These characters are property of D.C. comics and are not mine in anyway, and believe me I don't make any monetary profit off this at all!
A/N: This is sort of an experimental and somewhat psychological piece that doesn't really have much action, sorry! Its only a first draft and I would really LOVE honest feedback and constructive criticisms as I feel the continuity and flow of the piece is somewhat disjointed. Despite its technical difficulties it is still one of my favorites, enjoy! And please, feedback and criticism is appreciated.
Ironic wasn't the right word, perhaps it was strange… She'd never been much of a whiz in English. Nevertheless, like the rest of her life it was unusual. Costumes were made for hiding people or pretending to be someone you are not; an opportunity to run away from yourself for a few moments. But not for Harley, she was never truly herself anymore without her red and black motley. She was the harlequin havoc that roamed Gotham with a smile on her face and finally some type of purpose, him. He had released her from her cage and made her into Harley Quinn; and Harley Quinn lived only for him. All those things she did to help him out; robberies, murders, run ins with the Bat, even cook and clean - all in red and black spandex. Her whole life revolved around his pleasure but never more so than when she was fully dressed. Like for the best of actors the character was there but never truly come to life without its costume. It was just an outward expression of who she really was and what she lived for.
Before the bathroom mirror she stood naked and exposed. Unclothed she was the imposter. With every stare she could still not shake off that nagging feeling that the other woman was still there. Harleen Quinzel. Who was she anyway? It was so long ago. Was it a trick or imagination? This naked reminder of the past who had gotten so wrapped up in trivial things like fame and acceptance was not the girl who lived for fun or more importantly, love. She needed to be dressed again as soon as possible.
The sudden movement set her off. Pain shooting through her body caused her to falter in her rush. The small mirror had not showed all of the bruises mottling her skin, but now she could see them, running down her arms and legs like surrealist pictures sprawled upon a canvas. The purples, blacks and blues ran into the pink of her flesh like the artist had spilled the paints straight onto the picture. It was impossible to tell where wound ended and unmarked skin began. Those were his marks, a physical testament that she was his possession and that he loved her enough to show it. She was the canvas for his art, such beautiful art. Finally she could stop worrying and smile. His constant marks; a physical reminder that he was always with her somehow and that she actually belonged, to him and with him. Proof that he was a part of her, his bruises and her flesh intertwined like lovers. And she didn't need a costume to know she was his Harley Quinn.
Exeunt