Keep in mind that this was originally from my old account. However, it is two years old, and my writing has improved since then. So, naturally, I want to enhance it!
The Joker is…complicated so, in turn, I made his thought process complicated. If you are confused…well…I can't help you there! ;p
x: Butterflies and Silk :x
/
"...he goes off crazier than usual..."
The knife cut through my skin like silk, carving a Glasgow smile. I screamed like nothing would ever be sane again. In fact, ladies and gents, I would never be sane again. Yet what is the definition of sanity? Are we born robots? Are we mindless androids, destined to pollute the world with boredom? Are our brains a metaphoric symbol of wires, and when they fray, we start to become indifferent?
{Tell me the definition of insanity. I dare you.}
It is not a written fact that society wants us to be 'normal', but it is definitely easy to infer. My father, for example, wanted to be 'normal', and look where that got him!
{I will accept your applause at any given moment!}
I hated my old man; I am eternally grateful that I had the bittersweet pleasure of killing him. You should have seen the smile on his...face (if you could define a mask as a face). It was ever so amusing to make him suffer for the same thing he had done to me. The joke was on him, and everybody should have been laughing!
{You should be laughing now.}
It was impressive how a mere 17 year old boy could make someone fear, yet respect him, at the same time…
Everyone says it's the eyes that intimidate my beloved 'friends'. Well, a-duh, the eyes are a window to one's soul. Hmmm…yet do, or did, I really have one? That is a question for the Batman to bother over, if he hasn't done so already…
…!Speaking of the masked vigilante!...
Define the term 'good' while you're at it. What is the difference between good and bad? If you think hard enough, you'll realize there isn't one. There was never a rule saying that good is good and bad is bad. That insanity is insanity (just insane). That everything in this world is just an explosion of fireworks, anticipating the end of their countdown. When they do explode, oh yes they will, I will be there. Such a moment will never be more cherished than my latest bag of tricks that I have hidden up my proverbial sleeve…
I can't wait to watch the world burn! I will be the one to set it ablaze, exactly like my dearest Gotham. It will be the perfect chance to show everyone that they're all just little tiny fire ants dumbly scurrying about with their little rules and their huge morals. Add emotions into the equation and BOOM… they ignite into itsy bitsy pieces of normalness.
{Do you really want to be one of those "people"?}
The problem with emotions? Emotions. The only emotion that should matter is, duh da da dum…happiness! Let's all just be one big happy family! We can all share secrets, play scrabble, play a light game of poker and, most importantly, just DO things (with my consent, of course).
Gotham, Gotham, Gotham. Oh how you disappoint me Gotham! I see potential for aggressive expansion…
TRYYOUTTSS!
There I go again, trying to ignore what has made me the animal I have become: my father. I can't erase him from my mind no matter how many crazy pills Jerry Arkham forces onto me. My dad, he lingers. I hurt, I bleed and I realize the scars on my face are miniscule compared to the ones shabbily crafted on the inside.
Velvet ribbons of mass destruction.
Do it fast.
My dad got home early that night, almost breaking down the door. (He was eager to get home after dry-walling trailers all day.) I looked up warily, and noticed a hint of extra malice, more so compared to the many nights before. Luckily, he let me eat my dinner in peace. Hell, he didn't even start an unnecessary confrontation; this had really baffled me to no end, let me tell you. You see, most of the time, he would comment about something – anything – that was wrong with me.
"Don't you ever shower, boy?" Simon Napier snapped at me, releasing a deliberate giggle. I didn't understand what was so damn funny, and curled my fists in response. They were situated under the table so that he would not get any brash ideas…
So much for no insults, huh?
"I could if you would actually pay the water bill." I grunted back at him, staring listlessly at my empty plate. I should have never said that but I was merely a boy: a stupid, ugly, misguided freak without a sense of humor.
'Normal.'
Before I could even blink, he grabbed a fistful of my straggly hair, and threw me right at the refrigerator. I then fell to the floor with a sickening thud. Blood seeped from my freshly broken nose, and puddled mockingly on to the white tile. The sharp contrast between these colors entranced me into some sort of hypnotic state. Well, until somebody decided to ruin my peaceful moment of much needed reflection.
His steel toed boot crunched down on my already wounded nose, and I cried out in pain. (However, there are three kinds of pain: physical, mental, and emotional. I was definitely experiencing all three at the time, especially the physical.)
Will this ever end?
"Simon, stop it! You're hurting him, STOP IT!" My mother screeched, in an attempt to ease his hold on me. I couldn't speak since I had the correct notion that my jaw was broken. Where has she been? That is what I had wondered, knowing damn well where it is that she goes at night.
You see, my mom was a well-known stripper; I .had to defend her all of the time. Everyone classified me as the 'bipolar freak whose mother is a whore' and it really grated on my fraying nerves. So after a while, mommy became a pathetic nuisance who tried to protect me from the big bad meany. And do you know what? I hated her just as much as I loathed him.
In a split second, my father towered over her, delivering several blows to her head. She slumped to the floor, and slipped into the sweet nectar of unconsciousness.
So much for help, mother. GREAT job. Fucking slut!
He wrenched me off of the ground, pinning me to the counter in his fit of rage. I was trembling in icy hot fear as he grabbed his trusty pocket knife, which always resided in his right coat pocket.
"You know, Jacky boy, you really ought to smile more…" The bastard began, twirling the instrument of death in his hand carelessly. I was getting frustrated at my inability to talk back, so I snarled in such hatred that it sounded more like a tiger's roar. He tightened his hold on me, rewarding me with a deep gash that trailed down my arm. I winced in agony. The tears poured down my face as he placed the knife into the crook of my mouth.
"I guess my question is…why so serious, Jack-O- Lantern?" I froze as my mind gobbled up this question like a twisted sort of nourishment.
When I didn't answer he bellowed, his putrid breath gracing my nostrils,
"WHY SO SERIOUS, SON?"
And…
{I already told you the other part. Were you listening? For your sake, I hope so.}
. His other hand squeezed my throat as he slowly guided his knife into my unwilling, weak flesh. An epiphany dawned on me as he worked his magic, as I cried for obvious vengeance. You know how butterflies start out as those stubby caterpillars and form a chrysalis? Well, I've been stuck in mine for far too long….
He laughed wickedly as he sliced halfway through my other cheek, and I started to laugh along with him. The man paused. He probably thought I was mocking him. So I took the chance to cause a little, shall we say, …chaos!
I stabbed him mercilessly in the chest, and watched him fall, adrenaline thrumming in my veins. I , the mere 17 year old boy, slid to the floor , and approached the form of my father as he bled profusely.
"I have a question for you, daddy dearest," I began, smirking in absolute glee, despite the terrible pain that scorched my face, almost making it feel like acid had been poured on my cheeks. The horrified expression on his face was puh-riceless as I said the following statement, whispering excitedly,
"Why so serious?"
You can guess what had happened next, right? I will spare you the gory details, but only this time. Next time, you might not pick the right card…
Let's just say that both of my parents were found dead, lying next to each other on the blood-soaked kitchen floor. They were smiling, smiling like a happy couple who had just gotten married. The way they used to be until I entered this world.
And this is the how they will stay…forever.
{Let them burn in my flames!}
As for my life after the killings…you'll just have to keep on wondering. Where did the butterfly fly till' he landed strongly, and proudly onto his new territory?
{Enough of that sob story, let's get on with these tryouts!}
…Make it fast.
Ugh, here I go again, trying to ignore my thoughts. This stupid story keeps reiterating in my mind.
Play, pause, repeat.
Play, pause, repeat.
Play, pause, repeat.
My point, hmm? The world is not made of silk, and butterflies.
DEAL with it, but smile all the while.
Oh and, one more thing…
It is time for YOU to fly away!