Another minific. Haven't done this in a long while. Prompt still comes from the DC random prompt generator.
It was a pleasure to burn.
...
Really it was. I can't tell you how much I loved getting blown up. And even if I could, you'd have to experience it firsthand.
But really, it was the beating that got to me first. I can remember it even better than my own name, even better than who I am. Or... was?
Anyway- good man, the Joker - that's the only name I remember. A crowbar, out of all things. It was slightly rusted, must have been quite new. Spent a round a year lying in a warehouse close to the sea, by a good estimate, because that Batman guy's training wouldn't ever quite let me go, you see, and I was trying to figure out where I was even though the Joker had just nailed me where it really hurt.
Quite unlike the Batman himself, really. That's the one in the black cape, right? I didn't see him, hopeful as I was. In fact, the whole four or five hours I was there, getting the living crap beaten out of me, he never once showed up.
Okay, maybe my imagination put him in the shadows. Right there, watching me. Could've leaped out at any second, he was so real. But, after all, he wasn't, and being real right then was one of the the things what could have mattered.
But, as you told me, it doesn't matter right now, does it?
Because it's all over.
But that's okay.
...
Help.
I was thinking this at the time - I remember - but only because my jaw was somewhat broken, and it would've hurt like a bitch to say anything but groan piteously.
Also, I think I'd pissed myself somewhere along the way, and my hair was stained with that morning's meager breakfast, because the Joker had very kindly taken to freshenin' ya up a bit, lil' bird!
Also, I failed to notice any of the explosives he'd left right by the door of the warehouse. Doubt Batman would've been very proud, huh?
I think I was screaming for someone to come and kill me after he crushed the third rib.
Of course, that was before I blew up.
Because, heh, after that you don't get to say much anymore.
...
What I really can't get over is the nightmare. Bones breaking, I can stand. Being half-dead - why not?
But the Joker, being quite the - well, joking type, brought gas.
And so there was much distress.
Because I heard voices.
I saw my mom. The very reason I'd landed myself in this shithole. But that wasn't the worst.
You see, it was funny. Because my head was filled with all these people I ought to know, but I didn't. Just couldn't put a name to those faces.
There were all the drunks I'd run off the street, in some way or another, in the tattered remains of some red and green uniform. And then the druggies - those bastards that deserved what was getting to them.
But what came after was somewhat different, somewhat... familiar... and you gotta help me with this, 'cause I don't understand a bit of it at all.
Yeah, there were all these people, fighting for some real estate in my head, but there were also skeletons, those ghosts whispering in my ears.
There was one in black, with a blue stripe across the front like wing feathers. The girl, the one with fiery red hair. An old man dressed like he was going to dinner.
They were the ones, the ones that pushed right to the front, the ones with masks over their faces and rot spreading all over their flailing arms, reaching for me, trying to grab me, their hollow mouths open in the shape of
"Jason!"
...Jason?