Disclaimer: I don't own the Joker or his smile. If I did, I'd be dead.
Dedication: This one is for the brilliant Heath Ledger. Don't mourn his death, celebrate his life!
Background: As this is written before The Dark Knight hits cinemas, there is no telling if anything is out of character or in conflict with the Movieverse. But, as Nolan avoids telling his Joker's origins - for reasons of wanting a full-fledged Joker to surface in the movie - I thought it could be fun to give it a try. This was written one evening straight, so not much thinking went into it. It is the delirious product of lack of sleep.
Summary: Even the Joker deserves to tell his beginnings. At least he thinks so himself. And his smile has a bloody story to tell.
Note: Yes, "ledger" in the title is also meant as a play of words...
A Bloody Ledger of Lies
The blood dripped in patterned clots into the sink. He grinned at the smile it formed in the white face of the porcelain. The pedestal sink had cracks and blotches from neglect, like his own visage, stained yellow with timeless dirt and grime. The blood, too, covered his hands, drying fast in the stale air. The smell fascinated him. The taste of it delighted him.
Licking at the gaping cuts in the sides of his mouth, he finally looked up at his reflection in the fractured mirror. His grin widened, and as he did not try to ignore the pain, he took great glory in it instead. An undying smile, at last. The laughter was ripped from his chest, wheezing and weak but gaining in strength. It wedged between the tiles on the walls and the floor, etching the square room in a perverse, maddening glee.
"Let's see what we have here," he gasped, breathing spasmodically as he began to sober up from his fit. "Ah, the Miracle Whip," he mused analytically, "green joy on bottle!" Giggling as he did so, he overlooked the instructions and poured all of the bottle's contents over his head. The acidic texture of the dye burned the corners of his lips, stilling the flow of blood. "Ah, bit sloppy there," he told his reflection and tore both towel and hanger from the wall to dry the dye from his skin. Wiping carelessly at his face, he frowned momentarily when the color seemed to stick. "Well then, nothing a bit of bleach won't eat."
When the liquid came in contact with his face, it reacted with the fat in his skin and became a slippery soap against his fingers. He didn't mind a bit of wear and tear; it meant nothing. He washed his face and grabbed the white face paint, which stood balanced on the edge of the sink, and smeared it all over his face. The cuts on either side of his mouth were avoided, not because he didn't paint there, but because the paint didn't stick to the raw meat. The blood was good, though. Mixed with the red paint he used to emphasize his broad smile, it added to the reality of it, making it more personal, so he thought. And of course, to contrast the happy red, he circled his eyes with black.
It took more than a month for the wounds to heal. He didn't count the days, but his busy schedule recorded the rough details of the period. He had wanted the flesh to heal so as to keep the smile stretching across his face without the effort of moving muscle, but it had been too difficult to keep upper and lower lip apart long enough. His cheeks had grown together again, and only his mouth formed his true smile. But he still painted the scars. He still smiled without smiling; even when he was serious.
He smiled and laughed at those who laughed at his smile. If they stared for too long, smiled too widely, laughed too loudly, any case, he brought them home and tied them up in his bedroom to play along with the joke. The stories never ended. They were tragic or funny or romantic, but always macabre.
"You know, it was my father," he told the blonde on the bed. He liked her face. It had wrinkles from an honest, often-worn smile. So, instead of the chair and the ropes and the chains, he had indulged himself to allow her the bed and a pair of purple silk ties. "Thought I was too serious..." He crawled onto the bed and crept along beside her rigid body. He lifted one leg across her hip, straddling her in one smooth move. His favorite slip-joint knife was balanced easily on the tips of his fingers inside a lazily closed hand. He ran the blunt side of the blade along her collarbone. "I agreed," he whispered, scarcely half an inch from her face.
"You're a freak," the pretty one hissed on a breath.
"Freaky is as freaky does, Miss," he answered in a low-note Southern-accent. He chuckled and stared at her mouth, searching hopelessly for a smile on her lips. "You laughed when you saw me in the street the other day," he said wondrously. "What did I do to lose the point of the joke?"
"I saw you on TV," she said finally, brought out of a prolonged silence once coaxed by the blade.
"Ahh... many a hero ruined by selling a car on TV." He chewed thoughtfully on his scarred cheek and weaved the blade gently through the air. Her lips caught his eye again. The glossy red looked so depressing. "Smile for me," he growled. It would please him so. But she didn't. He pressed his mouth roughly against hers, pushing her body into the mattress as she struggled against her bonds. Forcing her lips apart, he bit her tongue, rejoicing at the squeal she emitted into his mouth. He opened his eyes to see if hers smiled. They were shut tight, crow's feet insulting the corners. Tearing his mouth away, he yelled at her, "Smile!" His entire body was taut with fury.
"No, don't—please!"
But too late. The blade cut swiftly through her jugular, and the blood burst vividly from her veins. Not even in death did she smile or smirk or grin. But he did all at once. He lay beside her while the blood continued to flow, and when finally the angry wound ceased spilling its precious colors, he pressed a full kiss to it, and licked it, tasting it like he had his own bloody smile.
He left her there, for the time being, and walked into the living room. Running a hand through his greasy mane of green curls, he looked around to locate the desk, which had settled itself beneath years of messiness. He reached into the top drawer, sat down in the worn leather chair in front of the cluttered table, and pushed everything off the surface to make room. "Another name off the list," he muttered to himself and planted a black streak across The Blonde, further sullying the disarray of scribbled names that littered the bloodstained pages of the ledger.
His own name was on that list; right below the Bat. It just had to be that way. The Joker always wanted the last laugh.
Author's note: As this is a one-shot, it is not meant to be continued. However, if there is a popular demand, perhaps my mind can be swayed on that. I do plan to write a real Joker fanfic after I've seen the movie, if inspiration strikes. Thanks for reading, feel free to review!