AN: So I started writing this one night for my friend because I told her I would write her a Batman fanfiction, and yes, I do have an insane obsession with the Joker and how his mind works. Also, yes, my name is Sarah and I am thirteen, but this didn't happen to me, obviously. Enjoy.

I woke up screaming.

Again.

"Sarah? Oh God, Sarah, are you okay?" My mom rushed into my room in her silk bathrobe looking petrified. I gasped for breath and looked over her.

"Just—"I stuttered, "Another one."

My mother sighed. It'd been the same for a while. This had happened two months ago and I still woke up screaming with thoughts of him in my head.

"I'm…. Fine, Mom…. Go… Back to bed."

She glanced back me, whispered, "I love you" and walked down the hallway back to her bedroom.

I dropped my head on my pillow and took long, deep breaths. I didn't want to think about it. Not now, not ever again, but the terrifying scene always played in my head.

Two months ago, I was at a bar with my dad, and I wasn't supposed to be there, right? I'm thirteen. But he brought me, because, well, we owned the bar. I was offered vodka and beer and hell, I could've taken it, but I didn't. So I sat on a bar stool as my dad got drunk with all of his rich friends and then I see a man sit down next to me. But he's not just a regular guy, okay, he's got this clown mask on, and he looks over to me and then from behind me someone covers my mouth and everything goes dark.

And I tried to scream and scream and scream but my consciousness wouldn't cooperate and before I knew it I was getting woken up by being prodded with a knife.

"Helloooooooooooooooooooo? Oh, good, you're awake."

That's when I actually screamed because he was standing there in front of me, licking his lips like he was a snake, standing there like he owned me. Of course I was frightened, he was the terrorist of all of Gotham and holy hell he was standing right in front of me.

"Welcome!" He grinned menacingly at me, bowing and I wish could've gotten up and ran, but no, oh god no, they tied me to a chair.

"What the fuck?" Was my first response to all of it.

"Oh come on, I'm just having a little… Fun." He laughed.

"What. The. Fuck."

"All right now, what would your daddy say?" That's when a few men, in clown masks like at the bar, walked in, carrying a body. As they came closer, I saw it was my father.

"WHAT. THE. FUCK. WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY DAD?"

"Well, Sarah, I'm using you as… Bait. Oh that's a good word. Bait."

He walked over to my father. He was wearing a purple suit. Purple. Who the hell wear's a purple suit? And his hair, it was green. It was actually green. Of course I'd seen the pictures, heard his voice, seen the videos, but he didn't look scary to me. He looked funny.

But that's when he pulled out the knife. He turned to me.

"You know why I use a knife, Sarah?" He paused, as if I knew the answer, but being the smart ass I am, of course I responded.

"Because it's slower? It's funnier?"

"Close. Well, because," He turned back to my father, sauntering around him, running his knife lightly around his face. "Guns. Guns are too quick, too… Blunt! But knives, oh, knives, they just make everything fun! You can torture," And he took the knife and so quickly and rammed it into my father's stomach. He lurched forward and moaned.

"Daddy?" I asked, afraid to make noise, like it would set the villain off.

"And torture," And did it again, right in his back.

"And torture." And again. "And they won't die. And it's just so… Fun! And that's a great word, a great, great word. Isn't it, David?"

My dad looked up and I swear he jumped.

"Awh, don't act scared, you've got your daughter right… Here" He sauntered back over to me, and he stood right in front of me, and winked.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH SARAH?" He thrashed but he couldn't move because he'd been stabbed and of course it hurt like hell and now they were tying him to a chair too.

He took out his knife and pointed it at my father. "You're going to answer my questions, or Sarah here is going to pay."

I looked over at my dad and we made eye contact and I couldn't bear to see him so weak.

"Ready, David?" The greasy haired man walked up in front of me and grabbed me by my cheeks. "She's pretty, isn't she? I'd hate to ruin such a pretty face." I didn't react. I couldn't move. "Now, where is he?"

"Who?"

"You know who I'm talking about, Davie." He chuckled, then he became serious. "Oh, she doesn't know, does she?" He looked at me, still holding my cheeks, squishing my face. "Oh, you don't know. Poor Sarah, living with such a rich daddy, but not knowing any of his little secrets." He pointed tauntingly at my father with his knife. Then he turned towards me with it and held it up to my mouth.

"You wanna know how I got these scars?" I shook my head. "My father. He was a drunk, just like yours. And one night, he came home drunk one night, and worse than the other times and he just went at her, so my innocent mother pulled out that kitchen knife right in her hand and no, no, no, daddy did not like that, and he took the knife and he looked at me, just standing there, watching them. And he took the knife and he said, "Why so serious?" And then he painted a smile on my face forever. Now everyone can see how happy I am." Then he turned back to my dad, who was bent over, but still looking up at us. "Don't worry, I didn't cut you anywhere too serious. You won't be dead for another three hours. That gives us lots, and lots of time."

"Where is he?" He turned towards my father, but still clinging on to me.

"I. Don't. Know." Then he took aim with the knife and threw it at my dad and it hit him in the arm.

"Her next, then?" And he opened his jacket and took out an even larger knife.

"I TOLD YOU I DON'T KNOW WHERE HE IS! I SWEAR TO GOD—PLEASE DON'T HURT HER, SHE DIDN'T DO IT—PLEASE." But the Joker just smiled and the blade ripped into my cheek. And I screamed because it hurt. It hurt so bad.

"STOP IT, STOP IT NOW, I DON'T KNOW, I DON'T KNOW WHERE HE WENT, PLEASE, OH GOD, PLEASE." And holy fuck my face hurt and he brought it right down into my lip connecting the cut, making my face like his, my face ruined. I tried to scream again but opening my mouth opened the cut and it burned, like my skin was on fire, and I didn't know how I was alive, how was I alive?

And god I felt pity for the man cutting my face because he wanted to show that he wasn't crazy, because he wasn't, he wasn't crazy, he just wanted to get even. He wanted to make everything fair, but things would never be fair because he couldn't go back now and he thought he didn't care but he cared and every time he did this, he ruined someone, he killed someone, he felt the pain, of course he felt the pain, and in that cut he just ruined my face with, I could feel it. He just wanted people to fear him and be on top because he didn't want to get hurt again just like he was a little boy in that kitchen and leaving his mother defenseless. He wanted to be strong and show everyone in Gotham the pain he got when he was a child and no he wasn't crazy, he wasn't crazy. He didn't want to be that little boy in that kitchen anymore, that hurting little boy.

"The other cheek, then?" And I would've opened my mouth and told him I knew, I knew how he felt but he just ruined my face, my mouth, and I couldn't talk and there was so much blood just going down my face and on my clothes and I couldn't breathe and I thought I was going to die but of course not because it wasn't enough to kill a person because look at the man in front of me, he sure wasn't dead, he was alive.

He held the knife up to my left cheek now, and started to tear it and oh my god I wanted my dad to lie to the Joker and say he knew where the man was but all I could hear was him yelling, "PLEASE, OH GOD, PLEASE, STOP, I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING" in between his useless sobbing. I looked up at the Joker and I don't know how I looked at him, I just did. I just looked at him, and there it was. The flash of pain in his eyes that I knew I would see. And I'd love to laugh and I made some noise, something, and he looked at me like I was the crazy one, and it made me "laugh" again. Oh, yes, I was going to die here, of course I was, but like the Joker said, why not make it fun? Fun fun fun fun fun fun. That's what it was all about; fun. And now both my cheeks were burning and it felt like I was being melted slowly like my skin would just melt right off of my body and I would just stop. I would just stop existing, just stop. And how great that would've been, how great.

Tears blurred my vision and I could barely see anything but I saw that bloody knife fly out of the Joker's hand and into my dad's stomach. The Joker turned to me again.

"That's why I use knives. With a gun, oh, he'd be dead, and where's the fun in that?" My father made a gurgling noise from across the room.

"What'd you say?"

Another gurgling noise.

"What'd you say?" He said louder, pulling my father straight by his hair.

"He went to," He coughed, blood dripping on the floor, "Hong Kong. He—He went to Hong Kong."

"Hong Kong? Fun. Hong Kong seems nice. I've never been. Have you? I bet you have. All that stuff," He waved his hand around like my dad knew he was talking about, "Always takes place in Hong Kong. Find somewhere new, why don't you?"

"And so ends the tragic story of a…. Lying, drunken father and a clueless daughter." He turned to me. "You can go." I felt the ropes fall behind me, which got cut by two goons in clown masks, though I didn't stand up. "I said you can go."

But I couldn't speak. I couldn't say a word to the man who was going to kill my father and maybe even kill me. So I just stared and I hope he saw the danger, the anger, the revenge that was burning in my eyes—hopefully not the fear. I stood up and looked at my dad and I wanted to cry and hug him and told him it would be okay, that yeah, he was going to die, but…. But….

I wasn't.

And he was, because just like this villain said, he was a drunk and he was a liar.

So I stood up and I upturned my lips in just the slightest way, with the price of excruciating pain, and curtsied and had the clowns lead me out.

That was the last time I saw my father. They never found his body, the never found any trace of where he was, or what happened. All anyone knows is that the Joker got me but thank God he didn't kill me, how sad that would've been for a millionaire's daughter to die. And I never spoke about it either, and no one asked. They just stared, because they thought, oh they thought, I chose to look like this. Who the hell on earth would choose to look like this? Their stares burned into my face all the time, every time I went to the bus to go to school, every driver would stare. And stare and stare.

And the day I came back? Sure, people heard. But they didn't see. My face – the only one I fucking have – was ruined and I wish for the day where I can find the Joker and ruin him too.

Ruin the Joker? Ha! How can a thirteen year old girl whose mind can't comprehend pre-algebra ruin Gotham's most feared criminal?

She can't.

And that's the problem.

Only a few people stayed my friends, because well, they thought I was going to be crazy like the Joker, crazy, the way that he really wasn't. They thought because he came to me and he cut me up like a piece of meat that I was going to fall into insanity just like he was and that being near me would make them crazy too, or I'd just kill them off if I got angry or they were just scared because I looked too much like the thing they'd come to fear. This girl named Cristina was nice to me back when, and when I came into school the first day, she looked over to me and started talking. She was usually quiet but I guess she decided I needed to have someone to talk to. We talked about books and comics a lot, when we actually spoke. So my mom was driving Cristina and I back from the coffee shop that was dimly lit where we sat in the back and drank our coffee and made small talk. It wasn't bad. Not many people stared and that was nice.

So we were driving home, right? And my mom, she slows down a bit at this turn. Then I see something impossible, something crazy, and I scream. My mom stops in the middle of the road and she looks back at me, but it's too late. The bullet is already through her head and now Cristina is screaming next to me. The door slides open and then her body goes rigid and still and she looks at me and she's dead.

"Oh, look at my luck. Exactly the car I wanted." He shut the door and hopped into the front seat, pushing my mom onto the street.

But I couldn't say anything. This couldn't be happening again. It wasn't me. I didn't do anything. My father was dead and I didn't know anything about what he was doing or anything and now he's back, he's in the car sitting in front of me with a knife being held in his mouth now and he takes it out and he looks back at me.

"Come sit up here." He pats the passenger seat. I oblige and climb up there. I look straight forward as he keeps going towards my house.

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. So I just… Don't.

"So how've you been, Sarah?"

I still don't respond. Maybe if I'm quiet enough he won't notice me and leave. Or not.

"I asked how you are, Sarah."

"Well, I'm shit. Thanks for caring." I tried to smile at myself being a smartass, but the stitches wouldn't allow me to. I wondered if I could still smile. I mean, he could still smile, but like… He'd had these scars for a while now and why the hell am I thinking this?

"Why's that?"

"Well some guy kind of ruined my life a couple months ago by basically slaughtering my face."

"Hey. Hey, look at me." He grabbed my face and I winced. "I didn't ruin your life. Your father did." I wanted to be angry at him, I wanted to yell and tell him that my father didn't put a knife up to my face and ruin my chance for a normal life but it was my dad's fault. If he didn't get into the mob and the gambling I wouldn't be in my mom's van with my dead friend in the back and my dead mom down the street in the car with the most wanted villain in Gotham. Y'know maybe if my dad hadn't gone to that bar that night, hadn't brought me, none of this would've happened. He might've gotten killed but… Who cares, really?

"Um, so where are you taking me this time?"

"Well, I'm using you as bait. You make very good bait."

"Thanks." I shot back, then turned around to see Cristina sitting lifelessly behind me. She could be sleeping, but she wasn't. There was a trickle of blood running down her entire side and that just kind of broke me right there.

"How the hell can you do this to people? They didn't do anything to you, my God, just because your life was fucked up doesn't mean you have to rein terror on the people of this town! Go to therapy or something, man. You're fucking crazy!" It just came out. It was just a reaction to sitting next to this man. I mean, you had to think something was wrong with him. He couldn't just be a normal person who decided killing people was his passion.

"I'm not. I'm not crazy."

I didn't say it out loud but I agreed with him. He wasn't crazy. He proved that to me quite some time ago.

"And how," I asked, trying to avoid the whole 'crazy' subject again. That's funny. Trying to avoid something with someone who is probably going to try and murder you soon. "Are you going to use me as bait this time? My dad's dead and my mom's dead. What do I have now? A ruined face and some fortune that I wouldn't know what to do with?"

"See, money isn't a main focus in life, it really shouldn't be. Do I look like I have any money? And look how successful I've turned out." He laughed at his own joke. I didn't. "Well, I'm using you as bait because as I must explain to my… Victims, in lack of a better word, people don't panic when things go according to plan. When I say I'm going to kill a child molester, or people are going to die in a war, nobody cries, nobody's frightened, because they think that those things just… Should happen. But when I say I'm going to kill a rich man's daughter," He hit me in the chest, indicating he was talking about me, "There's chaos. I once told a very great man a similar thing like that. He then proceeded to kill many people and die. You might've heard of him. What was his name? Oh, Harvey Dent. He had the right idea. I gave him the idea, but who cares? He took it and ran with it."

"Now he's dead."

"Death. Now that's another story. Oh God no, he's not dead. We hear his name being thrown around all the time, the rumors still being spread. And when the name Harvey Dent, or more formerly known as Two Face, stops being thought of, stops being spoken, that's when he's dead." He seemed lost in a trance as he said this but snapped right back to it. "That's what everyone wants to do, right? Nobody wants to be forgotten. Some people will be remembered for the good they did, and some people will be remembered for the bad. As for me, I'd like to be remembered for the balance I put back into this great city." He chuckled at his own joke, and I cracked a small smile. I shouldn't smile though. I shouldn't be smiling.

My father is dead. My mother is dead. My best friend is dead. And what am I doing to grieve in their deaths? Laughing with their murderer. What's wrong with me?

What is wrong with me?

I look over to the man who started this whole catastrophe and think of it as his fault. He gave me the ideas that I was crazy. And it's not like he told me them, it's just being around this guy for so long, or once like I've been, it just gets you thinking about who's wrong and right, although I don't think many people who've met him have gotten the chance to ponder his ideas. Then that sparks me a question: Why hasn't he killed me yet? I've never even heard of him using the same person twice. I'm only thirteen and what can he take from me now? He's gotten both my parents and information of what my dad was doing. What else could he possibly want from me?

Then he passed the street to my house. He wasn't going to my house. He wasn't going to my house. He wasn't going to my house. Then where the hell was he going?