She had a horrible feeling that things were starting to go downhill the night he decided to dye his hair green. She'd worked a full day and had to come home to this - an apartment that was dank and torn to pieces.
As if it weren't back breaking enough working ten hour days as a waitress in a truck stop; the fact that she was forced to endure perverted men who stared and touched her inappropriately all day long was just as horrible.
As if that weren't as degrading and demeaning as it got - she had to come home and get down on her hands and knees to clean.
Even worst, come home and take care of a man who was there physically, for the most part, but in another world completely, inside of his head.
It was messy and she could never find what she needed. In their house, hardly anything ever stood out or shone brightly beneath the grime.
But this stuff was brand new, and this was unmistakable. There was a bottle of peroxide lying on the sink and it was empty. Green smears and smudges covered practically every surface. It was in the shower, on the mirror, and all over the tub.
Without a doubt he would make her scrub it. He would make her clean up his mess if she hadn't already done herself the favor and gotten rid of it before he returned.
He was out now - caravanning around with green hair, and she felt embarrassed for him as well as herself. Perhaps it wasn't that bad - she told herself. She willed it to be so, and although she hadn't seen how it looked yet, she could only imagine.
She had no idea why he would dye his hair. The only explanation she could conjure for his drastic actions was alcohol.
Hopefully he wouldn't come home drunk; hopefully he would be having a good day and he'd ask her to clean it up nicely. She prayed he wouldn't come back with breath reeking of some horrible smelling, aged liquor; his eyes wide and red, with blood veins pulsing across his pupils like the hot liquid that seared through his veins.
Burning crimson blood coursed through the very same veins and arms that she had once loved, but grown to fear. The thick lines that etched across his muscled forearms and shone bright, electric blue every time he raised his hand to strike her.
She prayed he wouldn't come home drunk. She prayed even harder, that, if he did, he'd go strait into bed and pass out without realizing he'd covered the bathroom in green dye. She prayed he wouldn't grow angry, start another horrid fight, and then thrash about the way he always did, nearly destroying everything that hadn't been destroyed already.
The place was abolished. His temper was out of bounds; he couldn't handle it, and neither could she. He had severe anger problems and could not control himself no matter how much she pleaded and begged. She'd do something trivial and it would make him so incredibly angry that it terrified her.
He'd lash out. She couldn't remember a time where they fought and he didn't become violent. Even when they first began dating, he was always on the brink of blowing up.
She should have known. She thought herself stupid now for not leaving him sooner; they shouldn't be this far into the relationship.
She was in much too deep. In fact, she was in over her head; she was practically drowning.
She had been carrying his child for the last five months, and she was in love with him. She loved him no matter what he did to her; no matter how many times he struck her, or how many horrible names he called her. Somewhere deep inside, she hoped things would change.
She prayed every night that he'd get better; that he'd wake up in the morning and the black shades on the windows would disappear. The sun would be shining on his face, flooding him with warmth, and hopefully he'd feel good again; his hair would shine chestnut and his eyes would glow like redwood - just the way it used to be.
She thought news of the baby would make him change. She thought he'd be happy and embrace her, kiss her and tell her everything would be just fine. Instead he picked up a bottle of alcohol, and sat with it, unspeaking until he had reached the bottom.
He stood from the rickety wooden chair at the kitchen table, and approached her. His breath was hot and his eyes wild. He spoke down to her. He yelled and screamed, cursing her for being so stupid as tears spilled down his cheeks.
How could she ever have been so fucking dumb? He shouted. How could she have let this happen? How horrible this news was, and how much more terrible their lives would become. He slapped her and spit upon her, punishing her for being so careless. This baby would be a burden.
She had no idea how he'd grown so incredibly angry. She had no idea what she'd done to make him hate her so much. It hadn't always been like this. The apartment hadn't always been messy.
In fact, at one point, it had been quite nice. Everything had been intact instead of strewn about the floor in pieces. Their bed had been made, and there were flowers on the window sill; bright yellow poppies that were cheerful.
Once, a long time ago, they made him happy, and so did she. He had been wonderful, believe it or not - Once, a long time ago. They were in love - but that, like everything else - was a long time ago.
He went through his phases. So did she. Everyone went through phases, but she had never met someone with phases quite so horrible as his. She was being harsh, she thought. She couldn't expect him to be perfect, now could she?
Even she had a bad day every now and again; she had a lot of bad days. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she had a good day.
There were good days when they first got together, but those were last she could remember.
She got down on her hands and knees on the freezing cold linoleum floor. She wouldn't bother to take off her uniform, she couldn't afford to waste the time; he could be home any moment now. She didn't mind the grim, for she was used to it. After all what's another dirt stain on the knees? She preferred dirt marks much more than black eyes; an unforgiving blue and yellow that stained her skin.
She grabbed a sponge from beneath the sink and began to work at the bright green smudges. Her arm bounded quickly from North to South, the color barely lifting.
She was quickly tiring. Every inch of her body ached and she begged for a moment where she didn't have to clean something up or practically kill herself to make him happy. All she wanted was for him to take care of her. All she wanted was for things to go back to the way they used to be.
When they first started dating he was charming. He had curly hair that was shoulder length and the color of chocolate. He had stunning brown eyes the color of caramel, and they danced like stars that masqueraded together in orbit. His face was chiseled and defined. He was skinny but muscular; lean, but lengthy.
He appeared healthy back then. Now he was sick, and he looked it. His hair was oily and flat; the bounce she once loved to run her fingers through was long gone. He was skinny to the point that you could see ribs pertruding from his sides, and he refused to eat much, no matter how much she pleaded. Not only was he sick physically, but his mind was sick too, and he was unwilling to go to the doctor.
Sometimes she thought they'd jumped into the relationship too quickly. She didn't think it, she knew it for fact. She'd made the decision to move in with him early on.
He had found her on the streets with no place to turn and no where else to go. He was a generous soul and had brought her in on the day that they'd met. She'd taken up horrible habits to support herself and could often be found hanging around the worst clubs in Gotham City with the worst types of people.
Her home life was in shambles. She couldn't go back there. She refused. Her parents hated her and she hated them.
She was at a dingy bar that night, surrounded by mobsters and other bad guys - as she often was. If she wasn't at a bar then she was at the towns strip club, trying to earn some easy, but shameful money.
She hadn't been home in months. She'd been sleeping in random acquaintances' apartments, on the floors, or in sleeping bags if the people were hospitable, but they rarely were. Anything was better than the hell hole she was raised in. It wasn't often that she got hit on the streets, as apposed to the abuse she got at home.
He came to the bar that night and she spotted him right away. She knew all of the regulars and he defiantly wasn't regular. He was the farthest thing from it, but perfectly imperfect all the same. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd. He was a sparkling diamond in a sea of dreary coal. He was a bright purple suit in an ocean of leather.
He sauntered towards her, pulling at the folds of his coat with head held high. He was determined and she was his main objective.
"Why hello, hello there my sweet." He said in a voice that didn't quite suit him. There was something behind it, something menacing that surrounded the delectable ring. "Would you like to see a magic trick?"
Her first impression was that he was weird. Weird, but incredibly attractive despite the outlandish attire and a large scar that stretched up like a hook from the corner of his mouth, towards the middle of his left cheek. "Sure." She agreed, unafraid to talk to strangers.
This guy was obviously interested, hence his reason for approaching. If anything she would hopefully be able to turn a trick and get a couple dollars out of the guy.
He sat down on the bar stool beside her and put his hands behind his back. "Pick a hand," He smiled, the scar stretching to the apple of his cheek. "Any hand."
She tapped his right shoulder and then he removed the arm from behind him. There was a devilishly charming smirk plastered across his lips as he held out a worn leather wallet. He'd stolen it from the man who sat behind him. "Let me buy you a drink." He offered, pulling a twenty dollar bill out of the stack and then tucked the rest of the money into the breast pocket of his suit.
And bought her a drink. He bought the both of them a Scotch on the rocks and followed it with several more. It was early in the morning by the time the bartender yelled last call, and he offered to escort her home. She unwillingly, and embarrassingly, admitted that she didn't have a home, and he insisted she come back to his.
That night he took her home to his apartment and sat her down at the kitchen table. He fed her a sandwich as well as milk and let her eat until her stomach was full. He helped her into bed and let her fall asleep with his arms wrapped snugly around her. It was then that she decided she was in love with him.
The next morning she woke up and cleaned the apartment for him. She placed the friendly flowers onto the window sill and let them bask in the glowing sunlight. It was as bright a day as she could remember, and she felt happy; a feeling she hadn't experienced in quite some time.
She made him breakfast and brought it to him in bed, and it was then that he told her she should move in. She had nothing but the clothes on her back. She was willing to stay without hesitation.
Those were happy memories; happy memories that she fantasized about while doing unpleasant tasks and chores.
The green stain she had been working on for quite some time was nearly gone, but there were several more to go. There was a loud noise from the other room; the sound of the door banging against the wall. She prayed he didn't leave a mark or make a dent, because he'd hold her responsible.
"Honey!" He called, his voice echoing off of the walls; she scrubbed harder. "I'm home!"
"Coming baby!" She called back, hurrying to get off of her knees. She checked her appearance in the mirror before quickly leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind her. She would take every precaution necessary to ensure that he didn't see it.
She bounded down the hallway, coming across him sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. Sure enough, his hair was a fluorescent shade of green. She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him, unsure of what else to do.
He gazed upon her with squinted eyes, he wanted to see her reaction clearly. "Why so serious?" He finally spoke, taking a drag off of the cigarette.
She searched her head for an answer, stuttering out syllables in attempts to answer him. "What's the matter?" He asked.
"Nothing." She lied, going to the fridge and pulling out things that she could make into a dinner for him.
"You don't like my hair do you?"
"Yes." She lied, turning the stove on. He got up from his seat and stood behind her, breathing down her neck with piping hot air.
"Don't lie to me." He was drunk. She could smell him from across the room when he was sitting down. He'd been at the bar drinking all day and she had been at work, forcing herself well past the breaking point just so they'd have the money to keep the apartment.
He put his hand onto the countertop next to the open flame atop the stove. He practically burned himself and she had no idea why he wasn't screaming in pain from the hot. She suspected he couldn't feel anything anymore.
His knuckles were purple and covered in blood. He had been drinking and got into another fight at the bar.
"I'm not lying baby." She turned off the flame and spun around to face him - he pushed her against the countertop and she was cornered.
She was scared. This wasn't the first time he'd cornered her.
He grabbed her by the chin and squeezed, forcing her to look him directly in the face with wide, watery eyes.
"Why do you look at me like that?" He asked, shaking her head from side to side. His breath was disgusting. It smelled as if he hadn't brushed his teeth in days and there was the sickening smell of stale alcohol on top of it.
"Because I love you." She replied, and she was being honest. She loved him with all of her heart. "I'm worried about you."
He searched her eyes. The warm chestnut color that once was, was now gone; his pupils were dilated and they were black. He looked dead. He looked demonic.
"What's there to be worried about?" He twisted a lock of curled blond hair around his finger, giving it a generous tug. It hurt, but she let him without complaint. "There's nothing to be worried about."
"I never see you happy anymore." She told him, rubbing the side of his face with a gentle hand. "I just want to see you smile."
"Would that make you happy?" He questioned, although the answer was obvious.
"Yes." She nodded her head quickly, kissing him softly on the neck. "If I could wish for one thing in the world, it would be to see you smile again."
"I'd do anything to make you happy, do you know that?" He questioned, pulling a large butchers knife out of the rack behind her. She tensed up. He'd pulled knives on her before and it never resulted well. She had numerous scars from their encounters, including one that divided her eyebrow into two halves.
He held it out in between them and turned it in the light; the knife glinted, and with each shine, she jumped. Knives had always made her shaky. He placed the weapon against her throat and ran the steel across her burning flesh.
"You want to see me smile more?" He said, his voice getting higher. His anger was rising and she knew it, she could see the signs from a mile away. He moved away from her quickly, the knife scraping across her delicate skin.
The refrigerator door swung open with force, causing the condiments on the shelf to go flying onto the floor.
He grabbed a tall bottle of booze that he had kept in the fridge to get cold. He twisted the cap with his teeth, his eyes wild as he stared at her, and then he spit it to the side. He put the mouth of the bottle to his lips and chugged until the clear liquid was almost gone.
"You want to see a smile on my face, honey?" He questioned, quickly becoming tipsy. He waltzed up to her, his steps jerky and uneven for he couldn't walk in a strait path. "I'll smile for you."
He brought the knife to the right side of his face and put the sharp end of the blade inside of his mouth, placing it against the corner of his lip.
"What are you doing!" She shouted, trying to pull the knife away from him, but not succeeding.
He was too strong and too determined. Her trying to pull the knife away only made him hold on tighter; the blade jerking against his skin cut a series of slits along the side of his face.
"Get the knife out of your mouth, you stupid fuck!" She shouted, punching him on the chest in a last desperate attempt.
"I just want to make you happy, baby." He replied, and then cut into his cheek, bringing the knife upward with a sharp movement and forming a hooked shape cut about three inches long. He took the knife away from his face as blood gushed from his wound; staining the front of his clothes.
He had done the same thing to the right side of his face that his father had done to the left when he were merely a child.
He smiled at her and his teeth and gums were exposed. His face was cut in half and he was in no pain whatsoever. He had mimicked the shape his father cut all those years before, and now the scars on his face resembled something close to a morbid clown smile.
"I'm leaving!" She said, terrified now. "I cant stay here anymore!"
A feeling of sickness rose inside of her. Her stomach lurched and a lump rose in her throat at the sight; blood all over him and all over the floor.
She backed away from him, holding her hands out behind her to search for something, anything she could get her hands on that would protect herself.
"You're not leaving." He said simply, as if it were fact. He held the blood covered knife up and turned it around in circles, examining it.
"I wont let you leave." He stuck out his tongue and licked the crimson liquid off of the steel. "And if you do leave, I'll find you." He was laughing. Laughing like he were telling some sick, hysterical joke. "If you leave, I'll kill you."
She believed him. She had to run, she had to get out while she still had a chance. "You're fucking crazy." She said, growing angry through her fear.
"What did you say?" His head tilted to the side and he put the knife down onto the table, stepping up to her swiftly before she could take the chance to turn and run. She wanted to believe that he loved her. She wanted to believe that he would never really hurt her, at least not horribly.
"I said you're fucking crazy!" She shouted once more, and he was in her face, breathing down on her with thick, blistering air stained of vodka.
"I'll show you fucking crazy!" He shouted, a deep growl bellowing from the inner depths of his tummy; and then he struck her. He hit her so hard across the face that her whole body went numb.
Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor, her being hurting so terribly that she couldn't even cry. Blood was splattered everywhere in front of her and she couldn't tell if it was his or hers.
If he didn't get to a hospital soon he would bleed to death. She tried to tell him this but it was faint; she could barely breath, let alone talk, but she tried with all her might to tell him to go get help. He was talking to her, she could hear him faintly but not quite understand.
There was a pain atop her head from him pulling her hair, and that was the last thing she felt before the sharp pain in her stomach - the feeling of his foot colliding with her belly and their baby.
There was a loss of oxygen and the room swelled. The edges of her vision went blurry and grey and then everything was gone. The room had disappeared and so did the pain.
There was a ringing in her ears; a sound that buzzed around like an angry group of bee's swarming around her head. Her temples pulsed with every struggling heart beat, and hurt so bad it felt like someone were banging cymbals against both sides of her skull.
It was terrible, and so was he, but it didn't prevent her from thinking of him. He was her baby, and the only person she was ever willing to love. She saw his face in her mind, smiling and happy - the way she wished he would be.
She could hear a faint grunting and it inspired her to open her eyes. It was hard at first, the light stung and made them water. There was a weight upon her body, something heavy and immovable; she tried wearily pushing it off, but the being wouldn't budge.
Her body was moving slowly and in a familiar fashion that she couldn't quite put her finger on until her eyes adjusted to the light.
He pushed his lips against hers and their teeth bumped, she could taste sulfur and salt on her tongue; the sickening taste of blood.
Her eyes opened completely and that's when she realized that he was on top of her. He had sewn up the side of his face with one of her stitching needles
and fishing line.
She turned her head away from him, for she couldn't bere to see him like that. He grabbed her by the face and jerked her head back so quickly it hurt. He forced her to look at him as he raped her.
The sight and smell of blood, seeing her sprawled out on the floor with legs open and askew, must have aroused him. He pulled off her panties and hiked up her skirt, having his way with her while she was passed out.
He kissed her again and she still tasted the blood that coated his mouth from the wound. She smiled. It had been a while since they were that close. Even though he had forced himself upon her, she was glad they were close again. She always considered sex to be the most intimate act - it was more or less a form of pleasure for him, but an excuse to keep him close for her; to feel him inside of her - closer to her than anyone had ever been.
She wrapped her arms around him and held tightly until she heard his last moans of release, and he tore away from her. He rose to his knees and pulled out; letting white hot liquid shoot out of him, and onto her - he let it stick to her work uniform and her skin.
With that said and done he rose and walked away, zipping up the fly of his jeans as he bent down beside the kitchen cabinet and grabbed another bottle of golden liquor.
He sat down at the kitchen table beside her and cracked it open, her eyes fluttered in feeble attempts to keep them open.
He took a long swig and then gazed down upon her as she looked up at him with eyes like a new born babies.
"Get up." He kicked her lightly with the toe of his boot and she could barely feel it. "Get up!" He repeated when she didn't obey.
With as much strength as she could muster, she pulled herself from the floor. All the muscle had gone from her body and it was quite a chore to lift herself.
She nearly threw up all over the floor in front of her, but refrained - she knew he'd make her clean it, just like he'd make her clean the blood on the floor.
"How'd you sleep, sweetie?" He asked, a charming ring to his sinister voice. She didn't answer him. She couldn't find her voice. Not just yet. She grumbled incomprehensively instead.
She pulled herself to the table, placing herself upon the chair the best she could before grabbing the bottle of liquor out of his hand and taking a hearty chug for herself.
"Bitch." He said outright, taking the bottle back from her with such force that some of the booze flew out from the neck and spilt on the table.
"Crazy piece of shit." She replied, and his eyes got wide.
"Call me crazy, one more time." He dared her, and she wasn't afraid.
"You're fuckin' crazy." Was all she said. He rose from the seat and grabbed onto the edge of the table with both hands. In a split second it was gone and had done a summersault mid air; splintering against the kitchen counter.
He stepped up next to her seat and grabbed her by the neck, pulling her up by choking her until she was face to face with him. She couldn't breath. She was suffocating and she was dying.
Hot tears spilt from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "Please." She begged him, hoping he'd let her down if he loved her. "I cant do this anymore." She coughed out.
His thumb was digging into her flesh so hard she feared he might break her wind pipe. He put her down and she grabbed her throat, plopping back onto the chair and heaving to get the air back into her lungs.
"You don't want to do what anymore, baby?" He asked, and she wished he hadn't called her a sweet pet name.
"This." She coughed, clutching her throat. "I don't want to be with you anymore." More tears rolled down her face and she sobbed loudly, not caring what he thought of her for crying. "I don't want to be alive anymore."
He sat on the seat next to her, his face in his hands. "What are you saying?"
"I'm leaving you." She choked out bravely, attempting to take a stand for once. She stood from her seat and started to hobble towards the door, broken and unfixable.
"I told you that you can never leave me." He growled, grabbing her from behind. He dug his fingers into her stomach and she felt the baby kick wildly.
"The baby." She whispered, and his grip loosened momentarily. "Are you going to kill me?" She asked up front, and then there was the feeling of cold, slick steel against the burning hot skin of her neck.
"Are you going to leave me?" He replied.
"Yes." She answered.
"Then yes." He replied. "I'm going to kill you."
"Why?" She dared to question, dared to buy herself time although she wasn't truly afraid of dying.
"Because you're mine." He answered, his voice a growl. "And if I cant have you, then no one can."
She felt the tip of the blade dig into her skin and she could barely speak.
"I love you." He continued, kissing the side of her face gently and giving her a minute to reply.
"I hate you." Was what she said.
She tried to take a step foreword, hoping that he'd loosen his grip and just let her walk away; knowing deep down inside that it was for the best. She couldn't deal with him anymore, she couldn't deal with his anger and his issues. Things were getting worst. What he did to her would eventually escalate to bigger things and more people. She couldn't just sit around and let it happen with nothing but a smile on her face.
His grip didn't loosen, instead she felt the blade penetrate her skin and it ripped across her neck. She felt faint and her head spun. The room was running in circles and a lump rose into her throat.
She looked down and saw blood spilling across her dress and all over the floor, but she couldn't feel a thing. She felt hot; Incredibly hot. Like she were in an over.
She couldn't breath, but she could feel the baby kicking furiously inside of her. She was dying, and so was it. They would be dead soon. She fell to the floor, reaching for her neck and feeling a hot liquid run from throat as she lie on her side, holding on to life.
She tried to choke out words, tried to reach for him, but he wouldn't come. He looked down upon her for a second before he walked into the bathroom and went into her side of the cabinet.
He grabbed a shade of bright red lipstick and what remained of the face paint she'd used at Halloween. She watched, dying, as he covered his face in white and blackened his eyes. He put on the finishing touches as the last of her life abstaining blood flowed from her body and onto the floor.
He covered his lips and the scars on his face with the bright crimson color and turned back just as the corners of her vision went blurry and grey. He knelt down beside her and kissed her forehead, leaving a bright red mark on her head like a grandma would.
With her last shuttering breath she was barely able to whisper out her last 'I love you'. On her last shuttering breath he asked her, "Why so serious?".
With the death of his wife and unborn child, there was a birth in Gotham City - the birth of a horrid mass murderer - the birth of 'The Joker'.