Why is it that I always love the ones who don't want me?
Maybe it's my destiny to give love, but to never receive it. I guess I'll have to find out.
I looked into bathroom mirror and winced. A dark purple bruise was forming on my cheek.
He hit me again.
The bloodshot baby blue eyes in the mirror stared back at me questioningly.
I don't know why I even try anymore. Maybe it's this stupid heart of mine. Maybe I still have a fragment of hope that another tedious favor for him and a little makeup covering the bruises will fix everything.
I opened up a drawer and took out a washcloth. Wetting it, I continued to rub off the rest of my makeup.
I used to have principles, damnit! What happened? How did I get like this?
Oh, right.
Arkham.
(what a place!!)
That night that the Batman brought him in.
I remember looking up the Batman's looming figure thinking I'm standing not five feet from Gotham's savior… or damning martyr.
Eyes never leaving mine, he rasped "I believe this is yours." And he held up this… this thing. It, whatever it was, was crumpled and bleeding. It looked like it may have been, at one point in time, been a man. A tall, lanky, basket case of a man.
My puddin'…
…
My puddin'!!!
…
WHAT HAS HE DONE TO MY PUDDIN'?!
Ugh, just seeing the Batman's rock-like hand on puddin's neck (or the shattered remnants of it) made me sick.
He dropped Mr. J into my lap (oh, my poor poor puddin…) and before I could look up to give him the dirtiest look humanly possible (and possibly a kick in the face, just to see how he liked it), he was gone. The orderlies in their white coats then dragged puddin' right out of my arms. I screamed at them to let me have him back. Didn't they know that I am the only one who knows how to fix him? How couldn't they have seen that? I SHOULD BE THE ONE FIXING HIM!!!!!
(Whoa. Calm down, Harley-girl. Keep ya cool. If ya keep acting like a raving lunatic, they're gonna start believing it and throw ya back in the loony-bin!)
Ahem. Right-o.
The feeling of cruel defeat sinking its icy teeth into the pit of my stomach overwhelmed all other feelings. He was never mine. He may never be. He'll probably never be. Maybe I'm destined to be the kid on the other side of the display case; look, but never touch.
Well, never touch without consequences.
The bruise was even angrier looking without the makeup. If I looked close enough, I could even see the pattern of his glove etched into my skin. How… interesting.
How… horrible.
How lovely.