Tom, he was a piper`s son.
Not bonded by blood, but Joker considered himself Father`s son. Just like all the children of the gutter were the children of Father.
He learned to play when he was young.
He had learned to play. Joker had learned to play the dance of the sword. Father had considered the melody beautiful from the first play. Joker had grown to like the grotesque music over the years aswell. At least enough to sleep at night. At least enough to be able to look into the eyes of his family without hating himself. At least enough to live on.
But all the tune that he could play was „Over the hills and far away..."
The music. The grotesque music that Joker played, sent humans, other living beings just like him and yet mot, to the beyond. Over the hills that seperate this world from the next. And further... and further... untill they could not be seen anymore.
„Over the hills and a great way off, the wind shall blow my top-knot off..."
This melody would melt away his sanity. He could feel it slip between his fingertips and he would chase after it to the hills. Joker would run for the hills. He would run towards death without knowing it. He would try to maintain his mind. He would try to plaster a smile on his bloodsoaked face. He would pretend he wasn`t loosing it even as in the mirror he could still see it. See himself covered in the blood of others and know it would never be washed away.
And yet, until he reached the hills, he would still be alive. He would suffer, bound, until death would set him free. He would reach for it. Wait to be set free, and hopefully, he would.
However, how fast you reach something depends on how fast you run.