Survival
You'll call me a fool.
And rightly, you should.
But not before I've called myself the same.
And blame myself only for my current predicament.
One which I now know to be inescapable.
As I now understand why they say it an unwise thing, to go wandering the streets of Gotham after the light of sun has disappeared.
It's safe for no one in this city but men like him.
I call him a man for failure in finding another word to approximate him.
But, he is no man.
Not as any you or I will ever have known, in any event.
It was only another fool's notion that I thought I would never encounter him, living in this city.
You see, I've been here since I was a boy, no older than five of six, when my parents relocated from Chicago.
Gotham was everything in those days. The greatest city in the world, they said.
Certainly, the crime rates were higher than in most places, even then. But that was put down to the expansive diversity in class and race throughout Gotham's numerous boroughs, an incalculable cross-section of people, all living together through vastly contradicting styles of life. Crime was only to be expected, given the unavoidable gap in economic and social background between them, and the great differences those conditions wrought.
But it was also a place of opportunity, the business center of the world. The financial capital.
The place where cultural shifts first took root and spread throughout the rest of the country, and from there, to across the ocean.
A place where, with enough work and dedication and belief, you could forge yourself in to anything you wanted to be.
Into anyone.
That was the belief in those days.
Before things had gotten really nasty, and it seemed every night there was a report on the news of robbery or rape or murder, drug related turf wars or some new, psychopathic killer on the loose.
Before it had begun to seem as if we all were trapped here, not knowing any other way of life, not knowing any way out.
Gotham had a way of sucking the fight from you.
Still, the city remained one of the most beautiful in the world, and as bad as its reputation had become, as bad as it sometimes appeared, my estimation of it was still of high regard, along with many others. The good still outweighed the bad.
That was what I'd thought.
And here was an odd sort of hope we all held for her, a belief that, someday, things would again be better, and we all were stronger, for not having abandoned her when she needed us most.
Eventually, we would take back this city from the defiled and degenerate, reclaim her as our own.
Even if none of us really knew how.
It was what we held on to, to keep us from joining the mad.
And I believed…
I believed so foolishly, so stupidly, I know that now, that the ill to befall so many of this city's occupants every night would never befall me.
One never, truly entertains such possibilities, even when, logically, you accept it as a potential.
You don't accept it really.
You don't dare conceptualize of it really happening.
The odds always seemed in my favor.
In a city of literally millions, those deranged, almost cartoonish lunatics you read so often about in the papers, or saw across your television and computer screens, they numbered in only the dozens, unfortunate creatures lost to the sickness of their own minds. More pathetic than frightening.
I was so sure.
You see, I'm a full grown man in my early thirties, successful, or so I liked to think, already pulling down a hundred and fifty thousand a year working in the field of computer graphic design.
A well liked co-worker, popular among the ladies.
I was confident in my ability to physically handle myself and anyone else dumb enough to approach me.
I fancied myself well built.
I suppose maybe even I am.
6'1", 200 lb. I didn't think anyone would judge me as a potential victim.
That had been my first mistake.
Overconfidence, in a city like Gotham, is something born only of ignorance. And as I know now, a fatal quality to possess.
I'd gone to the local bar after work with some friends, though I'd only had a single drink.
Alcohol never did much for me.
It had been more an opportunity to hang out and catch up.
And I'd left early, around eight. When the streets were still busy, alive with people and business.
My friends had offered to call me a cab, but I'd declined. My apartment, after all, was just about seven blocks from the bar, and I'd thought a nice walk would help to work off the drink I'd had.
I'd only marginally regretted that decision when, four blocks in, it had started to rain, a light drizzle turning within less than a minute to an out and out downpour. And freezing cold.
It's mid-Fall now, you understand, and here the humidity makes the chill of approaching winter bite all the worse.
But as I said, I'd only marginally regretted the decision.
I was close to my home then, just three blocks away, and I'd prided myself on my preparedness.
No matter the season, I always had with me an umbrella, Gotham weather often being unpredictable. The forecast today hadn't, after all, made any mention of rain, but I didn't trust the weatherman to always be right.
Not as my fellow pedestrians, who'd almost all begun a mad dash for shelter, popping in to whatever building would allow them entrance, hiding under canopies, waiting for the rain to stop before they continued on.
It was remarkable how fast the streets and sidewalks had emptied of people on foot, vanishing, it nearly seemed, in to thin air.
But I continued undeterred, umbrella in hand, propped against my shoulder.
Two more blocks, and I'd rounded the corner of my building, the entrance to my apartment located just half a block more.
I would make it without further impediment, I knew it.
I knew it…
And yet, I still can see before me what my eyes saw then, even through the thick haze of droplets, pounding down heavier, violent against the pavement, muffling the sound of the city in to almost silence, even my umbrella not shielding me fully from the sheets of water driving against the ground.
I'd thought nothing of it at first, except maybe a slight note of sympathy for the man walking towards my direction.
Even from a distance of several yards, I could make out his figure.
Exceptionally tall and of slight build, he'd had his head down, shielded from the storm by nothing more than a wide brimmed fedora and body length trench coat.
As we drew nearer to each other, it became clear he was soaked through, and what to me seemed very obviously freezing, given the way his arms had been wrapped round himself in some vain attempt to protect against the frigid air and wetness.
I remember my sympathy growing then, and the faint echo of the thought that I hoped he found some place to escape to soon.
It had only been as we'd passed one another that I'd felt anything at all of apprehension, when I'd glanced just briefly, sidelong his way, and caught glimpse, only a moment through the dark, what I was sure was the line of his jaw, and noticed the very unusual paleness of his skin.
But he hadn't looked at me, hadn't even seemed aware of my being there, and I'd continued passed, forgetting quickly the sleight, uncomfortable tickle I'd felt down through my stomach.
But still, as I'd continued on, I remember how I had become suddenly, acutely aware of the emptiness around me, only then realizing the streets, devoid of cars, the sidewalks without another, living soul.
And still, I can feel in the heart of me, the abrupt and consuming dread, spreading without seeming cause through every particle of my being. The knowing of danger before I could even lay eyes on it, or identify what it was.
I'd felt it.
And that had been enough to stop me cold.
To stand, paralyzed a moment, listening, hearing nothing…
Only the rain, ripping down across the pavement, only but that noise, loud in my ears.
I turned.
And I hope I can be forgiven for my inadequacy in describing the horror I felt then, able only to say that it was a kind of deadening numbness which assaulted down to the tips of my extremities, the withering knowledge of facing death itself.
What one might feel as they stared in to the visage of their own end.
He was standing there. The man I'd passed by.
Inches from me.
Staring down at me.
How he had come upon me so quickly, how he had gotten so near without my hearing a sound, I still do not know.
I remember staring back, my face pulled in what I can only imagine to be utter shock at the creature before my eyes.
And I can only recall having seen again the unusual paleness of his skin, beyond the drenching rain…
And then his eyes…
Oh God, his eyes…
Some brilliant green, like glowing embers, cutting through the murk, bright as one might see white hot lightening, tearing open the blackened sky.
Such a viciously luminous green…
Such an unnatural color…
And how they'd taken me…
How they'd fallen upon me with unflinching, searching regard, and held me frozen and helpless, weak to the scrutiny of exposing intelligence, and the absolute destitution of connection.
There was no man in those eyes I stared back in to.
No man resembling of myself.
No feeling as such I would ever feel.
I knew then I was alone with a monster.
What all the rest of us would refer to as.
And the terror of the unknown burst inside me, forcing up through my throat a scream.
But the cry, I recall, never made it past my lips, as suddenly the creature had reached forward with a swiftness my eyes found impossible to follow, and the rest falls to uncertainty.
I can say only that I found myself suddenly turned around, and that an instant following, I was being crushed backwards against another body, a strength disheartening pressing down over my throat, something equally oppressive curling across my mouth, sharp stinging as the soft flesh of my cheeks was dug cruelly in to, pulling me back harder.
Pulling me still and trapped.
I fought.
It isn't at all my intention to paint myself as some hapless, submitting victim.
I fought with all I had.
Tried prying the grip upon me loose, pushing and pulling and scratching.
But I cannot remember the effort yielding any result whatever.
Recall scarcely moving from my forced position even an inch, the power with which I'd been held rendering my own useless.
And here it should be noted my shock upon realizing whom it was to reduce me physically, and those that judge a man's strength on appearance should be warned, it is the will of a thing which lends it ability beyond what should be at all possible.
It is lost to me, what occurred in the moments, the minutes, the hours following, only the memory of the already dark and cold world fading deeper in to blackness, until the pressure felt upon my windpipe seemed to dull, the vision in my eyes blurring, sound growing softer and distant, the rain on my skin vanished to nothing…
And thought followed after.
How long impossible for me to know.
Only that I've woken here, in this place, the first thing to come back to me the soreness in the muscles of my throat and neck, ratcheting down in to my shoulders and arms.
I couldn't see where at first this was, my sight ruined and blinded by some spectacularly white glare from above.
And it seemed minutes before it began to clear, before anything came in to solid view.
What looked like some dilapidated and abandoned tenement flat, empty of any furniture, save for a dust ridden table ahead of me, a bottle of what looked like champagne sat atop the surface, two empty glasses beside it, and a single, hard backed chair pushed in.
Long seconds passing before I became aware of myself sitting, and then there had been the horror of going to move, feeling my arms snapped back down, realizing quickly they were cuffed at the wrists, along the arms of the chair, my ankles the same, manacled to the legs.
The horror of remembering what had happened.
And my mouth fell open, a cry of protest ready to work up from my throat, almost at my lips…
Cut cold by a voice, spoken near soundless from my right.
"You've woken, I see."
Immediately, my head snapped towards it, looking with wide and frantic eyes.
And there I saw him.
Oh Jesus, I saw him, and what I hadn't been able to recognize in the dark of the night and obstruction of rain, I recognized immediately then in the bright lit room. And the dread of before returned tenfold upon my heart, an almost nauseating dizziness rushing through my head, so sudden and strong it seemed a moment the floor might rush up to meet me.
He was sitting there, perched upon a chair, impossibly long legs crossed one over the other, chin held delicately between thin, bony fingers, elbow supported in the other along his lap.
Staring at me.
His expression held stoic, as for nearly half a minute, he said nothing more, myself unable to form words for the abrupt dryness in my mouth, and, for a moment, the loss entirely of understanding how.
Nothing can prepare you for the Joker.
Let me make this clear.
The hundreds, maybe thousands of pictures you've seen of him, printed in papers and magazines and books, the endless hours of media footage, his innumerable trials and those of his crimes he wished to be seen, caught on film and played over and over, year after year across news stations and video streaming websites, his own, self-filmed escapades, sent out to those same, tagline outlets.
None of it will make you understand what it is to be sitting across from him.
None of it will ever do him justice.
I watched as he unfolded himself from his position, suddenly, somehow unexpectedly, standing to his full, towering height.
And how is it I can convey to you, as I found my eyes locked with him, unable to tear my gaze aside, the awe which bloomed so strongly and full within, for an instant overwhelming what had been my abject terror, the feeling perhaps I looked upon something not of this world taking root and refusing release.
The Joker…
The Joker must be seen to be believed.
He is incredible.
Beautiful, even.
The elegance of him as he came towards me.
It wasn't simply an illusion of how he was dressed, though that could be described only as immaculate and with class, a double breasted, black as pitch suit, cut to perfection along his razor thin frame, pulled tight along his shoulders and in at the waist, slacked at the hips to show the sharpness of his build. Underneath his jacket, he wore a brightly colored, red waistcoat, brass buttons doing up its center, and a clean, white shirt below that. Around his high-cut collar, a bowtie, the same shade as the vest, and at his feet, shined to an absolute buff, black and white, leather shoes, laces done neatly and evenly.
There seemed not a fiber out of place on him, his hair slicked back and behind his ears, tight as the rest of him, gleaming with whatever he had to keep it in position, a deep, near blackened green to contour so vividly with the almost transparent lightness of his irises.
And his skin, oh Christ, his skin.
I hadn't been able to see it in the rain.
The translucent quality of it. So white, it seemed almost clear, almost blue for the veins one could see below the surface.
White as death.
The face of death.
And how stark it was, in contrast to his suit.
The way his long, spidery hands came out from the white cuffs, cut just below the sleeves of his jacket, his knobby wrists expanding into absurdly wide palms, and fingers which reached on forever, each set of knuckles prominent, melding in to what seemed an almost unrealistic extension of the digits.
And at the tip of each, nails, well cut and groomed, only with a hue to match that of his hair. The blackest green.
But the elegance, the elegance came most apparently it seemed from the way he moved.
And I found myself frozen, transfixed as he began towards me, certainly, from fear, but too from the gentility of him, how he seemed almost without weight as he stepped, the smooth, patient swing of his arms, the long and even gait of his legs as he strode, carrying his discouraging height without seeming effort, free from the burden of gravity.
All this in spite of how very thin he was.
What might have seemed a fragile build, easily broken and crushed, there came through none of it on him.
Nothing of weakness on him.
One knew to look at him, it would only be a fatal error in judgment to assume him easily overpowered.
I knew firsthand now the absurdity of such a notion, recalling how easily he'd overpowered me.
Coming closer, he stopped just inches away, staring down in to my flushed and strained face, his so perfectly opposite, without expression at all.
And the terror came back full, and I couldn't help the desperate whimper it forced, as something ominous came in to my heart with his closeness.
"… Oh God…"
He smiled.
And then laughed.
A quiet, almost soundless rasp between his lips.
One of seeming pure delight.
"Do I frighten you so?" He asked. "That you should call upon a false hope to quell your unease?"
And as the modesty of his laugh had been unexpected, so too was that of his voice.
Gentle, even kind in timbre and pitch, speaking with a soft articulation to almost comfort and sooth, were it not for the undercurrent of mockery in his tone.
But again, I found my voice lost to me, staring back, gape-mouthed and still.
And again, he laughed, the same, quiet flutter.
"You don't strike me the religious type." He went on. And suddenly his brow furrowed. "Well, I certainly hope not. That would render my efforts this night entirely useless, and I would hate to have to kill you so quickly."
I don't know what it was that suddenly so possessed me.
I've never been one to let my emotions go. Even as a child, my mother's told me I only ever threw a handful of temper tantrums, and as a man, I cannot recall having ever cried or lost control of my reservation.
But nor have I ever felt such absolute horror as I feel now, and I suppose that's what fear will do to even the most stiff among us.
When we are reduced to desperation.
I began to scream, voice broken and loud, pulling uselessly at my binds, managing only to near cut in to the flesh of my wrists with the metal cuffs, only causing myself pain.
"HELP ME! OH GOD, SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!"
The Joker's expression fell quickly in displeasure as I started this, regarding me unflinching a long, few seconds, hands folding behind his back, head cocking to the side in what seemed curiosity.
And then it began to shake.
"No, no." He spoke as I finally ran short of breath. "Let's not do that now. I assure, no one can hear you in this place. And the sound irritates the senses, you understand."
If there was warning in his voice though, I didn't detect it, my fear dampening logic as another scream for help tore from my throat.
It had scarcely escaped past my lips though before it was crushed silent, and I felt the hot pain through my face, hardened bone racking cross my mouth as the Joker's knuckles scrapped passed, backhanding me with nearly enough force to separate my jaw.
And any notion of this being a gentle man, whatever impression his manner may have given to me before, it was quickly done away with, and I understood in a matter of seconds the violence of him, even as the taste of my own blood fell over my tongue, my teeth having torn against the inside flesh of my cheek, for an instant, a loud ringing in my ears and a flash of white before my spinning vision.
It would be several seconds before my senses at last began to clear.
And as they did, the room finally coming still, I saw him looking back down at me, his lips pulled up in a smile…
His eyes unaffected.
It was then I knew I was finished.
"There now, see?" He asked. "Isn't that so much better?"
But again, I found myself too stunned to answer, my fear too much.
He went on smiling, the expression almost sweet, eyes locked on me still a moment before abruptly he turned, that same, smooth motion of his, long fingers curling over the chair back, pulling the seat out from under the table and lifting it, placing it down to face me.
And I could only watch as without a word, he took up the champagne flutes and bottle, turning back towards me and sitting himself gracefully on to the seat.
Smiling still.
I suddenly felt sick, my eyes taking him in as he held all three items in one, large hand, pulling a corkscrew from out an inside, jacket pocket.
Silently, he placed the glasses down between his legs, beginning then to unscrew the cork, his attention seemingly focused on the task.
With a few twists, the thing came loose with a loud pop, and he pulled the cork free, turning a moment to place it along with the driver on to the table, coming back to the glasses then, holding the stems between his fingers as he poured the champagne in to the goblets.
And suddenly he was extending his arm out, towards me, smile turning to a grin.
"Care for a drink?" He asked, sounding absolutely cordial.
I only stared back, astonished and confused.
He held the glasses out a few moments longer, before finally he shrugged, pulling them back.
"No matter then." He went on. "More for me."
He placed the still almost full bottle on to the floor, and in one, swift motion, downed one glass, and a second following, the other.
And his eyes narrowed, bringing the now empty glasses close to his face, seeming to scrutinize them.
Before suddenly he placed those too on the floor, sitting straight, legs crossing over each other, as they had been when I'd first laid eyes upon him here, and he locked his gaze on me, hands folding together over his knee.
"It's a fine grade." He began. "If you change your mind and decide you'd like a taste, please, don't hesitate to ask. I'm afraid it's wasted on myself. You see, my physiology is a bit different from yours. Or from anyone I've yet encountered, to be clear." He chuckled lightly. "It takes an absurd amount for the most refined of drugs to have any kind affect on me at all. Chemical agents just simply don't bind with any sort of authority to my cells." He smiled wider. "Makes medical procedures a trifle more unpleasant, as even the anesthetic's refuse to block my pain receptors. And I can't begin to recall for you the number of surgeries I've underwent in my relatively short life span."
Once more, he laughed airily.
As if he didn't care.
"So as you've no doubt come to reason, alcoholic beverages do, in essence, not a thing for me. Unless, of course, one counts the taste. If you were wondering still, that's why I drink it. I just adore the flavor."
I looked back at him, disbelieving.
My mind lost.
I didn't understand this.
Didn't know what he was doing.
Didn't know what was going on.
And it was then my voice chose to come back to me, and I heard myself ask without real intention to…
"… W-what do you want?"
He only smiled softly.
"Want?" He asked with interest.
And then he giggled childishly.
"Nothing so complex." He went on smiling, his expression growing softer still. "A companion for the evening perhaps."
And I stared, gape-mouthed and struck dumb, once more my voice lost to me.
And I thought, he couldn't possibly mean…
Couldn't possibly intend…
A different kind of horror spread through me, mind racing suddenly wild with unwanted imaginings…
And suddenly the Joker laughed loud, the first time he laughed that way, and I felt a gripping cold through my insides, my teeth setting on edge for the indifference I heard there.
The same as I'd seen in his eyes.
"Oh, ho ho! Young Sir!" He began merrily, half bent over at the waist from the effort of his mirth. "You should see your face! So stricken!"
A few moments longer, and finally he straightened, waving a finger.
"Ah, ah, but you mistake me." He grinned. "You dirty minded cad. I intend no sexual advancement upon you."
Only mild relief washed through me, and for only a moment, as I watched his smile turn abruptly wry, and at once, he was up out of his chair, bending close towards me and reaching out, the tips of his fingers brushing delicately across my cheek.
I strained, turning my face away, feeling my eyes clamp shut as my horror returned.
And again, I heard him chuckle.
"Fascinating, is it not?" He began to speak. "How a conditioned notion can match, even overcome an inherent drive?"
It would take several seconds before I found myself able to lift my lids again, only when I felt his hand finally fall away from me, and I hesitantly turned back.
He was staring at me with question.
And I didn't know what he meant.
"The prospect of me forcing myself upon you." He went on as if to explain. "It grieved you as much as the threat against your life."
Abruptly, he leaned closer again, his hands coming down along the arms of the chair I was shackled to, gripping hard as his face came within only inches of my own.
His eyes narrowed.
"But what is there to fear in such a thing?" He asked. "You fear it only for the fact that society has told you you should. Only for the fact that they've manipulated your mind to believing your sexuality a sacred thing, given and received with only your permission. You consider it a violation equal to the loss of your life?"
I didn't reply, staring wide eyed, tensed beyond forming words with the closeness of him.
"Ah, but… it is an imagined thing. Do you understand?" He went on. "A violation of nothing but some unreal and abstract value placed upon you by others. The idea that should you be forcibly sexually assaulted, that is, raped," he smiled again, and I felt my insides churn. "that makes you somehow less of a man. And whatever does being a man mean? More of those abstract values, pressed upon your fragile, eggshell mind."
He pressed his index finger, hard against my forehead, giving a shove back.
"You would feel as if you've lost something only because you've been conditioned to feel that way. Not because you actually have. Do you not see the absurdity in that? In feeling shame over something nonexistent? Something residing only in the mind, not in actuality?" Once more, he smiled. "And they tell me I'm mad, because I feel no emotion over what isn't real. Heh. I'll tell you, young Sir, I've had many a man force themselves upon me sexually."
My eyes grew even wider, staring with what I knew had to be shocked disbelief. And the expression must have amused him, as he again began to laugh.
"Oh, yes, yes. This always seems a surprise to people." He continued. "But those poor, frustrated orderlies working the night shift at Arkham, oh, they do become desperate for some form of entertainment. And I'm afraid their ranks are so often and drastically cut in to by all manner of violently driven patients, they feel the need to impose their own will every now and again. Oh, I'm their absolute favorite." His eyebrows wriggled suggestively, and I felt abruptly ill. "Sometimes, they'll come in, four or five at a time, covering up the security feed, lest they be caught, you understand. They come in, me and them. And sometimes…"
He leaned suddenly closer, until his lips were beside my ear, and I could feel his breath against my skin.
His voice dropped to a whisper…
"they fuck me until I bleed."
He pulled back, looking at me with expectancy, his lips upturned, waiting.
But I could only stare in return, my heart thudding nauseatingly in my chest, pounding in my ears.
I couldn't believe this.
Oh God, God, I couldn't believe this.
He had no emotion across his face but amusement.
And one would have thought surely he was lying.
Surely.
No man would feel nothing for such a thing.
For such a thing happening to them.
But I could see in his eyes, could hear in his voice his absolute sincerity.
He was telling the truth.
And he felt nothing over it.
Nothing.
And suddenly, I don't know how, I was more frightened than even before.
His smile broadened to a grin as he went on watching my reaction.
Until finally he again spoke.
"You see?" He said. "No reason to feel shame. No reason to feel shame for anything my dear. That only is another fabricated emotion. A fabricated response designed to keep people behaving as those who wish to control determine they should. Shame, guilt… it's all the same. Nothing true about it."
And again, his hand was reaching forward, cupping along my cheek, his thumb smoothing over my skin.
I thought to turn away again, to pull back from his touch, but something in his eyes told me to keep still.
To keep absolutely still.
"But you know," he once more started. "if you like…"
And suddenly his hand was moving, across my jaw, suddenly down my neck.
Gripping round the nap of it hard.
My entire frame tensed with renewed anxiety.
"I've seduced men more uptight than even you find yourself." He whispered.
And I couldn't help it then, I turned from him, my eyes closing in some desperate and vain hope this would all just disappear, just turn out to be some horrible nightmare, my voice escaping past my lips of its own volition, pleading and high, sounding not like myself.
"Please, oh God, I… I'm not gay."
And for a moment, there was silence, and I could feel the Joker looking at me, his hand still hot at my neck.
And suddenly he burst out laughing, the sound loud and filling the space, wrecking my ears.
"Oh, ho, my darling!" He began merrily, finally letting go of me. "Sexual orientation hasn't a thing to do with it! Tsk, tsk," he waved a disapproving finger in front of my face as warily I looked back. "you macho men and your silly assumptions!"
His hands clasped behind his back, bending slightly at the waist towards me, his lips pulling in to a wide grin.
"There are ways to attract beyond the physical. If one can appeal to the senses, you see. Everything else then falls into place."
"P-please…" I began, my mind hardly thinking, instinct taking hold. "please, I… I'll give you anything. M-money. I have almost a million saved up. You… you can have it, all of it. Just… just let me go, please…"
It was only when I felt the flaring pain through my scalp, my hair being torn at the roots, and the crushing grip of his fingers, curled round my jaw, digging into my flesh, that I realized my error in judgment, and then his face, again inches from my own, his mouth now turned into an extreme frown.
And I would have turned my head away had it not been for him holding me in place, for the fear I felt, looking into his viciously cold eyes, reflecting back at me like looking over the expanse of the oceans surface, beyond it some depth inconceivable.
Like he knew something I never could.
"You threaten to make this a very short night indeed." He hissed, voice low and cutting, and for the first time, I could detect real displeasure in his tone. His fingers dug harder, nails promising to cut into my skin, and I whimpered out at the pain, my face twisting with it.
He didn't react.
"You either will entertain me with your conversation, or you will entertain me with your blood." He went on, boring into me with his unflinching gaze. "Thus far you disappoint. Your typical pattern does nothing to hold my interest, and if you continue in this regard, I can promise only that I will tear your entrails from your insides and strewn them about the place while you're still cognizant enough to watch."
He continued to frown, mouth twisted in what seemed disgust, and I suddenly felt something wet down my cheeks, realizing only a moment later it was my own tears as they pooled thicker in my eyes, blinding me an instant.
And he went on holding to me, several seconds more, before finally his grip released, and he straightened fully, smoothing his giant hands down the front of his jacket, his features relaxing into an unbothered expression.
"Now then…" he began, looking back up at me. And once more a smile slid into place. "tell me about yourself."
I stared, bemused as he lowered himself back on to the seat in front of me, legs crossing over one another, hands clasping together over his knee. He leaned slightly forward, as if expecting some reply.
But I could only sit with my lips parted, paralyzed and confused.
Several seconds past.
And he again spoke, again as though nothing unusual had taken place.
"Come now." He urged, voice oddly friendly. "Don't be shy. Tell me."
Seconds more, and still I found myself without my voice.
The Joker sighed, and I felt my insides tighten, the thought that he would again strike me taking hold.
"Allow for me to help you along then." He instead started. "You have a name?"
A moment longer, I could feel my heart beating painfully hard in my chest now, sweat forming along my hairline, slipping slowly down my temples.
I swallowed thickly, with difficulty.
He waited.
And I knew now if I didn't reply, if I didn't do what he asked, I was finished.
Oh Christ, I could see it in his eyes.
He would kill me for certain if I didn't do what he said.
My mind filed back through what I'd heard of the Joker over the years, and I cursed myself for never paying the kind of attention I should have.
I knew nothing of him.
But maybe it wouldn't have mattered, I thought, as the one, reoccurring word they used to describe him echoed through my brain, and I realized maybe they had never known anything of the madman either.
Unpredictable.
That's what they said he was.
And I thought maybe I understood something better of what they meant now.
He was proving that to an extreme tonight.
I had no idea what he was going to do moment to moment, and I felt a nauseating sickness inside me, the dread of not knowing.
He seemed implausibly erratic.
I'd never seen anyone's moods shift so suddenly and violently as his did, so swiftly and without warning.
He went from one severity to another, with nothing in between, no build up or cool down.
And the precariousness of my position began to sink in.
A single, wrong word, a word I might think harmless, intended as harmless, but in his perception, he would find it insulting, or repulsive, and he might kill me in an instant for it.
And God, God, I didn't know what words of mine, what actions would set him off.
I had no clue.
No way then to avoid such, no way to defend myself, or take care.
I had no way of reading him.
Couldn't predict what he was thinking, what his own movements indicated or meant, what he even wanted.
Twice already I'd angered him, and he'd lashed out, with no warning, with no sign that he would.
I felt suddenly dizzy, my head beginning to throb from the blows I'd been dealt.
But I had to answer him.
I had to talk to him.
He was going to kill me if I didn't.
Oh Jesus, he was going to kill me.
Again I swallowed, barely able as my mouth and throat went dry, my lips parting as I tried desperately to speak.
"… Pe… P… Peter." I managed after several seconds, my voice strained and quiet, nearly a whisper, coming out trembling and foreign.
"Peter?" The Joker repeated, by contrast, his own voice deft and sharp.
I only stared.
"Peter." He again said, now as if he were trying to make his tongue used to pronouncing the syllables.
And then suddenly he giggled, holding his knuckles to his mouth like he'd just been told some forbidden secrete, reacting as a little child might.
"Oh, my, my…" he started. "how very plain. Peter. Reminds me of some farm boy, living out in the country." His eyes narrowed. "Some European farmland, working and sewing the fields all day." Again he laughed. "But you know…" and again he was leaning closer. "it suits you quite well. You look like a Peter. All broad shoulders and sandy colored hair, heehee."
Now he was resting his chin in his hand, his elbow supporting on his knee.
He seemed so relaxed.
"Are you of Germanic heritage?" He asked, sounding genuinely curious.
I blinked, it taking a moment for my mind to process his question, and then slowly, I nodded.
"On your mother's side? Or father's? Or perhaps both? Though you seem like you may have a bit of English in you, aye?"
My head spun, wondering suddenly if he knew something more than he was letting on.
I didn't understand how he could have known those things just from looking at me. And my paranoia grew, thinking suddenly, sickeningly he must have been watching me for weeks, finding out about my life, specifically targeting me.
Only my mind couldn't find any purpose for why he would.
And I could only nod dumbly in return, not knowing what to say.
He smiled, seemingly approvingly, nodding in return.
"So, Peter of Germanic and English heritage, what then is your vocation?"
Again, I stared dumbly.
Why was he asking these questions? What was the point?
Suddenly he was leaning closer, chin still rested in his palm, putting only inches between us. And somehow that alone caused my entire frame to wind more tense.
"What work do you do?" He clarified, voice as equally measured, though beneath I sensed growing impatience.
And I swallowed thickly, throat feeling restricted and tight.
I didn't understand.
"… D-don't you k… know?" I finally managed after a long moment, voice trembling near uncontrollably.
And I watched as his features pulled in actual confusion, the first time he'd looked as though he weren't absolutely sure of every single thing.
He regarded me with narrowed eyes, as though trying to glean some imperceptible detail.
And I felt brutally exposed. Like he could see everything about me which I'd never shared with anyone.
Long moments seeming to stretch into minutes, his viciously green eyes burning heat against my skin.
I thought surely then I'd said something to anger him, and the horror of imminent death took hold, nauseating sickness spreading fast and unrelenting through my stomach.
It felt certain I would vomit.
And then I heard him inhale, pausing a moment, before his quiet voice came again.
"Why ever would I know such a thing?" He asked, sounding genuinely curious.
I blinked, uncertain if I'd heard him correctly.
But the continued, inquiring features of his, I suddenly began to realize very handsome face, told me I had.
My tongue swiped absently across my dry lips, another swallow.
It felt every moment should I try to speak, my voice would fail me, and that thought too brought some inconceivable terror to my heart, not knowing if such a thing would also anger the man before me.
I felt afraid even to breathe, everything about he seemed so precarious and unknown.
He waited for my answer with seeming patience.
And I knew I would be fool to test the limits of that.
Another, painful swallow, and my mouth again fell open to speak, voice seeming distant and detached. Not sounding like my own as it came past my lips.
"Yo-you've been f-fo… following me, h-haven't you?"
His reaction was immediate, a sharp peel of laughter erupting out from him, seeming at once to fill the apartment. And for long seconds, it carried on, his entire, thin frame shaking with the intensity of his own mirth. And I could only sit, staring bemused and unnerved at his suddenly violent hysterics.
His long hands came up, wiping at his eyes, brushing tears from them, continuing to shake some moments before he began once more to speak, words broken up by his sporadic intakes of breath.
"S… silly man and your… silly… assumptions!" He giggled madly, waving a hand about, as though trying vainly to get a hold of himself. "No, no… I haven't… haven't seen you… before… this night, heehee…"
I only felt more lost than before even, staring back at his still trembling form, gradually his laughter lessening, until it had been reduced to soft chortles every, few seconds.
And he looked back up at me, the same discomfort which took hold every time his eyes locked with my own, my gaze having to drop a moment following.
I couldn't understand…
I couldn't understand any of this.
What any of this meant.
What he wanted.
What he intended.
How he could be telling the truth when…
"Th… then how do y-you… how do you k-know s-so much?" I stammered feebly.
Again, I heard him laugh, the more subdued flutter of earlier.
"My dear boy," he began, his voice sounding almost reassuring. "people reveal so many things about themselves without ever realizing it. Most are so very transparent. One need only know what to look for, and know what those things mean. Well, for example, I could suppose what you spend your days doing and in the least find my supposition fairly accurate. The calloused skin along the knuckles of your right index and middle fingers tells me you're an artist of some sort. Yes? You spend countless hours grasping some drawing utensil. Though you seem inclined towards a more technological bend, if the items I found on your person are any indication. So many high end gadgets. You keep abreast and caught up with the latest in technological advancement, hmm? So perhaps you work with computers? Maybe you're one of those video game designers? An animator of some sort? Or graphic designer?"
I stared gape-mouthed, stunned silent.
That was impossible. Impossible without him having stalked me.
He smiled softly.
"I take from your expression my own correctness. But I assure, I haven't been following you. The first I saw of you was on the street, just three hours ago." He laughed lightly. "Allow me to make more clear my point. Your right brow is slightly more thinned than your left, and I see your right thumb nail is considerably gnawed at, while all the nails of your left hand remain smooth and well groomed. So you have a tendency towards nervousness. A problem with stress. You can become easily overwhelmed and anxious. So you pick at yourself as a form of relief. Fairly a common disorder. I'm afraid the doctor's at Arkham would become bored with you quite quickly. But only because they don't know the right questions to ask. There's more to you than initial appearances would lead most to assume, I think."
And I couldn't stop them, again, the tears gathering fast and thick in my eyes, slipping down my face. I looked away, a choked sob escaping my lips as I realized so suddenly how hopeless this was. That there was nothing I could do.
No way I could get around this.
No way I could get around him.
"… Ar… are y-you gonna k-k… kill me?" I stammered, still unable to bring my eyes up.
"Probably." I heard him answer.
And I couldn't help it. I began to sob uncontrollably, fear seizing hard in my heart.
"Ohh, no, no, no…" The Joker started quietly, and I felt his fingers brush softly against my cheek. I flinched violently at the contact, but he remained undeterred by it. "None of this silliness now." He went on. "Why does this so upset you?"
"… I… I don't wanna d-die." I cried desperately, hopelessly.
He tsked lightly.
"No, of course not." He said. "But you're going to. I assure you most definitely, you will. You must know this, yes?"
I said nothing to that, not understanding, not knowing how to reply, feeling my body beginning to tremble viciously.
"So then why are you so distressed at the prospect of meeting your end at my hand?" He continued talking, seemingly ignoring my failure to answer. "Your death was something that was always going to happen. Whether tonight, or fifty years from this night. And yet, I'm willing to wager you never dissolved into such uncontrollable sobs when contemplating the inevitability of it before. Only when you find it so close upon you, and you're faced with the inescapable reality of it. Did you fancy it just some terrible myth? Some scary story told to children to keep them behaving properly? You were able to push it from your mind and convince yourself you were somehow special? That death who comes for everyone would never come for you?"
I shook my head frantically, my breath beginning to come erratic.
"I… I h-haven't go… gotten to… to l-live m… my life, I haven't…"
"Your life is where it begins and where it ends." He cut me short fast. "Nothing before, and nothing beyond that."
"B-but… but I… I'm t-too young. I… I have… h-have a r-r… right to l-live…"
And abruptly I felt him take hold of me, his long, crushing fingers digging mercilessly into my scalp, wide palms pressing over my temples, and he jerked my face up to meet his, his face twisted in disgust.
"You have no right to anything." He hissed lowly, his voice devoid now of all comfort, all levity. "You great fool. Your life is not something you earned. Not something you had any part in creating. It was given to you, by forces well beyond your menial comprehension. You have no more right to it than I do to mine, or any living creature on this pathetic, insignificant planet. You do not own it. Nature owns it. And you have no say, no choice in how and when it will be taken from you. No right at all to lay claim to it and pretend as though it is your sacred possession, outside the reach of any beyond yourself."
His fingers dug harder, and I crumpled in his hands, whimpering out in pain.
"Pete, you disappoint me with your quivering predictability." He continued, voice edged like some razor, sickeningly sharp and articulate, filled to the brink with hatred. "So many of you are all alike. Assigning yourself purpose. Trying to desperately to bolster your place in the universe through inflation of self-importance." He laughed softly. "As if your existence has any actual bearing on the anything. As if it at all matters. Your birth and coming death is one of countless in every moment of being. Your presence has no ramification, no consequence on anything in any part of the vastness beyond here. You speak of rights? Of God-given liberties and freedoms and stations? Nature is God. And nature cares nothing of what happens to you. Your expiration will be as unremarkable to her as that of a common house fly. Another of her creations, stamped out by her own design. You were built to die. Yet somehow you've fallen to the delusion that you have sole possession and decision over your life? A right to live it so long as you deem appropriate?"
Again he laughed, louder now.
"I'll show you Peter." He said, leaning closer, his grip like an unyielding vice around my skull. "I'll show you just how little say you have in what happens to you. How little right you have to your meaningless, pitiful life. How very touchable it is. It can belong to me as much as it does to you. You'll see. There is no dictum, no divine law enforcing or declaring your hold of it."
Abruptly then, he let go his hold, shoving me back.
And the frown which had been pulling so severely at the corners of his lips vanished in an instant, replaced fast by a widening smile.
He stepped away from me, backwards, settling himself a moment later, delicately down into the chair facing opposite.
And all of the hard edged violence of him seemed to disperse into nothing, his entire frame relaxing, falling easy and fluid again.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't just been seethingly mad.
Anyone who had missed it would never have known.
His legs crossed, his hands clasping together, folding over his knee.
"Now…" he began, voice once more gentle and calm.
My head spun, throbbing. My heart pounding, deafening in my ears.
Oh God, I couldn't take this. I couldn't…
He was insane. Absolutely insane.
And I was trapped here with him. With no way I could see out. No method of escape.
Christ…
Oh Jesus Christ…
Madly, I tugged again at my restraints, pulling with every part of me against the metal cuffs and manacles, hardly noticing my failure to get any place until the steel began slicing into the thin skin of my wrists and ankles.
The Joker did nothing, only watching me and still.
Myself too frantic to notice his unaffected expression.
Until I felt the warmth of my own blood, trickling down over my wrists, and exhaustion took sudden and dreadful hold, my frame falling limp with it a moment after.
Useless…
It was useless…
Oh God, God, no one was going to save me…
No one was…
"Have you ever loved anyone Peter?"
I looked up, panicked and broken, staring at him.
And I saw him, staring at me, staring straight at me.
But even still, his eyes didn't seem to focus now.
Like he wasn't looking at me at all.
Like he didn't even see me there.
Something distant and lost in his gaze…
Something else…
Like he looked past me, beyond me to something else…
Someone else…
"… What?" My voice escaped from my lips in a tremble.
"I loved someone, once…" he went on as though he hadn't even heard me, his voice hardly above a whisper. "I think I did."
His eyes grew more unfocused still, until it seemed he'd lost sight of me completely, and I only felt more ill.
For a long moment, he was silent, saying nothing.
And I sat equally silent, too afraid to speak. To respond at all.
I didn't know what he was talking about.
Nothing he said made any sense.
None of it…
And then he continued…
"Oh, it was so long ago though, I can't really remember." He waved an absent hand. "So long ago…"
And suddenly his face had lined with confusion, his brow furrowing, like he was trying.
Like he was trying to remember.
"Sometimes I see a face…" he said, and his hand reached forward, fingers curling and grasping at the air, cupping around some invincible object.
And his eyes weren't even on me anymore. They'd shifted down, staring blankly at some indistinct spot behind me.
And somehow my dread only grew.
"A woman's face, sometimes… a little girl…" his voice became softer with each word, until I was straining to even hear him. "a boy… a man. A young man… an older man… I can even… even hear their voices, sometimes. Can hear them talking. They sound so very familiar. And I'm sure I must have once known them. I'm sure."
Abruptly his eyes shifted back up to me, staring into my face.
"But I don't know these people." He said. "I don't know them?"
He said it almost as a question. As though he were asking me for the answer.
I said nothing back.
And for long seconds, he only stared at me, himself falling quiet.
And it was suddenly the razor focus came back into his eyes. Whatever fog had settled upon them before lifting, and the terrible awareness of him returned full on.
Again I felt exposed.
Naked.
The confusion left his features, and his lips had pulled back up in an impossible grin.
"Love Peter…" he continued, no question in his tone now. "love is a falsity. As morality is, I suppose. People cling to the notion of it, of caring and being cared for as another means of lending themselves value. Giving themselves purpose. This idea, heh, this idea that another's existence and survival hinges on our own, or ours on theirs. Love is this idea of not being able to live without the one you do. But you know Peter…"
He was leaning forward again, reaching out, his spider's hands gripping hard around the arms of my chair.
"like so many things," he went on softly. "I think it's only a concept born of fear. As morality is, the same, I already said. People seek companionship and relation as a means of escaping loneliness. Oh, people are so deathly afraid of being alone Peter. I think, perhaps, it's what they fear most of death itself. The idea that when they do die, they'll be forever alone. So they scramble and struggle and fight all their sorry lives not to be. As if that, somehow in the end, will save them from it."
He chuckled lightly.
"Do you ever notice people's need to relate Peter? Their absolute need for it? This longing to find others like them? Other's who look like them, talk like them, think like them. People who share the same interests and ideas, the same hopes and dreams and even fears. Someone to validate their own position and make them feel right. People just love it when you agree with them Peter. They love it more when many agree with them. It allows them to be more secure in their feelings and their beliefs, when they aren't the only one. Heehee. As if the number of people who think a thing lends any more truth to it. Whatever the general consensus, right dearie? So long as the majority says its okay, well then, its okay!"
He threw his hands wide as if to demonstrate, falling back into his own chair, giggling.
"Ahh, but you see…" he waved a finger. "human values and rules and laws of conduct change as rapidly and heedlessly as the wind. What's considered acceptable today may well be deemed taboo tomorrow. And vica versa of course. Morality is the rules of survival, nothing further. And when one of those rules begins to impede the chance of survival rather than help ensure it, well then, that rule changes. And so on and so forth. Just like love. It's all good and well so long as it serves you in some way. But find that love spoiling what happiness you've envisioned for yourself, and so quick that love can turn to hate and bitterness. So fast you may find yourself endeavoring to distance yourself from the one you once held so dear."
For a moment, I could say nothing. Looking back at him as he looked at me.
Looking at me, smiling.
And I felt something hot race through me.
He sounded so certain.
So absolutely like he knew.
And still I don't know why, my head began to shake.
And for the first time that night, I spoke in defiance of what he was saying.
Oh God, I don't know why…
Because I couldn't believe what he said could be true…
I didn't want it to be true…
But he sounded so very certain.
"… Th… that's n-not true." I stumbled, my words clumsy, falling out of my mouth like rocks.
"Oh, isn't it though?" The Joker was fast to answer, voice airy and light.
And again my head shook, a strange kind of rebelliousness taking me.
But his smile only grew, seemingly unfazed by my sudden challenge, staring at me with such intent.
"I asked you before Peter," he said. "is there anyone you love? Anyone you care for?"
I swallowed thickly.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was a fool's error. That I shouldn't reveal anything to this man. That I shouldn't engage him.
But I found myself nodding.
Answering him.
Like I couldn't help it.
Like I had no choice.
His brows rose in expectancy.
"And… who do you love, Peter?" He asked again.
My mind filled with thoughts of my mother… my father…
My sister, Gilda.
I spoke her name first…
"G-Gilda, my… my sister."
"Your sister!" The Joker exclaimed excitedly. "And… how much do you love your sister Gilda, Peter?"
Fresh tears welled in my eyes, slipping quick down my face.
Thinking about Gilda, about my family.
The thought I would never see them again…
Oh God…
"M-more than… th-than anything…" I cried.
"Mmm, more than you love yourself?" He pressed.
For an instant, my mind confused.
"… What?"
"Do you love her more than you love yourself? He repeated calmly.
A moment longer, and to my own dismay, I found myself an instant hesitating before I realized what I was doing, and I nodded fervently.
"Yes, yes, o-of… of course."
The Joker's expression morphed into exaggerated surprise.
"Really?" He asked.
And now there was no wait as again I nodded.
"Yes. Yes, I do." I answered, voice harder, more sure.
And he laughed quietly, as if he'd just heard some inside joke. One only he was privy to.
"Alright, Peter." He went on. "And if it was Gilda now sat in that chair you find yourself in this very moment, and you had the opportunity to take her place, would you?"
"Of course I would!" I spat, my defiance turning fast to anger, indignation at the suggestion I wouldn't.
But again, he only laughed.
That same, mocking laugh.
"But you see Peter, you wouldn't, I don't think." He answered smoothly.
And my face contorted. Anger to rage.
"What the hell do you know?" I screamed, my voice raising. "You don't know shit! You don't know fucking shit!"
The Joker's head fell back, his hysterics pitching higher, erupting from his throat, hand coming down and slapping across his knee.
"Heehee, me thinks you doth protest too much!" He answered, still giggling. "Oh, but I suppose it's not entirely your fault. I suppose it's easier, to claim a thing when you have nothing to lose."
I felt my entire body tense, hands gripping over the arms of the chair, fingers digging.
"What… what the hell are you even talking about?" I hissed. "What do you mean?"
And it was very suddenly his laughter ceased, and he pinned me with his merciless eyes, staring at me unrelentingly.
"And what, Peter," he said softly. "what if I were to tell you I might entertain the thought of letting you go, if only you would be honest with me?"
I froze, my heart racing, suddenly increasing and painful.
I stared back at him with wide eyed disbelief, not sure if I'd heard him correctly. For a moment not daring myself to believe I had.
Let me go?
Would he?
Would he do such a thing?
My mouth fell open, the question caught on my tongue, refusing a moment to release, my voice caught in my throat.
"… Y-you would…?" I started.
"But only if you're sincere with me Peter." He interrupted, leaning closer. "If you are sincere, it might make me think better of you. Hypocrisy is a thing I very much despise."
He reached out, grasping delicately along my chin, and I had to fight not to flinch away.
"There was hesitation in you when I asked before Peter. You weren't sure. Oh, but guilt urged you on to making a definitive statement, when in truth, there was nothing at all definitive in your heart. You like to tell yourself that in moments of crisis and threat, you'll do the right thing. The thing you've been taught to be right. Heh. But Peter, Peter, guilt, like love, like morality, is only a concept conceived by man. A feeling conditioned into you to help control you. It is a useless and detrimental emotion. The only thing right, the only thing you're supposed to feel, is what nature hard-wired you to. The desire to live. To survive. There's nothing wrong, nothing bad about that Peter. Nothing wrong with doing whatever it takes to survive. It's what you were designed to do. What every creature on this earth was designed to. Your sister included. And the same, it's okay to admit you would do whatever it takes. It doesn't make you evil Peter. It doesn't make you a lesser person."
He smiled vaguely, his hand moving up, cupping gently along my cheek.
"So again I put to you the question, Peter, knowing this is only your natural instinct, as natural as any, knowing to be honest, you may save yourself, and so allow yourself to again meet your sister, to again see her face and hear her voice, and spare her your lose, knowing that whatever guilt you may feel over your answer is itself utterly unnatural, and utterly without consequence, if it came down to choosing between her life or your own, who would it be?"
For long seconds, I said nothing.
For long seconds, I couldn't.
The Joker's words echoing and ricocheting through my mind.
And the horrible pain, and then unutterable relief, as it came to me so suddenly. The answer. So without question, without doubt…
He was right.
Oh God, Jesus God, he was right.
I could feel in my heart, in that moment, in that choice…
"M… myself…" I breathed, voice barely a whisper, tears filling my eyes, slipping down my cheeks.
My gaze lifted to him. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision.
"I would choose myself."
And he smiled.
Such a reassuring, almost… almost kind smile.
And I thought for certain then I had won my freedom.
I had saved my life.
And there was no regret in my heart in that instant.
No disgust for what others would call my cowardice.
Because the Joker was right.
It was only what we were hard-wired to feel…
To do…
"So easy." He said. "Wasn't it so easy?"
And before I could react…
Before I'd even seen him move…
He had closed the distance between us wholly, and I felt a sharp prick, sinking deep into the side of my neck, my eyes going large with it.
And I watched him pull back, still that same, kind smile across his face.
And I saw in his hand, a syringe, the yellow liquid dripping down from its point, gathering in droplets along the plunger.
Sickening horror ripped down through my insides, my gaze shifting to him, back to his unchanging face.
My voice escaping my suddenly numbing lips in a frail whine…
"… N-no…"
"It will be painless." He said, and his voice sounded distant to me.
Far away.
"Don't worry."
A terrible warmth had begun to spread through me.
Something foreign and unknown.
Something finite.
Oh Christ…
"Wh… w-why?" My voice again trembled, frail and weakening.
"Because I could." The Joker answered. "Because it was inevitable."
"B-but you s-said…"
"I would entertain the thought of letting you go." He replied. "I did. And I decided instead not to. I'd promised earlier to show you how fragile your claim to your life is. That seemed more pertinent."
"… B-but…" I continued to protest, even as the warmth spread, and a great exhaustion seemed to come over me suddenly. A terrible exhaustion I couldn't fight.
But already the Joker was losing interest, turning, looking back over his shoulder at the orange light, filtering through the windows behind, casting a hazy, undefined glow across the dust ridden floorboards of the apartment, washing aglow behind him, capturing him in silhouette.
"The sun's coming up." He spoke quietly, turning back to me, looking straight at me. "You're a lucky man, Peter. Not many die with the light of a star in their eyes."
I blinked, and I thought I could feel something we along my cheeks again.
But feeling was escaping me now, and I couldn't be sure.
I couldn't know.
I was dying.
I was…
I was dying!
And in a surge of panic, I struggled mindlessly, hopelessly against my restraints, what sounded like a deafening scream tearing from my throat.
But even that, I couldn't tell.
The Joker remained unmoved.
"You should calm down Peter." He said softly. "You don't want to spend your last moments like this, do you? You should take that time to appreciate what you now have."
But I wasn't listening.
I kept screaming, crying and sobbing and pulling, as if getting free would somehow stop the poison now coursing through my veins.
That I could feel coursing through my veins.
Until finally my voice had gone horse, collapsing in my throat, and my body began to fail, my limbs feeling weighted down by some immeasurable heaviness. And I could struggle no more.
I could fight no more.
I sat, chest rising and falling in rapid breaths, trying desperately, uselessly to pull air into my lungs. With each intake, feeling it less and less.
My eyes fixed on the Joker, as he looked unflinching back at me.
Trying to focus…
To hold on…
"That's better Peter." He said suddenly. "Let yourself go to it."
I blinked, more wetness against my cheeks.
"M… my family." I choked. "Wh… what'll…"
"They'll be fine." He answered quietly. "They'll move on."
I heard myself sob.
And I thought suddenly, something he'd said.
And I don't know why it seemed to matter, why I thought of it at all.
What it mattered now…
Only that it seemed to.
It seemed to matter…
"Y-you…" my voice came slurred and broken. "you s-said you l… loved once…"
And he said nothing, his eyes un-shifting on me, hard and sharp and cold.
I looked back. I didn't look away now. I looked back.
"H… how can you s-say… how can you say lo… love isn't real then? How can you w-when you felt it?"
His head tilted, only just, his eyes staying with me. And mine began to lose hold of him.
No emotion in his face.
It seemed forever until I heard his voice.
"… I loved once." He said, almost soundless. "I thought I did."
…
"Whoever it was, they promised to stay. But they didn't. They abandoned me. Just like you're about to do to your family Peter. Just like you. And just like you're family will move on from you, so too did I from mine."
I felt his hands, closing in around my face, grasping me hard.
"Love doesn't exist." He spoke in a whisper to me. "Only the longing to escape loneliness. Nobody has ever needed you to survive Peter."
His hands gripped harder, but I could feel no pain now. Only the pressure of it.
And suddenly he let me go, and he stood, staring down at me, his mouth pulled severe into a frown.
Staring at me seemingly forever.
Before he stepped away. Stepped behind me.
And I could hear his feet, his heeled shoes clicking against the wooden floorboards.
Could hear the turn of the knob as he went for the door, the creak as it opened on its hinges.
And his voice, one last time.
"… Nobody ever will."
The door closed shut behind me, my body growing numb, almost… cold.
I knew in that moment the Joker had gone.
That he'd left me alone.
And still my mouth fell open to tell him, to say…
"No. You're wrong. Love does exist. It does. In all of us. Even in you once. Even in you."
But no sound came from my lips, no voice as it grew paralyzed inside me, frozen in my throat.
As my body began to shut down.
The words would remain in only me.
And no one would ever hear them.
No one would ever know.
My eyes fixed, frozen on the shaft of sunlight, breaking through the dirtied window ahead of me, crawling, slow and struggling across the floor.
Washing over my feet.
Over me.
Glaring into my eyes.
Into my fading sight.
Fading…
Fading…
The world closing in, black around me.
My eyes focused on washed out sun.
I knew in that moment, that last moment of consciousness…
It was the last thing my eyes would ever see.