A new idea I want to experiment with, just a short lil rough draft to start. I'll post a lot more soon but i needed something to go off of.
A crisp white letter on a rotting wood floor. The last thing he received from the woman that'd said she loved him more times than he'd taken a life. But of course that's all love was, just words. Though something was different for him when they came from her lips. But as he read the sparse letter, the realization that things perhaps weren't so different from her lips; just beautifully (and painfully) disguised.
"And Gatsby knew then, that his count of enchanted objects had decreased by one."
That's what he was left with; a quote from his lovers favorite book. He understood the meaning, he knew what she was telling him. It wasn't bitter or hateful, she didn't resent him; not at all. It was appreciation, it was her finally taking flight.
She'd been broken when they first met; she wasn't happy she wasn't living, simply existing. He changed that gave her imagination gave her happiness and excitement, he made her alive he gave he wings. But she never flew away from him. She was his prized creation, his Phoenix from flames; and she owed everything to him.
But there was no denying that she was ready to fly away; she was his queen and he'd always be her king, but it was time for his queen to rule herself for awhile. Maybe she'd come back, neither of them knew. But for now it was goodbye, and for once in his damn life he felt utterly empty. Because even though this was exactly how he'd planned it from the start, this wasn't what he'd come to want.
Harleen Quinzel was a brilliantly beautiful and talented woman shrouded in misery, heartbreak and boredom. She'd been clay on a pottery wheel ready for his hands to shape, all he needed was water.
He created things, she'd called him an artist, that's what he was. He created chaos and hysteria and painted the streets of Gotham with it. But he also created beauty, and she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever made. And through the years together she'd never failed to put a smile on his face, never failed to be anything short of perfect to him.
But artists didn't create things to keep, they created them to sell or admire, or for satisfaction. Artist didn't get to share a bed with their paintings every night, neither did criminals. But Joker was both of those, and she was his painting, he couldn't keep her like he wanted to. His queen was gone, and he was alone.