Author's Notes: Hey everyone, welcome to my second Dark Knight 'fic. I originally wrote this prologue on a whim while suffering writer's block making the next chapter for "Dark Humor," and wasn't sure where exactly the story was headed...I'm honestly still in the works of developing a coherent plot to carry me beyond three or four chapters, but I'm definitely interested in making this as long as "Dark Humor". The POVs are going to be switched up about each chapter between Joker and Rachel, and while Dark Humor was more of a "what-if," this 'fic takes the events of the Dark Knight in a completely different direction. Let me know what you think of the prologue and hopefully Chapter One will be out soon, wayyy sooner than the next chapter of Dark Humor...
Enjoy, and please feel free to review! :)
Don't Fear the Reaper
Prologue
I am going to kill Rachel Dawes.
It's hilarious, randomly ironic, that she's with that Dent. It's all a part of the genius, the comedic punch line. Pretty girl goes for rich man, pretty girl slab of meat for his enemies, pretty girl goes KA-BOOM!She's lucky really, she hasn't been raped or mugged or swindled, killed off in some cheap way. I'm making her fa-mous. Her name will go up in lights (and ash and bone and blood, but those are just the special effects)!Really, she should thank me for making her life a tad more…in-teres-ting.Gotham knows not how to thank its hardest working citizens;—especially the ones who pull the strings!
No. Keeping her alive—it just won't do. It doesn't work that way, not with what I want. From the first time I saw her at Brucie's party, there was just some magical connection (my knife was oh-so attracted to that satin skin, the beautiful fear hidden behind those blue blue eyes—oh, to cut them out, to cut her open!). No, I had an urge, my tongue against my lips, tasting the ec-stasy of the fear in those little mouse eyes, the weakness in her smell. I needto cut into her, to make her bleed, to make her scream. I needed that gratification, and when she kicked me it just made it all sweeter.
But the Batboy had come out to play. Our little winged rat, flying across the stage to prematurely end the climax (rising point of mygrand debut, or ecstatic release? Perhapsboth!). And so I had marked her, hoping to have thrown her out the window in an effort to make those lovely little bones crunch and play with the re-mains (not as fun when she's not alive to be screaming, to be struggling…but still, you could do a lot with a body, practical and serious things!). But—just as good enough—I had scarred her.
I can smell that fear across Gotham, know when she sleeps, she dreams of me, dreams of my knife in her skin, carving the prettiest little lines, the loveliest little smile on her frowning face…always frowning, always so se-ri-ous. Little princess Ra-chel, locked up in her D.A. castle, never having the opportunity to be, to live, to exist. Killing her would be a favor, a sweet thing to do indeed!—Releasing her from all those self-righteous bonds, that frowning face that judges everyone to make her feel a bit more worthy.
No, she's in my territory now. The little, scampering mouse. My city, and she's going to play the games and come out shining and smiling and all dolled up in red (Or I'll rip your skin apart, I'll rip away with my teeth and my knife and taste your fear and your sweat until there's bone, kill you slowly and scavenge the scraps to feast). Blood is a sweet, sweet thing:—it just reveals your true colors, and I'm sure hers will taste like wine, like yummy weakness and fear all bubbling down my throat. Lips and blood are red, you know, absolutely made for each other (and the most convenient thing to find, too, as it's always in self-supplied stock!)
But I like to play with my food before I eat it. It makes the taste all the more sweet. I never expected my little mousy to have fangs…but it's all the bet-ter, to make me crave moremoremore! I watch her sleep, have watched her every night, mem -o -rized the curve of her neck, how exactly my lovely knifey would snip, snip at the white skin, learn the quickest way to her succulent little scalp through that hair that I could twist and rip, strand by strand…
A tightness in my loins; the very thought of knifey playing makes me groan, and I imagine her pearly skin covered in blood, her eyes wide with revulsion, fear, the faintest hint of defiance…before I cut away—snip snip snap!—at the muscles and make her relax into a smile, red and lovely and heat encases me fully and I do cut her. I do it slightly, slow-ly, a shallow mark on her neck, a neck that aches and begs for bruises, for fingers to wrap themselves around and squeeze. The thought excites me and I am forced to pull away, watch the trickle of blood down the white skin, the white sheets, the white mattress. Staining everything with my mark, with my existence (and this is the most exciting thing to happen to you in daysweeksmonths miss Dawes, you won't deny it when you wake up and scream, or feel the thrill of the mark like a lover's bite!).
I watch her reaction as the cold metal pressed against skin, the blooming blood, the ec-stasy inside of me—she sighs, almost leans into the soft metallic bite, and I bite back a peal of laughter and edge towards the window. A vision of her face, shining with tears, overtakes my thoughts, and my laughter booms into the air as I reach the outside, eager and oh so very anxious to hear the sobbing when they find Harvey's current state.
Sunlight is blooming across the horizon—crooked and red. Like a smile.