A/N: Ah ha. This story is a little bit...strange. Told from first persons view. Hope you all enjoy. There will be a second part to this. Joker's point of view. That'll be fun, neh? Anyways, please enjoy it! I own nothing.

It had all started with a game. I found out he loved games to no end. Like a child. This game he deemed 'Life'. I either chose my life or some other random persons, the death no consequence to me because it would be someone. Anyone in Gotham that I probably didn't know. That's what he said at least. I nodded dumbly, that much I remember, then not hours after I had chosen I had received a call that my mother had died of a car crash. I had killed my own mother to save my life. There was no mistake that it wasn't a coincidence. He had done it, and it was my fault. The sickening feeling overwhelmed my senses and I spiraled down into a deep dark oblivion.

There were hands that caught me. Strong faithful hands that I grasped onto for all relief. His hands. He came that same night and took me away, to his world, never to return. It reminded me of when Peter took Wendy to Never Neverland, to never grow up, to never worry about anything again. I looked upon him in fascination and understood that he was Peter. He was still a child, only bigger. The false face of a man hiding the curiosity and mayhem of a small boy. It was inspiring and yet I still felt sickened that I thought so wondrous. Stockholm syndrome. I deemed it that like he had deemed my life.

I remember the flickering of a light bulb above a small bed in a warehouse, no actual rooms separating the sections. There was a small 'kitchen' consisting of a manual lighting stove, a small sink and a box to hold dishes. The bathroom was merely a toilet and open shower stall. I had shivers run through me when I saw the couple of bodies littering the floor, dead for awhile now. Probably killed early that morning. Isn't it funny that your captor always seemed to take you 'home' at night? Like it was more…mysterious? I didn't realize my senses had heightened until he laid a tender kiss upon my brow. I felt on fire and he merely laughed at my stricken nature. I felt tingly and sick all at the same time.

He left me there, standing in the middle of the warehouse, as he skipped over to the small bed, shedding off his jacket and shoes before snuggling into the cot like structure, giggling and smiling to himself, knowing something I didn't. The looks I received from the other 'goons', men, whatever you wished to call them, were haunting. They eyed me like I was meat fresh from the slaughter house and the highest bidder would claim all. That's when I fled to him again, my body squishing up against his on the small bed, tucking my head deep into his chest. I was afraid. So terribly afraid and he was the only one who could keep me from losing myself completely at that point.

I thought if funny, me thinking that I would lose myself, when in fact I had lost it already. I didn't feel sickened when he stroked his fingers through my hair but rather relieved that he had touched me in such a tender manner, like I would break if he pet to hard. I finally brought myself to look at him, look into the dark muddy eyes of his, almost a consuming fire of blackness. They shown with brilliance and merriment. He seemed to be happy all the time. His fingers explored further, from my scalp to my shoulders, ghosting over the flesh of my breasts where he paused, curling his fingers there as if he was to touch gold and silver for the first time. An inquisitive look crossed his features and he moved further down, his fingers fanning out over my stomach, watching the rise and fall of my chest. It was like being examined inside and out by a child.

Then suddenly I was bleeding. A large slash from the inside of my elbow to my wrist. It wasn't deep but it stung like a paper cut and the wound was spilling crimson droplets down my arm, and he was watching. Watching intently as his fingers pressed against the thin line making more blood appear. His tongue flickered in and out of his mouth like a reptile, tasting the tainted air. I shuddered as he leaned down, inspecting the cut. He dipped his head and caught a ringlet of blood on the tip of his tongue, quickly sucking the flavor away. I shuddered. He tasted me and he was addicted. I was too.

I was afraid. All the time. He left during the afternoon and came 'home' in the wee hours of the morning, usually cut up and bruised. Once he was trying to bandage his arm, failing miserably. I intervened for the first time, letting my fingers do deft work with the thin cotton bandage, placing it over the large gash in his upper arm. He caught my wrist before I could pull away, wincing at the bruising manner. I knew he tried to be gentle with me, but he slipped. A lot. The scars and bruises that littered my own body were no one else but him. He kissed my knuckles, each and every one, a shiver shooting down my spine as he did so. He smiled at him, he always smiled at me, and said his thanks. I scrambled off to bed immediately when he did. Curling up in a small ball, trying to hide myself from him, from the world. He laughed.

His laughter even haunted me in sleep. Sleep came quickly though. Each and every night. I would fall asleep fast, on my own, cuddling in his blankets, surrounded by his smell. He would come in before daylight and crawl into bed next to me, his arms snaking their way around my waist, pulling me close. Close enough to feel his breath when he panted out my name, a silent prayer. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, hoping he didn't notice I was awake. He knew, of course, but he never said anything. He just cuddle me closer and that's when I realized his grip was one of longing and loneliness. He held me tight, afraid that I would slip through his fingers. I didn't want to.

The days seemed to blur by, and I realized I had spent a month with him. A month and I was still alive. I was banged up badly, by him, but I don't think he meant it. He had tantrums and took it out on his men and me. After though, he would apologize, swearing he'll kill himself if he would harm me again. I told him not to. That's when he looked at me. Truly looked at me. His head was cocked to the side, his eyebrows drawn together. It was like if I had grown a second head. Then again, the laughter. Always laughing. I loved his laughter.

I noticed subtle changes about 'us'. He looked at me longer and I always seemed nervous around him. I wasn't as afraid anymore, and I learned to cope with his irregular moods. When he laughed, I was able to laugh with him. When he was mad I stayed out of his way unless called for. But he always seemed happy. When he first took me his attitude was as scary as his knives, but now I learned there wasn't a reason not to be happy. Not to laugh every second of your life. What good was life without any of that? People were too serious. I started to understand.

Nighttime was my favorite time of the day. Everything was quiet and calm. I started to wait up for his return home. His home. Our home. I would clean or watch T.V. He brought me little things like books and crayons to color with when he could. Once he even brought me a fish, my favorite pet, and a bowl, saying I could keep it if I was a good pet myself. Happy, the fishes name, stayed in the bowl on top of the television. I, his pet, stayed in his arms.

He called me pretty. He was sitting behind me on the bed, I reading The Whipping Boy. His fingers took my hair and pulled it back, his lips falling to my neck, sucking and smearing red paint on the pale canvas. I was startled and scared again. And he knew. He pushed me off the bed roughly, saying I could sleep on the floor for that night. And I cried. That one night I missed his warm embrace. The only embrace. I didn't understand.

The next night he called me beautiful. His beautiful little girl. This time I touched him. My fingertips tingled when I rubbed off his white face paint, over the scars. He flinched, I remember that clearly, almost shrinking back as if I had stricken him. Then my lips were against his, tasting the lipstick and him. Only him. His hands were everywhere. I found myself under him. I invited him. And I lost myself to him completely. He was warm. So warm. So human. He clutched to me again, like so many nights before. He needed me. I needed him. His name echoed through the warehouse that night, strangled and gasping. I loved him.

The next night he didn't come home. I panicked. I paced around the warehouse , talking to Happy about anything and everything. The fish just looked at me with those big googly eyes. He always said they were what made him unique, even though the others called the fish a freak. He didn't like that one bit. He shot a man for calling Happy a freak. I missed him. One night he had been gone and I already missed him. I went to bed in his shirt that night. I felt so alone. So alone.

Two days. Two long days. I cried for those two days. He wasn't coming back. I convinced myself of that. He left me here to die. He took what he wanted and left me. That night I had a fitful sleep. I wanted him back. I wanted his laughter. And he came. If you ask you shall receive. Somewhere there was a God.

He was broken. In every way. He stumbled in, coughing up blood, clutching his side. He was laughing. Always laughing. I dried my eyes and ran to him, my hands roaming over his body, finding severe injuries. I told him not to move, to be quiet, but he kept laughing. Laughing and laughing. His chuckles soon turned into tears. They streamed down his face, smearing his makeup. My hands cupped his face. Why was he crying? He never cried. I finally was able to move him over to the cot, bandaging and stitching him up.

They were coming for him. He told me. It took a week for him to heal completely and in that time they had found him. Found us. I told him to run. To hide away. But he didn't. He sat on the bed, holding me close, fingers bruising my skin. He kept murmuring my name, burying his nose in my hair, breathing in deeply. Keeping me. His kisses were intoxicating, keeping me under his spell. I wouldn't lose him. But I did.

He laughed as the door broke down. The men were like shadows. Swarming in and infesting the our home. We sat still, calm. But I still cried. Cried for him. He couldn't let them take him. I wouldn't let them. They grabbed at us, pulling me from him. Why did they want to destroy our happiness? He whispered, so low, so solemnly, that I barely heard him.

"I love you."

It has been a full year since I last saw him. And I waited. Waited for him to seek me out again. To find me. Or I would find him. They said I was cracked, that I was somehow damaged by him. I didn't understand. I never would. What they mean that I was damaged? I never felt better. Except…I missed him. They showed me pictures. The bruises and puncture wounds to my chest, legs, arms, everywhere. I didn't understand. I didn't want to. He loved me. He said he did. He always would. I left their office, the therapy sessions did no good. Why would they? I wasn't insane. I was fine. He loved me. They said I was just a pawn. That he left me. He. Loved. Me.

That night I left the last session of my year rehabilitation. That night he sought me out again. I knew they were wrong. They were all wrong. He did love me. And I loved him. His laughter. His smile. His everything. I was obsessed. Intoxicated. And he knew it. I would follow him to the end of the earth for him. And I did, even as the blade pierced my heart.