And the second installment is up! I'm actually bumping this up to mature because it is, quite frankly, really really bloody. There's also a bit of language and I don't want to get in trouble. So, consider yourself warned. (But seriously, if you couldn't handle a bit of blood, I doubt you'd be a fan of the Joker anyway. :D) Oh, and sort of randomly: I'm really annoyed with for STILL not having a Dark Knight category. I don't know if I should continue to update this story in the Batman category or maybe move it to Batman Begins, where I recently discovered a lot of Dark Knight stories are hiding. Ugh. Whatever. Read on!
Even with both of their not-exactly-legal means of obtaining extra money, (which they revealed shortly afterwards, to each other's grim acceptance) they still didn't have enough to pay for surgeries. Her cuts healed in thin white scars that crisscrossed her face like slivers of moonlight. He tried to tell her that they didn't make her ugly, that she was still beautiful in spite of the scars—because of them—but she turned away, brushing his hand from her cheek, her eyes glassy with tears.
She tried to shade her face with broad hats, to cover the scars with makeup, but the thing, raised lines still showed through. She became listless, lying in bed for hours at a time, or standing in the bathroom and staring down her reflection in the mirror, as though she thought that if she looked long enough, she could make her skin smooth and perfect again. Jack tried to comfort her, to hold her and tell her it was all right, but she refused to let him near her, saying that he didn't have to pretend to love her after all this.
But the most disturbing thing about the whole affair was the way that their personalities and mannerisms seemed to be slowly shifting. As she grew inconsolable and depressed, he seemed to be getting more and more lighthearted. But it was most definitely not a "good" kind of lighthearted, not at all. It wasn't that suddenly everything was funny; he just could help laughing at it anyway, maybe because it wasn't funny. It wasn't bad to laugh, really—until he realized her couldn't stop.
It was chilling, and at first he frightened even himself when the laughter crept up out of his throat like a disease, worming its way out between his lips to infect the world with this new brand of insanity. She heard him laughing; late at night she would wake to find him lying on his back, giggling senselessly at the ceiling. It disturbed her, of course it did, but then her hand would move almost unconsciously to trace the fine scars her cheek, and her eyes would fill with tears for her own torment, and she would forget the man going mad in the bed beside her.
He wouldn't forget her, though. He turned suddenly to face her, his eyes weirdly emotionless in spite of his wide grin. "Why aren't you laughing?"
She choked. "I…"
"It's funny, isn't it?" He let out another bark of laughter that made her wince. "Don't you think it's just so funny?"
"What? Listen, Jack, just go back to sleep. We'll… we'll talk about this in the morning, okay?"
She sniffed, almost unconsciously, and his eyes snapped back to her from where they had been wandering again to the hilarious ceiling. Her face was still wet with tears and he ran the back of his hand across her cheek. It would have been comforting if he weren't still trembling with manic energy.
"Oh, don't be sad, sweetheart. It's all right. You know I don't care about the scars. I don't care." His voice was a snarl, and his hand was now shaking out of control against her cheek, but she was afraid of what he would do if she pulled away. "I just wish you'd smile more, babe. I'm smiling, so you should too. Those"—he worked the word over in his mouth before spitting it out like a stone—"scars shouldn't come between us. They're… they're…"
He dropped his hand suddenly from her face, his dark eyes wide with excitement. "I'll be right back." And with that, he leapt up and rushed from the room.
The sudden lack of his presence was like turning out all the lights. She was still seeing spots from staring so long into his blinding insanity, but once her eyes adjusted, she wondered if she didn't like it better this way.
--
It wasn't that he thought it would make everything better. Or, well, maybe he had at first, but now, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, a kitchen knife clenched in his white-knuckled fist, his breath coming out in neat little bursts, Jack wasn't thinking anything at all. It was amazing how simple it was to raise the knife—(the same one, he realized with distant amusement, that he used to use for mincing meat)—and dig the sharpened blade into the corner of his mouth.
The pain came when the blood did, rising like a red tide behind his eyes and filling his head with a scarlet sea of agony. He should be screaming—he could feel it, and it did hurt, so much he almost threw up—but the only sound that escaped his blood-slicked lips was a soft chuckle, turning into a whimper as he finished the first sickle-shaped cut, withdrawing the blade from his cheek with a horrible snick. His hand was shaking so much that the rip in his cheek was jagged, mapping the route his trembling fingers had taken.
Blood was coursing down his cheek, filling his mouth, soaking the collar of his T-shirt, but he ignored it. He pressed the blade against the inside of his other cheek, his eyes locking on those of his reflection, and was surprised to see that they were still as flat as tarnished coins. He made the second cut with such fervor that as the blade ripped through his skin, he lost his grip on the blood-soaked handle, and the knife went spinning across the room to clatter against the far wall. He did scream this time, though it was almost more like the yelp of a wounded dog. Clenching his eyes shut, Jack gripped the edge of the counter and bowed his head, listening to the fragile sound of his blood dripping into the sink.
He could feel his heart beating frantically, pounding in his ears, and igniting the rips in his face with white-hot pulses of pain. He wished he could make it stop beating.
And then suddenly his eyes were open again and he was laughing harder than ever, and staring again at his reflection, which was now barely recognizable as a human face—soaked in blood as red as henna ink, mouth torn into a gaping hole that consumed the bottom half of it.
Even after he stopped laughing, Jack was still smiling. He always would be, now. Elation rose in his throat. He had to show her this…
She screamed so loudly when she saw him that it took him a moment to realize that there were actual words mixed into the keening. "Jack! Jack! Oh my god, Jack, what the fuck have you done?!"
He tried to smile at her, but the torn muscles of his face could no longer manage such an expression. "See?" He choked, blood spilling from his lips and dripping onto the carpet. "Now we match."
And then his eyes rolled back, and he toppled forward onto the bed.
--
When Jack woke up, his mouth didn't hurt anymore. His stomach leaping at this sudden miracle, he reached up a hand (still shaking, goddamn it) and started violently when he felt the uneven flesh of his cheeks, rubbery and numb with anesthetic, held snugly together with neat little stitches. How cozy…
He started to giggle, but the action tugged on the thread holding his face together, and his laugh turned quickly into a cry of pain.
She jumped, startled by the noise, and moved back to the side of his bed. He turned his head so he could see her, and was surprised at how dizzy he felt. He must have lost more blood than he'd realized.
She reached out to touch his face, her eyes full of the tenderness he used to know so well, but then she seemed to catch herself, and recoiled before her fingers brushed his skin. "Jack…"
He hated the look in her eyes—pity, mingled with grim determination. The pity disgusted him and the determination frightened him. He knew, from that look, what she was going to do.
And she did, with tears, and the flutter of a kiss on his ruined cheek. But there was steel underneath her crying, and when he heard the door shut behind her, he knew that she wasn't coming back.
