There's a man on the television, Christine thinks she knows him. His skin is too pale and hair is too bright, but she knows him anyway. Painted or dyed, she knows that face.
Knows the curve of his cheek, the column of his neck, the softness of his lips, knows them as well as she knows her own, has known them for years, has missed them for years.
It's changed though, even beyond the colours. His lips have stretched and split wide, a blood-red display case for off-white, too-sharp teeth and his eyes are wild and dark, no cowed and downcast as she had known them.
There's a woman beside him, slim and athletic. Christine knows her and doesn't. She wears a jester's hat, but Christine'll bet her front teeth that she's blonde. Probably has big blue eyes. She glances towards the mirror and flinches at the big blue eyes and the faded blonde hair that glance back.
Attention back to the television please!
He's back on screen, talking now, cheerfully rambling as he aims the gun in his long white fingers-
'You're too pale, too pale Jack, don'tcha ever go outside?'
- into the crowd. His voice is loud enough to drown out the screaming, and perhaps a little higher than it had been back when she knew it, but is smooth and entrapping, honey to a fly-
'Gonna trap a buncha ladies with that voice, baby, a whole bunch'
-and that's why that girl is at his side. The words and the voice, not the gun, or the fists that Christine's knows he uses. Christine lets out a bitter laugh. She knows. It's always the voice and the words and the
'Well, it was your fault honey, ya shouldn'ta got me mad, honey.'
Her laughter comes to a sudden, jarring halt, there's a lump in her throat, giant and stifling. Her cheeks grow wet, but her eyes don't leave the screen.
There's someone else there now, tall and broad and clad in black. Christine knows him too. Everyone knows him. Everyone thinks they know the pale man, but no one knows him the way Christine does.
No one else him close and rocked him as he cried.
No one else wiped the blood from his skinned knees or bathed his black eyes.
No one else missed him when he disappeared.
There's a man on the television. Christine thinks he's her son. The nurses that take care of her tell her he's not, but she knows.
Christine would know that laugh anywhere.
A/N: I don't know what the official stance on Joker's mother is in canon, but this is my take on it. I wrote this about a year ago and just never got round to posting it until now. Hope you enjoyed!