His mother had always been … weak. Pathetically so.
She was small, mousey, with curly blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and eyes that never left the ground. He wasn't even sure what color they were, to be brutally honest, because she could never fucking look anybody in the eye.
She always took the beatings silently, almost scarily so. She didn't make a sound as he hit her with his fists, or his belt, or whatever was conveniently available at the time.
Maybe she was a coward. Maybe she preferred the pain to trying to save herself, and making him even angrier in the process.
Or maybe, deep down, she liked it.
But, whatever the reason, she apparently met her breaking point that night.
He was drunk and angry like he usually was, but it was somehow just worse. He ripped the front door open, screaming at her before it had even shut. Then the hitting started. Bruises and cuts on top of bruises and cuts, which were over more of the same. It never ended, and she seemed to finally realize it.
She grabbed the knife and sliced at him, but he was too strong for her, especially considering how goddamned angry he'd gotten.
He pushed the blade to her face, slicing through skin and tendons. Down her cheek, around her eye, under her nose--
"You like that, bitch? You like it?!"
He jabbed it into her neck and turned around, a mad glint in his piggy eyes.
"Oh," he cooed, mock affectionately. "Look at that frown."
He'd advanced on him, the knife held tightly in his hand. "Why so serious, son?"
The blade was in his mouth in a flash, despite his struggles. The smooth, sharp metal pressed against the edge of his mouth, digging into the soft flesh.
"Why so serious?"
It pressed harder.
"Let's … put a smile on that … face!"
The neighbors finally called the police at the hysterical, agonized shrieking.
-
He was taken away that night and put in a hospital. The long cuts on his cheeks never healed right, and the government was hardly going to pay for the plastic surgery needed.
When he finally got out, he learned his mother was dead, his father was occupying a heavily padded cell in the Arkham Institution. He didn't miss them.
In fact, he was happy. Insanely happy. He began to smile more, laugh rather often.
Laughter was good for the soul, after all. How his needed it.
The other children stared at his mouth almost constantly, but he didn't mind. He'd always liked attention, always wanted to be special.
So, one boring day when there was nothing to do other than play cards (which he rather enjoyed--he found he looked rather like the Joker card, with his face as it was) he decided to capitalize on his … unique attribute.
He swaggered forward through the small playground, a smile stretching over his disfigured face. The group of children he approached stopped talking and stared at him uneasily.
A pregnant silence hovered between them.
His smile grew.
"Would you like to know how I got my scars?"
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Author's Note: I've seen the movie three times, and I've been wanting to write some fanfiction ... and for some reason I wrote this. I know the Joker gives several different explanations as to how he got the scars, but what the hell, I just wanted to theorize. Oh, and original title, I know.
Anna