Author's Note: I am having a difficult time coming up with a title for this story, so if you guys have any feedback/ideas it would be appreciated! Also, just a heads up the Joker is less sadistic/psychopathic in my story, since this is a romance. I have been wanting to write this for awhile because I generally dislike the OC's people come up with or I find the story just plain weird/sadistic/freaky. So, here is my attempt. Hope you enjoy! Please rate and review...I really love reviews.

Arkham Asylum. Joker's POV

I've been stuck here for quite sometime. Stuck is not quite the right word. I suppose I could get out whenever I pleased, but for some reason the timing wasn't right. I had this icky feeling in my gut everytime I got close to escaping, or thinking about escaping, so here I am, waiting.

This place...I hate it. It's smells old and of death. Not the fun kind of death either. It is the kind of stale, sterile, hospital death scent. Everything is a sickly white. Our garb, the walls, the bedsheets, even the furniture is some kind of rusted form of white. The only color that pops up here and there is the grey of metal and concrete, the hospital blue of tables and trays in the cafeteria, and the sickly, jaundiced yellow of the therapy session rooms. It could drive a person mad, haha. They need a bit more color. A bit more fun! They were so dull they made me take my war paint off!

The people here are even worse. They're all mad, crazy even. The doctors, patients, guards. But not me of course. No no, haha, not me. I'm as sane as they come. Unfortunately no one here was smart enough to recognize that.

Anyways, back to the task at had. I had been sitting in my cot staring at the white around me, plotting the various ways to murder Dr. Benson on my escape. He was a sick sick man and I am sure he does not have a degree. The things he does to the people in here is torturous; there are things that I wouldn't subject on people myself that he does in the name of therapy. Even I'm not that cruel, haha.

Just as I was getting to the part when I would finally slit his throat, the cell door across from mine opened. I peeked through my small window and saw my favorite guard, Officer Mark Pines, escorting a lovely little woman to the cell. Escorting is too kind of a term. He was rough with her, and after practically manhandling her down the hall he shoved her into her cell. With the way he treated her, I couldn't see her face (she kept her head down anyways). All I saw were soft chocolate brown locks of hair that fell midway down her back. I was intrigued, to say the least.

From what I could tell she didn't get off the floor where Pines left her for quite some time, so I sat back down in my cot and tried to think of all the various scenarios that could have occurred for the lady to end up here. While my mind was running with ideas, none seemed to quite fit. With these thoughts, I finally drifted to into fitful sleep.

Arkham Asylum. Analiese's point of view

I had been roughly transferred to my cell by a burly guard, Pines I think. I felt so violated with the way he practically groped me down the hall. I was so upset that I just sat there on the floor. I was scared. Arkham had quite the reputation and I didn't want to look out my cell window to see who the loonies were who surrounded me.

I resolved to myself that I would lay low until I could get out of here, whenever that would be. Not that I was outspoken by any means. Oh no, I was as shy and quiet as they come. I had yet to meet my psychiatrist; Dr. Benson I believe was his name. I'm not entirely sure. Regardless, I had a a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that he would be just as crazy as that guard. Nevertheless, I tried my best to shrug these feelings off.

I was in this predicament and though I didn't deserve to be here, I would try to make the best of it. It just that, I hate being surrounded by idiots all the time. And to think, I am now surrounded by psycho idiots...

Once again I tried to shrug these feelings off and get to sleep. Needless to say I ended up staring at the whiteness around me until the lights went off. You know what? The blinding whiteness of the room becomes the blackest and darkest of rooms with the lights off. All the more reason to make a cocoon out of my one frayed blanket and stare into the abyss.