives out very large paychecks.
As Jack takes the stairs up to his room, he smiles. As he opens the door, he chuckles. And as he throws himself face-first on the bed, burying his face in the pillow, he bursts into full-out hysterics.
--
He is sixteen years old.
Jack sits in an uncomfortable vinyl chair in Gotham General, next to what he's sure is an equally uncomfortable hospital bed.
The mob may pay you well, Jack realizes, but if you mess up, you're dead. Literally.
Only three shots were needed to take out Jack's father. One landed in the man's leg. One grazed his head, just brushing his skull. The other punctured his lung.
So Jack sits, wondering when he'll be able to get out of this damned place, while his father drowns in his own fluids. He didn't get to the hospital in time, the doctors said. He won't make it through the night.
"Jack," his father whispers hoarsely, his voice a low growl, "Take care of your mother for me. Protect her."
Jack nods, of course, not telling his father that the mob had killed her. He doesn't need to know, does he? After all, he'll be dead soon anyway.
His father opens his mouth, tries to say something else, but the words never come out. The fire in his eyes fades to a low blaze, and then to cold ashes.
Jack gets up and tells the nurse. He then walks out of the hospital into the dark night (finally, away from all that damn white), jumps into his father's car, and drives home.
The moon and the stars have gone into hiding tonight, he notices. He likes it better that way. Too much light is never good for a person, he thinks, and begins to laugh quietly.
--
He is eighteen years old.
He has been living alone for two years now, but he doesn't exactly mind. It doesn't seem any different to him, really, since he never talked to his parents much anyway. The only thing he misses sometimes is his mother's cooking. Even if it was always a little burnt, it was still good food. Well, better than Ramen noodles, at any rate.
Thump, thump.
Jack puts down the noodles and tenses at the noise. He listens for it again and isn't disappointed.
Thump, thump.
He grabs the first weapon that comes to mind, which happens to be a knife from his mother's knife block. It's a little bit dusty from not being moved in two years, but it's still sharp and fits comfortably in the palm of his hand.
Slowly, he creeps upstairs, skipping the step he knows is creaky, and listens for the noise once he reaches the landing.
Thump, thump.
It's coming from his left side. The bathroom. He tiptoes closer to the door, and then opens it in one quick, smooth motion.
There is no one in sight.
Jack shuts the door behind him and looks in the linen closet to his right. Empty.
He rips back the shower curtain. Empty.
He looks in the cupboard underneath the sink. Empty.
Thump, thump.
He raises his head and looks out the window, only to see a neighbor's tree branch hitting the window in the wind. He was ready to stab a tree!
The thought of such a thing is hysterical to Jack, who bursts out laughing. He keeps laughing long after he forgets what he's laughing about. He laughs until his sides ache and his mouth gets sore from smiling, and then he laughs some more.
Finally, the maniacal laughter tones down to a bad case of the giggles. Jack stands up and looks in the mirror, but something is different from his usual reflection. After a moment, he realizes what. He looks more alive than he can ever remember feeling in his entire life.
The realization makes him frown slightly. Just slightly, but it's enough to make his entire appearance change. The light leaves his eyes, causing him to frown even more.
"Come on, Jackie, smile," he tells himself, forcing a fake grin. But it's not good enough. He needs to smile for real, to always smile, always look that alive.
He doesn't think. He just grips the knife tighter and brings it to his face. He carves a perfect line up his right cheek, almost to his ear. One-half of a beautiful, beautiful grin.
The pain is crippling, however, and he only manages a jagged line on the left side of his face. But it's good enough. He looks in the mirror now, a permanent smile on his face, and he laughs and laughs and laughs until the room spins in a swirl of crimson blood and black tile….
--
He isn't sure how old he is, he stopped counting somewhere around twenty.
"Look, I don't know what you're talking abou-t," he drawls, enunciating the 't'. "I haven't taken any hostages…well, not recently.…"
The Batman sets his jaw firmly, and his eyes flash with danger. "I know you have them, Joker. Don't play games with me," he growls.
"Oh, I'm not playing any, ah, games," Joker retaliates. "I really do no-t have those, ah, people that you're looking for. Why do you need them, anyway, hmm?"
"I need to protect them," the Bat growls in a slightly calmed tone. Something about the words brings back a snippet of a memory. A hospital…a man, dying…his birthday ruined…. The Joker isn't sure if the memory is real or not, but he decides to think that it is. For now.
A woman's scream, high and shrill, pierces the quiet night.
"Oops," says the Joker. "Looks like you're just a little too late." He smiles widely and begins to laugh hysterically.
Batman lets out an animalistic roar (twenty people dead, all his fault) and leaps on the Joker, pinning him to the rooftop. He punches him over and over, somewhat entertaining dropping him off of the tall building, when the Joker manages to speak:
"Some—birthday—present—no cake, no candles, not even a kiss for the birthday boy…."
The dark knight scowls, utterly repulsed, and continues to punch the demented clown. For all he knows, it's not even the man's birthday.
--
A/N: Just to explain…the idea behind this is that Jack had a pretty stable, normal (except for the mob stuff) family situation, but still turned into the Joker anyway. Sometimes, madness takes over regardless of the situation. And, as we all know, madness is like gravity.… ;)
Thanks for reading. Now, please review! :)