Disclaimer: Being a student there is very little I can afford, Nolan's The Dark Knight is definitely not one of the things I can. I'm borrowing without permission and hoping puppy dog eyes and a trembling bottom lip will get me out of this in one piece : )
Author's Note (Please Read!): Seriousity is an implication, not necessarily a description of an alternative way that The Joker may have gotten his scars. It may be a little bizarre and not everyone's cup of tea but I wanted to share it with you anyway. If it is well received I'll extend it into a full length story; if not, never mind. It is a crossover with one of my favourite franchises but I'm not going to tell you what it is, although I think you'll guess straight away. I do apologise for the short length, but if I made it any longer I think it would have lost the impact it makes (or at least I'm hoping it makes lol). For more info about this one-shot, visit my profile.
I really hope you enjoy this, please let me know what you think, thank you!
Seriousity is dedicated to my wonderful boyfriend Jonny and fellow Joker fan, Lotte (FairyTaleCorruption).
Seriousity
By DawnStag
"Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes another... if I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice!"- The Joker
It was the pungent smell of damp filling his nostrils that woke him. A cold chill settled on his spine, his head pulsating painfully from a blow he could not remember receiving. No bright light punished his eyes when he finally snapped them open; instead an endless darkness greeted the bloodshot orbs.
The tingling sensation of pin and needles spread through his legs like wild fire, the gentle pressure of what felt like hundreds of sharp, needle-like tips stroked the soles of his bare feet as he sat strapped to a hard, straight backed wooden chair. Swallowing with a strange difficulty he frowned and made to move his arms, only to find that no matter how hard he tugged he could not release them from the iron cuffs that shackled them to the arm rests of his seat; it appeared only his legs could move freely. Not that he was going to do so with God knows what beneath his vulnerable feet.
Looking back at the time, he would find it odd that he did not notice the way his mouth was stretched open; perhaps it was the fact the local anaesthetic had only just begun to wear off by that point. A cold, razor sharp edge pressed against the soft, smooth skin of his lips and cheeks just like the needle-tips did his feet.
His breathing hitched before continuing at a heightened pace, heart racing even faster than before as sweat built up on his forehead. Where was he? What was happening? He couldn't even remember what he had been doing before waking up where he was. How long had he been there? Hours? Days? Why would some one do this? He was a good man! He went to church, he followed the Bible to the last letter – he had never committed a sin in his life! Surely it couldn't be a practical joke gone too far? If it was, it wasn't funny. This couldn't be what he thought it was…
A light flickered on not far from where he was imprisoned, the spotlight illuminating an old television set that crackled into life, the static on the screen soon replaced with the stoic, haunting form of a peculiar puppet; the long, square shape of the ivory face highlighted by the red swirls upon its cheeks. He couldn't help but shudder as the puppet turned in his direction, the cold blank eyes boring into his own in a way he could never have imagined possible. But as he sat there, unable to tear his gaze from the puppet he noticed that there was indeed life behind those eyes, the harsh judgement he had often seen in his father's once again staring at him critically. He couldn't help but recoil ever so slightly at the sight of it, at the memories. And then, after a moment of silently observing him through the old TV, the puppet's mouth opened jarringly, and it began to speak.
"Hello Jack, I want to play a game."
Thank you for reading, I'd very much appreciate all the feedback I can get, cheers.
- DS