"Why so serious?" his voice dripped like venom, with a tinge of amusement settled deep within his hollow eyes. The blade he held against me gently pierced the delicate skin of my neck, making blood dribble from the wound. "Huh?"

My breath caught in my throat, a lump forming in my stomach. I was nervous, and he knew it, he could feel my fear against his skin, could taste it on his tongue, and laughed at it. "It's only death," he whispered into my ear, his cheek tracing my jaw line, my eyes clamping shut so I wouldn't have to see those terrifying eyes.

"It's a shame I have to kill you. You're a very beautiful girl," he noted, laughing in that maniacal way of his. It was that mad scientist laugh that sent shivers down your spine, and made all your hair stand on end. The knife dug deeper, making more blood pour down my neck, into my shirt, the sticky red liquid staining everything it touched.

"Wake up." His tongue licked the crimson from my neck, but it didn't stop the bleeding. "Wake up."I could feel my breath shortening, could feel my heart slowing down, until everything was slowing down with it, and my vision blurred. His face was no longer visible, and all the colors he wore melded together and only his lips moved through it all. "Wake up. . ."

My eyes fluttered open in the real world, and at that moment I realized I had been dreaming. About who, and what, I didn't know - but that had been the strangest dream I'd had in a long time. The back of my head ached from a migraine, the pain drumming against my skull in a slow pattern. Why so serious? That face brought shivers to my body, and I quickly grabbed my arms to rub some warmth back into them.

There was a cold breeze in the room that had gone unnoticed for the time being, and finally I acknowledged it, and looked in the direction it was coming from. The window was wide open, the blinds levitating in the air with the night air that blew into the wind. Had it been that way the night before? I didn't remember, or think so. Frowning, I quietly stood to my feet to address the problem, making sure I was cautious not to wake the boy sleeping beside my bed side.

The outside world was just barely lit, the sun still resting beneath the horizon. It was a beautiful sight, even with the factory fumes meshing in with the colors of the sky and murky clouds in it. I couldn't stop the smile blooming on my face, and I took my hands off the windows, and instead seated myself down on the window sill to look out at the scenery taking place before me.

Brandon tumbled over to his other side, causing the sheets to rustle and my attention to snap back into reality. My eyes softened as I looked at his sleeping form, his face a peaceful shape, hair a mussed up mess. My smile widened further as I realized I was safe, that I was free and my father couldn't keep me locked away any longer. And my mother would no longer be hurt by the hands that once ruffled my hair gently, and caressed my cheek lovingly. The man I used to love as a father, but could no longer even call him that.

Sirens echoed to the east of me, the city already buzzing with life. I followed the noise with my eyes, looking down the narrow exit, watching as the fire truck lashed by, the sound of its sirens slowly fading away. People bustled by in business suits and suit cases. Their expressions were unreadable, but they all looked impatient and tired from long nights of useless sleep or lack there of. I was aware of Brandon slowly standing up behind me, his eyes blinking with unshed sleep, his posture lazy and slumped. "Yer awake this early in the day?"

"I had a nightmare," I answered back, turning to face him. I was right on the money with my description of what he looked like. A smile tugged at my lips as he scratched his head and let out a yawn. "You can go back to sleep."

"Nah. I'm fine," he replied, waving a dismissive hand, the other running up his face. A smile was on his face as he moved his hand up further, pushing back his locks of red hair. "You didn't wake me at all. I just woke from a dream, is all."

I nodded my head in understanding, pursing my lips as I watched him stumble for the door to leave. When he pulled the door shut behind him I turned back to look out the window. The sun was higher in the sky now, its brilliant rays warming my skin and making me smile just a bit. It was comforting to be in a place that had no restraints, no fear hidden beneath the walls, no cigarette smoke stained against every inch of cloth, no smell of alcohol billowing in every inch of room. It made me feel at home, for once in my life.

The door creaked open, startling me, and I turned to see Brandon's head peeking through looking at me. "My mum's making hash browns, eggs and bacon. It'll be done in a little bit. She wanted to know how ya' liked yer eggs?"

"Sunny-side-up, please," was my response, a polite smile on my face. He smiled back and nodded his head in understanding, then slipped away, closing the door gently behind him. I looked down at my hands, folded over my knees, and leaned my chin against them. I'm going to go out today. I'm going to get my money from home and get some new clothes.

Standing up, feeling refreshed from the clean air filling my lungs, I made my way out the door and was greeted with the still unconscious face of my mother. She looked at peace, asleep on the couch. Her hands rested on her stomach, her face tilted to the side, her breathing calm and collected. "Ah, look who be up. Take a seat, little nymph. Breakfast will be done in a jiff."

Walking past my mother I took a seat on the stool in front of the counter on which she worked. "I need to go home to get some things, Patty," I explained to her, and she nodded her head with my statement, a broad smile pulling at the corner of her wrinkled lips.

"We'll give yer pops a fright, will we?" she asked, a mischievous tone to her voice. "Sounds like fun, nymph."

I smiled, cocking my head to the side. "So you don't mind?"

"I figured ya'd need some things from the house anyway," she exclaimed, whisking the eggs in a separate bowl. "Just as better to get it done now, right?"

Pouring the egg batter onto the frying pan on the stove, she then began mashing them there, making them into scrambled eggs. On the fryer above the one she was working on was my sunny-side up eggs, and I watched as she turned that part of the stove off. The bacon sizzled across from my eggs, and they smelled nice and juicy from where I sat. In the pan to the front left, were the hash browns. They were the home-made kind, not those stupid things you bought at stores that were already basically put together for you. Patty was a true Irish woman, and nothing else.

"Grab a plate and help yerself, nymph," she spoke in a proud voice, untying her apron and throwing it over her shoulder. "We need to get ya' good and fed, so ya' won't be this skinny ever again."

With this comment I looked down at my thin frame, poking at my skin and ribs. That's all I was, skin and bones. My mom cooked, and fed me well, but I didn't get enough in me. We never had enough money to buy food since my father spent it all on alcohol and cigarettes. She did try though - my mom.

Standing to my feet I grab a plate from the stacked ones set down in front of me, and go over to the oven. The smell was overwhelming, like heaven to my nose. I shoveled as much as possible onto my plate, feeling greedy but hungry all at the same time. "There we go! Look at ya', piling food like there's no tomorrow. I'll make some more, too."

Brandon entered the room now, his hair wet and a towel over his shoulder, his hand shaking out the water from his hair. His eyes rested on my plate, and a playful smile tugged at his lips. "Hungry, are ya'?"

I look down at my plate with embarrassment written all over the blush painted across my cheeks, and shyly grab the ketchup to pour it on my hash browns. He gave a snort as he grabbed a plate of his own, getting smacked by his mother at the same time. "Ya' leave the girl alone, ya' here? If she's hungry, then she's hungry. Look at ya', ya' aint' much better yerself."

He was filling his plate to the brim, just as I did, grumbling little things under his breath. Then he took a seat beside me, and the silence fell upon us. "I'm going to go see if yer mum will wake," stated Patty, wiping her hands on the towel next to the sink.

When she left, the silence rose, and only the sound of us chewing our food was heard. "I was only kidding with ya'," Brandon finally said, not looking at me at all, his eyes staring at something else.

"I know," I whisper back, taking another scoop full of food and shoving it into my mouth. "I haven't eaten a decent meal in awhile."

"I know, too." His eyes fell upon me now, full of understanding. He immediately looked away, though, as if he knew if he stared too long he'd never be able to pull his eyes away. I looked away myself, feeling like a burden in their house.

Patty came back into the room and glanced at the two of us, raising a thick brow, and asking, "What's with the silence? Did ya' do something again, Brandon."

"He didn't do anything," I quickly interrupted her, averting my gaze to the door. I took one last bite, every food item that was on my plate now being digested in my stomach, and wiped my mouth. Standing up I went to the door, and looked back at them with a smile. "I need to go get my stuff."

"Brandon will go with ya'."

"No." I shook my head. "I'll be fine. I can sneak in. I have many times before without being caught. Just let me go alone."

Patty's face twisted between a look of worry, and a motherly expression. She bit her lip, looking back and forth between me and Brandon. "Okay. Ya' just be careful, nymph. I could never forgive myself if something happened to ya'."

I gave her a reassuring smile, and slipped out the door, closing it tightly behind me. The sun was now up, high in the sky, beaming down at me. The alley way was less populated in the morning, all the bums out stealing as much as they could. I've never thought about stealing until now, when it seems less wrong to me. Shouldn't a person with nothing be able to steal to have something? Only those who steal when they already have more than enough are the real villains, but nowadays, there are more poor people than there are rich people. Shaking my head of those thoughts, I made my way to the house I once called home.

Home. It's so much clearer to me now. Home is a place where people that love you live with you. Home is where you get fed every day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Home is a place where you feel safe. That place I once called home was never really a home.

Turning the corner, and looking up, I found my window still open. Looking around I found the stairs, and quietly, took my first step. They creaked violently under my weight, years of rust wearing them down. Every step I took a noise of pain emitted from their rusty hinges, and I cringed, and looked up at the window to see if the monster had heard, and was waiting, with those eyes that watched me fall.

No one came, and I could feel the deep breath of relief escape from my lips. I stepped onto my window sill and slid in, the sight before me horrible. My room was a mess, clothes scattered across the floor, jewelry boxes broken and left near the walls they had been thrown at. He must've been looking for my money stash. Glancing in the real direction it was hidden in, it was untouched, thank the lord.

I stepped toward the picture on my wall, placing careful fingers around the edge and lifting it up. The whole was still there, the money still in place. I grabbed it and shoved it into my overly large pockets, and then went toward my closet, where I grabbed my once school bag off its hook. There were noises coming from behind the door, but I paid no heed to them, instead I began to gather my clothes off the floor and shoved them into the bag.

Only did I stop when something crashed against my door, a loud thud being heard. My whole body froze as the voices were now clear to me. They didn't enter, but they were to close to my room for me to move. If I did, I'd have to be so quiet, so precise with my steps. It would take all my years of sneaking in to take a single step.

"You owe me a lot of money," said a voice, deep and angry, and much older. "You know that right?"

"Give me a couple more days. I've been looking for some cash in my daughter's room, but I can't find her stash. Just a couple more days, and I'll have it." My father's desperate voice was heard, and that's what made my eyes widen, the tone, and what he said.

"I've waited long enough. How much does your daughter have?"

"I'm not sure. You can go look for it, if you want. Her room's right behind this door, so you can find the money, and then just give me a couple more days!" my dad begged, in a voice I'd never heard him use.

Panic settled in my veins, and the sound of something being lifted off my door echoed in my ear. My door handle twisted to the side, and I knew I either had to somehow escape out the window, or hide. My instincts kicked in high gear now, and as that door burst open I hopped out the window, and knelt down low. I'd wait it out. I still needed to get some things.

"Search the room," the other voice, unfamiliar to me, stated.

I could hear my things being shoved to the side, items crashing to the floor, glass breaking into tiny pieces. I felt so helpless, as the room I once called my sanctuary was torn apart, the place I once called safe, was no longer something I could call safe. I needed to see who this person destroying my room was. Slowly, and carefully, I brought myself up and peeked over the top.

There was a man standing there, with gray hair, and he was older, his face stern. His eyes scanned the area like a hawk, and then he snapped his fingers. "Did you find anything?"

Two big, bulky men stopped what they were doing, and shook their heads no. "Aint' nothin' hear but a lot of teenage stuff."

The man turned, facing my father who stood with a horror struck face in the doorway. His dark brown hair stuck to his face from sweat, and he looked older than he was. "Just a couple more days," he pleaded in a soft voice; raspy and broken from so much begging and shouting.

"What can you possibly give me that I don't already have?"

"I'll give you my daughter," he said.

My eyes widened at this, and I crouched down so no one could see me, so I could stare in disbelief at my shoes. "What's so special about your daughter?"

"Such words, from her own father?" a new voice stated, amusement laced all over. It sounded so familiar, like I knew it from somewhere. "You'll give her away for your own life? Don't you think that's a bit selfish of you?"

"Joker. What brings you to the neighborhood?"

The man now known as Joker laughed, in a crazy kind of way, and I suddenly remembered why it sounded so familiar. He was that man from my dream. I knew I had to see him, had to see his face, so I could confirm it. Slowly and steadily, like a fox hunting its prey, I pushed myself up, my knees shaking from all the concentration I put into this.

"Well, uh, it seems I came at a bad time. Should I come back at another time, or can I watch the show?" The man wore make-up over his face; his lips painted red, eyes shaded black, scars in the corners of his lips, making him look like he constantly wore a smile. His coat was purple, nice and velvety soft looking. His hair was greasy looking, blonde and tinted green, wavy all over. It all somehow made him look even more mysterious, more beautiful.

I wrinkled my nose at my own words. Beautiful.

"No. Stay. Why don't you show this man true fear?" the man spoke, voice so nonchalant and uncaring.

Excitement suddenly rose in the Clown's face, and his fingers twitched and fiddled beside him. "Really? You'd really give me such honors?"

The man nodded his head, and he scream that escaped my dad's lips sounded like nails running down a chalkboard, but I couldn't look away. I wanted to see him suffer, to see him in pain. It made me giddy inside. A blade was in the Joker's hands in a matter of minutes, it came from his sleeve, and he grabbed my father by the hair, pulling him back to expose his neck. He placed the nice perfectly against his neck, and smiled as blood escaped the small cut it made.

"You want to know how I got these scars on my lips. I once had a father, who, well, he had a bit of an alcohol problem. Just like you, right? You two would've gotten along great. Anyway, one day he got a little too tipsy, and I just happened to be in the room with him at the same time. How stupid of me, right? And he came up to me, with a smile on his face, and he asked 'Why aint' you smiling. Do you got a problem or something?' And he grabbed me by the hair, like this," - he tugged harder, the smile growing on his face. He burrowed the blade deeper into my dad's skin, adding more blood to the stream now flowing down my father's neck, nice and red colored, and the Joker asked - " And he asked 'Why are you always, so, serious?'" The blade traced a vein along his neck; the Joker's eyes looked glazed and entranced by the crimson color all over his hands and knife. "And the blade ripped through my skin, rip, and it stung like a bitch. Each corner, he made sure I had the perfect smile. I looked like a Jack-o-lanturn and I killed my dad because he killed me."

The blood that splattered across his face, across my floor, some catching on my walls, it was so enticing. I couldn't take my eyes away; it was like a beautiful masterpiece being made right before my eyes. The crimson liquid spilling down his chin, making patterns all over the place. I loved it. And I realized what a monster I was for liking it, but at the same time, I didn't care. I could feel myself getting excited, and when the man turned, a cynical smile on his face, I knew I was just like him for thinking such a thing.

I stared at my hands as I listened to them talk. "Now, I've got an idea really, you see? It's a simple one, too, and you only have to pay attention. The scheme, no, we won't call it a scheme. I've got this whole idea of how to kill this so-called Batman, right? And I just need one little thing in return, you know? I just want . . . a little, well, that's understating things. Look, I'll be honest," - he was waving his hands, making all these gestures, and he just stopped out of no where with the biggest smile on his face as he clasped his fingers together, - "You know the catch to these things. Money."

"You have a plan to kill Batman?" asked the man, laughing at the Joker, who's eyes rolled and cherry lips smacked together at the mocking tone. "And you want my money? You're really something, Joker, you're crazy."

"Not crazy, no, just ahead of the curve. And, I'm not kidding. Look, I'm not kidding. I kid you not, I'm not playing games right now," the Joker exclaimed, and he didn't sound serious at all, but you knew he was. "I have a theory, this whole little idea and you just have to give me the money."

There was a very taken back look on the mob dealers face, as he shook his head like he could not believe the Joker was even saying this, but he was. "Get this freak out of my sight."

Immediately, I shrank even lower out of fear. I could hear the rustle of their feet, and the grunts and noises being made. There were noises of pain, groans, and bodies clattered to the floor. Footsteps were heard, and somehow, I could hear the slice of skin, the blood hitting every inch of space in my room. It was like my senses had heightened from the sight of blood. Like I was a totally different person.

"I'm guessing that's a no, then," stated the Joker suddenly, his voice sounding a bit disappointed.

"You killed . . ." There was a pause; he sounded speechless as he stood where he was staring at the bloody man before him. "Get out!"

"Don't get so serious on me. I'll just give you my card and leave you to think about it, then." Heels clicked against the floor, toward the window I hid behind, and I knew I had nowhere to run as I lifted my head and watched a foot stamp onto the window sill. His face was so close now; I could stand up and touch it if I wanted to. I watched his eyes slide downward, catching on me, a smile tugging at his lips. I was frozen in place by those eyes, the blood on his face that was my dad's. He glanced sideways as he whispered something under his breath, and all I caught was, "Wait till he's gone."

He looked away from me, and climbed up the metal pipe beside my window, not even giving me a second glance. I waited till he was gone, and there was a sound of a door being opened and closed, till I stood to see the scene waiting for me in my room.

It was weird, the blood all over, like red paint that was spilled. Any item I hadn't grabbed was soiled with the red liquid, and as I stepped in, looking at my book shelf, I knew I wouldn't be able to grab anything else. Heaving a sigh, I looked down at the bodies sprawled along my floor. This wasn't my problem. Scratching an itch on my arm, I gave a tiny frown to the mangled corpses, and then shrugged it all off and turned to leave.

My whole body froze up when I turned around and saw him seated on the window sill, sitting with his right leg propped over the other and a sly little smirk on his face. "So, we had a little birdie watching the whole thing," he asked, jumping to his feet and taking a step forward, and I stepped back to get away from him. "Are you the little daughter he was going to give away?"

I nodded my head, eyes never leaving his. "Are you sad that he's gone?"

"Why would I be sad? He wanted me dead anyway," I replied back, almost bravely. "Are you going to . . . kill me too?"

A smile was on his face, but how could you tell with those scars. "I could, couldn't I?" He laughed, and suddenly sped forward, leaning forward and dropping down to my level. His hand reached out for mine, and I knew I was shaking as he took it in his and put it against the blood on his face; my father's blood. "Does touching his blood bother you?"

He smeared it all over his cheek, and my palm was slimy with crimson and the paint rubbing off of his face. I was fascinated by it, couldn't take my eyes away as he led my hand up and down his jaw line."Not really," I spoke, in a soft and quiet voice since my mind was distracted by the picture before me. "I feel . . . strange."

His eyes sparkled with curiosity, and he licked his lips. "Strange?" he asked, like it was the most amazing thing ever.

"Yeah, strange. Like I was . . ." he was waiting, anxiously, eyes tremoring in their sockests. "Born to see blood, or something along the lines of that . . ."

The scarred smile curled at the ends, reminding me of the Grinch who Stole Christmas, and a sharp bark of laughter escaped his lips. "Born to see blood?" he asked, amusement laced in his shrill voice.

I felt embarrassed, and quickly wanted to change the subject. "Did you lie about your dad?"

His eyes fell, nostrils flaring up a bit. "Now why would I lie about something like that?" he asked, and at that moment he took my hand away from his face, and let it go. "Would you lie about something like that? Do I look like I'm lying? You don't believe me?"

I shook my head. Quite frankly, it was the less believeable things in life. He looked like the type of person for telling stories at a fire side, roasting body parts instead of nice little white marshmallows. My nose crinkled a bit, and I frowned. "No. Are you going to kill me?"

He bared his teeth; they were yellow and rotting inside of his mouth. Laughter escaped his throat, loud, and he wiped some fake tears from his eyes. "Kill you? Not right now," he stated, "I'm going to let you live. You're just going to pay in return, got it? It's a little deal, you live, I take something you love. Got it? Do you agree to these terms?"

"Sure," I answered back, not fully understand his proposition but going along with it anyway. He nodded his head, straightening up with his eyes still boring into mine. He hopped a bit on his feet, before he turned around to leave.

When he got to the window, he turned and smiled at me. "I'll have to tell you how I got these scars someday," he spoke, pointing at the grotesque scars on his cheeks. Howling with laughter, he stepped out onto the fire escape and began to climb. I stared at the place for a few minutes, before I shook back into reality.

My hand was covered; covered in blood that was shed from my own father. He was dead on my floor, in my room, before my eyes. Dead by the hands of a killer, who I had just contracted my life to, without really realizing it until he left. The deal . . . my life at the price of something I loved. My eyes widened a bit, as I suddenly thought of something.

Patty and Brandon. My mom! He's going to kill them!

What have I done?