A/N: Welcome back to my sadistic love story and all my demented characters are just so happy to be here. Aren't you guys?

Harley: Is Mister J here? I was told there would be more steamy parts. So here I am!

Joker: Where's Batsy?

Harley: *Glomps Joker* Lover!

Joker: *Slaps away Harley in disgust*

Harley: Hey! What gives? I thought I was going to get my clowny-poo all to myself. *Pouts*

Joker: Lying will get you everything, but your life. Don't waste my time where is the bat?!

Author: *Ahem* So I might have exaggerated slightly. But aren't you guys glad to be a part of my intro?

Harley: Mmmm *Kisses Joker wildly* You betcha Miss Author!

Joker: *Shoots Author point blank, pushes Harley off him* Call me if anyone interesting shows up.

Harley: *Pouts*

Author: *Lies in pool of her own blood*

Joker: *Grinning Maniacally* Now onto what's left of the story since I've...rewritten the author...

OBSESSION

CHAPTER THREE: Just For Laughs

Smile

The worst is yet to come

We'll be lucky

If we ever see the sun

Got no where to go

We could be here for a while

The future is a given

So smile...

I remember the first time I saw Mister J, the crown prince of crime. The way the glass shined between us, keeping us separate and yet so close. You don't get to pick love, if you did things would be simpler. You'd always take the safe bet, and everything would go easy. Real love is like chewing glass, you know it's bad for you but you feel like if you could just get past the pain of it, swallow enough, you might feel whole. I slink down into a filthy alleyway, the refuse and dinge a constant backdrop to my life of late. My chest burns like I've been drinking gasoline and playing with matches, and my legs are wobbly from how far and fast I had to run to escape. I'm probably still not safe, but there's nothing more to feeling safe than closing your eyes and pretending the monsters aren't right next to you. So that's what I do, slinking down into the alleyway and settling my back against rough brick, I close my eyes and think of the days I want back. Back when it seemed like I mattered to him, even if it was all a lie, it's a lie I cherish. What's so good about truth anyway?

I remember the way he said my name. With affection. It was one of the first things he ever said to me, that my name was special. He liked the way it sounded, like Harlequin, a jester to his joker. Sane me knows the sociopath in him is incapable of love, but that doesn't mean I can't love him. It means I shouldn't. I love his laugh, so wild, so crazy, like the very pits of him are erupting and painting the world red. I love the way he moves, with such grace and a skip to his step, like he's dancing in the hell this world really is. He peeled away the dim blandness of normality everyone is always trying to chain themselves to, and showed me that the darkness can be fun, if only you give up on the superficial light. He gets me, in a way no one will probably never get him. Not even me. He saw it right away, all the bitty broken pieces of me just waiting to be pulled out to play. He likes them, doesn't shudder away like everyone else has always done. Best yet, he doesn't show that mind numbing pity everyone does when I showcase my pain.

I told him. It just slipped out one day. We stopped being doctor and patient a few weeks in, he was too charming, too magnetic, I lost my focus and started to give into the pull of him. He wanted to know everything, he was constantly asking questions, showering me with attention and praise. It made it easy to loosen up, to talk to him in a way I'd never dared speak to another person in my entire twenty-seven years of life. So when he asked where I learned to do such a killer handstand (because I'd taken to showing off for him, being the jester he wanted me to be) I casually mentioned the carnival I'd lived in for the first eight years of my life.

"I knew you had a performer's heart, puddin'," he praised, "Such dramatics, such flair, you're making me curious though. Why the long face? Carnivals are fun! All the screaming chaos, the lights, the way you can't even hear a gunshot in a crowd. Yet you're wearing your smile wrong, it's upside down dollface. Tell daddy what's wrong."

"I…" My hand slipped a stray wisp of blonde hair behind my hair, shying away from the eager face nearly pressed against the glass. "I don't want to talk about it. Hey! Wanna see me do the splits?"

"Harls," he all but growled, his fingers digging into the glass that kept him from digging those same fingers into my throat. A urge I discovered later he entertained frequently. I fact I would only realize after I got permission to see him in the interview room, without the glass between us. "Don't avoid the question, it's not nice. Aren't I always nice to you? Come on, tell daddy what's wrong."

"It's boring," I refuted with a shrug of my shoulders, hoping he'd leave it at that.

"I always make my Harley laugh," he insisted, tracing my profile on the sheer pane, "Don't you trust me puddin'?"

"Of course I do!" I twisted my fingers, letting out a long sigh, "I was raped." There was no polite way to dive into it, and he never stood much for politeness anyway. He liked the gritty, rawness of a provocative statement. "My father... let a man play with me, for money, whenever he liked. I don't like to talk about it."

"Now, now," the Joker tsked, "How can we help cure you if we don't know the cause of the problem?" It was his favorite game, pretending he was the doctor, and I the patient. He was going to cure me of my sanity, let me see how good crazy was for me. He was sure he was making progress, and I couldn't really disagree.

"This isn't fun anymore, I'm leaving," I didn't like to think of the past, and I never spoke of it. A part of me couldn't believe I'd even said it. I'd refused to tell anyone, the social worker, the cops, my foster parents. They knew, but I didn't ever confirm it. Saying it aloud made it too real, I wanted to scrape off my skin, tear it into pieces and scream and scream until I could wash away the thoughts cramming into my head.

"Sit. Down." He was using his super authority voice, the one that made me feel like I was the puppet, and he was holding all my strings. Without meaning to, my legs gave out, and I found myself on the floor, staring up at his maniacal profile with wide eyes.

He crouched, keeping our eyes on level, his expression fierce, "Now tell me. All the details. I want to know. Leave anything out and I'll be angry, and we don't want me angry, do we doc?"

My eyes welled up. The last time he'd warned me about making him angry he'd bitten the throat out of the guard who escorted him to and from the small space they allowed for our sessions. I hadn't seen him for two whole weeks. It had been horrible. Not seeing him. The guard had died, I was still trying to feel bad about that. I knew I should, but whenever I tried, it just wouldn't come.

"He made me stay real quiet, because he didn't want anyone else to know. He liked to…" My mouth was so dry, I felt my hands shake, "He called it playing pretend. I would pull up my skirt, and he would…" I looked over at the impassive profile peering inside of me without a inch of empathy, "Please, Mister J, I can't…"

"Harley, sweetness," he smiled, "You can. You will. Don't make me say it again."

"He would put his fingers...in me and…make me kiss him...and he said I was his doll, and…" tears were pouring now, I couldn't keep going. A hiccup. "He said if I made a noise he would break my leg."

"Did he?" Eager now, attentive, he cocked his head at me, curious.

"Yes," I bit my lip, "I couldn't help it, I was so scared and he was so angry. He tried to make me lay down, and it hurt so much, I cried out and he...the doctors saw the bruises and they called the cops."

"That's it?" He wanted to know. I nodded sullenly, feeling dejected and exposed.

He laughed. No pity. No disgust. He tossed back his head and laughed, loudly. I felt it then, the anger surging, making me red hot and snarly. It rose up like a bile in my throat and wouldn't swallow down.

"IT'S NOT FUNNY!" I screamed, punching the glass, right where his face was. He giggled, miming feeling the blow and being knocked back.

"Wowza, what a punch," he commented in amusement, "What ya wanna do to me doc? Punch my face in? Make me bleed? Come on, let me have it, show it to me, I wanna see, show me your claws kitten," he coaxed with a wide smile, eyes bright. I snarled, slamming at the glass with all my might, kicking and punching, heedless of the way my knuckles bruised and bled, the way my toes smarted and stung.

"See?" He asked lightly when I'd worn myself down, my hands and feet ached. I sucked on a bleeding knuckle, still mad and sulking. "You're not a victim Harley, you never were. Don't let anyone make you feel weak. If they do, kill em'."

"You're a jerk," I pouted, wiping the still lingering tears from my face.

"Feel better?" He challenged, raising his eyebrows at me knowingly. With a grunt, and a long sigh, I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, a little," I begrudgingly admitted.

"Good," he praised, "Now how about you show me your splits, puddin'?"

I shake away the memory, feeling a headache throbbing at the front of my brain. He said I wasn't a victim. Told me to kill anyone who made me feel I was. I've always hated that mute baffled look people give me, so full of pity. It makes me feel dirty and ashamed, but he didn't look at me like that. He made me so angry I couldn't see straight, and that anger made me feel powerful. I missed that side of him. The side that had been playful, but sweet. He hadn't shown me a hint of that since he'd gotten out. Now it was all chase me down and kill me, which carried a sort of thrill, but I'm dirty, and tired, and I just want him to hold me like I'd always dreamed about. My head hurts. I hate the way blood crusts under my nails, it feels so grimey. With a sluggish feeling I force myself up, off the cold ground, my bones all sorts of sore as I stumble from the alley, almost running right into another person.

"Whoa, easy," I see the red first, a perfect red, like fresh rose petals, her stunning hair surrounds a delicate face, with oval jade green eyes and lips as red as the hair. Her hands are gentle on my shoulders, and as she takes me in, from my mussy hair to the blood splattered up my arms and borrowed shirt, her lips purse.

"Sorry," I mumble without inflection, intending to keep on my way. I shuffle the bag up on my shoulder, it became dislodged in the bumping. The bat is loose in my grip, resting on the ground as I look at her wearily. I go to leave, I don't have it in me to keep running, but I have to keep moving, or he'll find me. I want it, and I don't. I can't keep anything straight, I'm such a mess.

"Wait," she pulls me back, her voice a soft southern drawl but still cool and clinical. It's soothing. I sounded a little like that once, but that seems like years ago. Her grip on my wrist is cool, but firm. "You're in trouble, aren't you?"

"Always," I give her a wild grin, trying to make her uncomfortable. She remains unruffled, perfectly collected in her dark green skirt and white blouse. A glance at the blood on me and she smiles, a soft and sweet smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"You're that doctor I saw in the news, the psychiatrist," she observes, "The one who was treating the Joker."

"I was on TV? Wow, guess I'm famous," that's exciting, finally, my face on the big screen. I wonder why.

"He's hunting you, it was on the five o'clock news." She tells me calmly, "I'm Pamela, Pamela Isley. Did he do that to you?" She gestures to the blood coating my skin. I shrug.

"Nah…" I deny immediately, and with a thoughtful frown add reluctantly, "Sort of, why? What do you care?" I demand suspiciously. Why isn't she avoiding me? Running the other way? I look a mess, and I'm twice as bad as I look.

"Girls have to look out for each other, especially in this city," she points out, "I'm a doctor as well. I study botany and toxicology, my place is close to here. It looks like you could use a shower."

"Why are you being so nice?" I don't trust it, it seems odd that such a well dressed, educated person would be nice to me. What's her angle?

"Let's just say I feel a sort of kinship to your experience. I was put in a situation like yours once, a man I cared for very deeply, tried to kill me."

"Oh? And what'd you do?" I ask with a snort.

Her cool smile never wavers, "I killed him, naturally."

"Cool," I smile back, feeling that kinship she was talking about. Here's someone who obviously gets it. And she's a doctor, like me. What are the odds? Probably a zillion to one. She tosses back her hair, looking at me with a small smile of her own.

"Come on," she coaxes, "Let's get you back to my place. You can get a shower, and I have some clothes you can borrow."

"Wow, you're like, so nice. Thanks Pamela."

"Please, call me Ivy," she insists, hailing a cab with a wave of her hand. The cab stops immediately and she saunters to the door, slipping in and leaving it open so I can enter as well. I do so, feeling a little unsure of myself. When I get in, she's fiddling with a makeup compact, a pretty shell container, she dabs a little of the cream on her neck and wrists, leaning towards the cabbie. He peers back at her, pupils dilated, a entranced look on his face.

"Where to, pretty lady?"

A smirk graces her dark red lips, "1293 Stanton street." When we arrive the cabbie turns back, looking at her with awe.

"No charge." He assures her. Ivy leans in, her green eyes sultry and half lidded.

"Aren't you sweet?" She croons, and without a second of hesitation she plants a big ol' kiss on his lips, pressing hard. I watch, amazed, as the man begins to gag, a white spittle forming at the corner of his mouth as his eyes roll. He gags, choking and gasping for a few strangled moments before he falls back motionless, eyes frozen open in horror and pain. With a expectant look she shoos me with her hand.

"Come on dear, let's not dawdle."

I try not to gawk, because let's face it, that was so cool! She killed that guy with a kiss! I want to do that! With a bounce in my step I swing from the cab, waiting for her to lead because I'm not sure where we're going. My bat is swinging at my side, skipping a little as we enter the pristine foray of her apartment building. She waves at the guard, who is staring at us, but not at all like you would expect. Instead of gaping at the blood and yuck on me, he's riveted on Ivy, his expression lustful.

"Hello Charles," she murmurs with a smirk, waggling her fingers at him casually. He all but swoons. "This is my important guest, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, I trust you'll be as accommodating to her as you have been to me."

"Of course, Dr. Isley, anything," he assures her, eagerly rushing up to push the elevator button for her.

"Actually, I prefer Harley," I tell the tall red head, amused as the elevator doors close and the guard ignores my state of appearance. What a neat trick. I wonder how she does it.

"Harley," she nods to herself, "I'll remember that."

"Well, this is it," she remarks as we enter her apartment. The first thing I notice is the plants, they cover everything in green. Leafy and lush, their stems and flowers leaving a pungent floral aroma in the air. They drape every surface, even the floor, and I time my steps gingerly, careful not to trample her decor.

"You're being very considerate," she remarks consideringly, "Most people just trample them." I gasp, looking at her in shock.

"But they're so pretty!" I remark, "I wouldn't want to hurt them."

"I knew we were alike," she's pleased, her lips lifting in a actual smile, "I treasure them, they're my children." I shrug, tiptoeing to the middle of her living room. Who am I to judge?

"The shower is just down the hall, second door to the right, I'll bring you a set of clothes. Be careful of the jimson weed, it can be quite temperamental when disturbed," she warns, caressing a pink petaled oleander with a soft coo. I nod, taking her seriously despite the oddity of it all. If there's one thing living in Gotham has taught me, it's not to discount warnings. It's a good thing I'm agile, or navigating wouldn't be easy with all the foliage on the floor, but I make a game of it, timing my steps perfectly so I don't step on her 'children'. I don't want to offend my host, after all, she's been so nice. Also, I really want a shower.

When I reach the bathroom I notice a collection of spiky leafed plants on the sink, they let off a soft hiss as I enter and I blink, rubbing my eyes. Well, if I'm crazy it's probably nothing new. I carefully sidestep the sink, keeping my eyes on the inhospitable plants, and with a little fiddling I figure out how to turn on the shower, and make the water scalding hot, just the way I like it. There's no plastic shower curtain, just a tumble of plants growing over the shower rod, and I slip through them, careful not to pull off leaves. They are soft, their leaves fuzzy on my naked skin. The clothes I borrowed are a pile of slightly blood crusted leather and silk on the bathroom floor. I step into the steaming spray, exhaling in delight at the first burn of hot water turning my flesh from pale ivory to pink.

I marinate in the water for a long while. Letting the hot spray soothe my aching bones, sting at my cuts and bruises, my head turning up towards the pulsing jets pouring over me. I find a bar of what looks like homemade soap, lathering it over my body and scrubbing the lingering blood and grime from my skin and hair. It smells delightful, like honey and lilac. No plastic bottles of shampoo and conditioner or scrubbing loofah, just the bar, but I don't really mind. It feels so good to be clean, even if it's just physically, the thoughts of the past few days ricocheting in my brain. They won't stop bouncing off my brain pan, if I close my eyes I can still feel him standing behind me, his fingers digging into my wrist, his breath a hot current in the shell of my ear. The way I yearn to see that light in his eyes, a crazed vibrancy that validates my existence. He's a black hole, and I want him to suck me in, swallow me, devour me until every cell of my body and self is implanted in his void. Yet a nagging part of me still fears the nothingness that represents.

"I brought your clothes," Ivy's dulcet tone shatters my revere, bringing me with snapping force to the present. I step through the curtain of soft greenery with no regard for my dripping wet nudity, smiling widely at the fully dressed red head gently placing clothing down on the toilet seat.

"Thanks! Got a towel?" I ask casually shutting off the shower with a twist of my hand, for some reason standing naked before her doesn't feel weird at all. Not breaking eye contact she matter-of-factly offers out a dark green towel, regarding my nakedness with a matching casualness. No shame. No embarrassment. We just met but I feel uncharacteristically comfortable around her. It feels strangely familiar, like we've always been close.

"There's lotion and a hair brush in the left drawer, when you're dressed we can talk," she offers, glancing at herself in the mirror. A soft patting of her still perfect bright red hair and a pout of her lips later she regards the plants over spilling the sink with fondness, "Be good for mommy," she tells them with a croon, caressing the leaves gently before she walks away. Her heels click, her steps easily missing each tendril of plant in her path.

Toweling myself off, I reach for the clothes she left, inspecting them curiously. A silky red halter top, with bra, and a pair of low cut black jeans and a thong. The underwear is a touch is something only another female would understand, and I slink into them, digging into the drawer for the brush she spoke of. I spot a tube of lotion and give it a sniff, it smells like aloe and cream, I slather it generously on my skin hating the way the hot water dries it out. Heaven. The shirt fits me perfectly, cool silk sliding against my skin and bringing out the fullness of my breasts and toned line of my stomach, the jeans are a different story since she's obviously taller than me. I roll them up a bit so they don't cover my feet. Still I'm really grateful to be in clean clothes that fit, mostly. I gingerly make my way from the wooden floors of her hall to her kitchen. In the open space that exists between kitchen and dining room Ivy's tending to a large venus fly trap, it's spiked mouth leaning towards her as she waters it.

"So...You really like plants, huh?" I question awkwardly. With unhurried motions she sets down the steel watering can and turns to me, a sweet smile on her mouth.

"Plants were here first, they populated the earth long before humans and their toxins began destroying it. I appreciate their pureness," she muses, looking me up and down, "You look refreshed. Water invigorates all life, even human." There's a wry twist to her mouth at the word 'human'. "Do you like tea? I made a special brew using a few leaves from my friends."

"I prefer whiskey," seeing her look I feel rude and add quickly, "but tea is nice."

"I don't usually drink, but there were a few things left from the previous tenant," she rummages through the cabinets in her kitchen, making a soft 'ah' noise in the back of her throat as she locates a glass bottle. Gingerly she pours me a small tea cup full of scotch, "Will this do?"

"It's perfect," I pop the word, taking the small china cup and pouring the liquid down my throat. It burns magnificently, taking the edge off my crap day.

The green eyed woman sips her tea, staring at me consideringly. Her every movement is graceful, I wish I could pull that off. "You're a very unique woman, Harley."

"Right back at'cha," I respond genuinely, "That thing you did to the cabbie, that was brilliant."

A embarrassment flushes her cheeks, "Not many people would feel the same way," she points out. I nod, offering out my cup, she obligingly pours another generous amount of scotch.

"I'm not most people," I respond, realizing it's true. I'm not. I don't think that way, not anymore. Once I would've been horrified at the killing of a so called innocent man, but now I'm just mostly curious how she pulled it off. A toxic kiss, so neat. Nodding slowly, she grasps my hand, her green eyes boring into mine.

"I knew I felt a connection to you," she says softly, "You and I are the same, Harley, we see the human existence as it truly is. A plague, feeding off this planet, ruining all that was once pure and good."

I toss back the cup of scotch, feeling a tingle in my belly that radiates through every nerve ending, pouring fire through me. Nodding enthusiastically I add, "Yes! They just wanna eat up all the joy, make themselves feel better in their sad little lives. It doesn't matter to them who they trample to get what they want. That's what Mister J says, he says they wanna kill the laughter, so you just gotta make them smile again. Or kill em', you know, either way someone is happy."

"Mister J?" There's a pucker between her artful crimson eyebrows.

"Oh, the Joker," I supply, realizing she doesn't know who I mean, "He's not as bad as the media says," I assure her, but thinking about it I realize I'm not being one hundred percent honest with my new friend, who has been nothing but nice to me, "He's worse." I stare at my empty cup, "But he makes a terrible kind of sense, and I can't stop thinking about him. He wants to kill me, I know that, but I like him…" I sigh, feeling like my words are tripping over themselves, "I'm not making sense, am I?"

"You've been through a lot," she surmises easily, and I'm immediately grateful that there's no sort of revulsion or judgement in her gaze. "I loved a man like that once," she confesses, "He destroyed me. But then I was born anew."

"How did you do that thing, with the cabbie?" I ask, suddenly eager to switch topics. I know I'm asking to be destroyed, reduced to nothing. My obsession is fanatical, purely illogical and self destructive from a sane point of view, but that's not what I want to focus on right now. Knowing something is bad for you and giving it up are two entirely separate matters. A part of me wants to keep them as separate as possible.

"It's the toxins in my lips," she supplies with ease, her fingers trace the lips in question and she blows me a kiss. I giggle. "I carry a neurotoxin in my skin. It interacts when a protein based substance comes in contact with the dermis, causing a reaction that exudes the chemical in copious amounts, the effect is quite deadly."

"Neat-o, how'd you manage that?" I want it. I want to be able to kill a man by kissing him, show him I mean business by a meer pucker up.

"The man I spoke of earlier, was actually a man named Dr. Jason Woodrue. I thought I loved him. He, however, intended to kill me, he feared I would expose his illegal research. So he tried to poison me with a very rare strain of toxin extracted from a ancient Egyptian artifact. Sad to say," her soft drawl lapses into a poignant pause, "It didn't have quite the effect he expected."

"Gosh." I frown, trying to formulate a better response, "Sorry Ivy."

"Yes. So was he," her voice delivers dryly. "But by then it was too little, too late."

My laughter fills up what might have otherwise been an awkward silence, cutting through the thickness of the tense topic with ease. That delivery! So perfect! And her style! Man I envy that. Her bemused glance meets mine and I offer up my empty cup in a cheers.

"To never dying easily," I crow, clicking the tea cups with force and sipping get the last drops of scotch that settled to the bottom of the cup.

"To being more deadly than the men who would kill us," she refills my cup, her stare ripe with meaning, her cup clicks mine and we both drink again.

"You're like, the nicest person I've ever met," I tell her sincerely, "Thanks for the shower, and the clothes...It's just so...nice." My words are slightly slurred. Ivy pats my hand and finishes her tea.

"You must be exhausted," she stands, offering me the bat and bag I set by her door when I entered. I realize the lunacy of that suddenly, trusting a perfect stranger with my only possessions. "There's a spare room here, of you need a place to stay."

"That's so...nice," I finish lamely.

"Like I said, us girls have to stick together," she replies with a smile, "I'll show you your room." Even drunk I can manage not to step on the plants, and I'm proud of that, following the sultry redhead to the spare room I blink at the simple bed. At least there's no hissing plants in here. She makes sure I'm settled, and once satisfied she goes to leave.

"Ivy?" My voice is hesitant. She turns, looking posh and polished and everything I pretended to be and never really was.

"Yes?" She asks softly.

"Thanks. I really mean it."

Her head nods once, her green eyes bright, "I know. Sweet dreams, Harley."

I wake up to a pinching sensation in my neck, it stings. I go to swat at it, blindly jerking my arm, but it's stuck. I try again and realize there's something wound around both my wrists and legs, tying me down. My eyes fly open and I see a pale face swathed in red, her ruby lips purse as she gingerly sets down a large syringe. Panic hammers in my chest. Stupid me. Trusting someone in Gotham. If I hadn't been so ragged, run down to the bone I wouldn't have ever been so gullible, or so I'd feverently like to believe. My hands are wrapped in vines, no matter how I pull and twist they just tighten, cutting into the skin, I can feel the throb of my circulation being cut off. Blood hammering in my throat and chest, my skin breaks out in a cold sweat, what did she inject me with? How horribly am I about to die?

"Relax Harley," her soft southern voice drawls, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Riiiiight," My sarcasm betrays my hurt, so much for being alike. I don't hurt people I like, well...not unless they hurt me first. My teeth grit, I will so hurt her for this.

"The toxin I injected you with will provide all sorts of natural immunities, once the side effects pass you'll be just fine," Ivy assures me with a smile. I bear my teeth in a unfriendly grin, a slight hangover has me feeling less than friendly, being tied up isn't helping.

"Side effects?" I demand sharply. She sighs softly, sliding her red hair behind her ear.

"Mild hallucinations, dementia, fever, accelerated heart rate, shortness of breath, don't worry they are all temporary," she feels my head, her pale hands are cool, my skin feels too hot, sort of prickly. "You already have a mild fever, which is to be expected, let me get you some water."

"You can't do this," I growl, "He's still hunting me. He'll find us, and kill us both."

"Who do you take me for?" Her eyebrow arches, voice cool, "Your clown won't discover us. Men," she sneers, "So easy to control, really Harley I'm doing you a favor. You'll see."

"You don't know Mister J," I point out in a snarl, jerking against the plants holding me captive. Ivy shrugs.

"The more you struggle the more they'll hurt you, just relax, I'll be back in a moment." She sighs, "Don't make this harder than it has to be, Harley. I know you're upset but you'll feel much better when he's dead. I promise."

I laugh. Loud. I can see the sound crawling out of my mouth, it's black and pink, wriggling in the air like jagged gas. "You don't know him, or me," I giggle again, watching the colors with awe, "He's going to find us, and when he does you'll be the one who sees."

"Rest up," she suggests, her words a soft exhale of pale green, "you'll need it."

I'm finally exactly where I want to be. He's staring down at me with those beautifully crazy eyes, stroking my hair and whispering all the nasty things he's going to do to me. I purr, excited, my body wriggles, feeling like it's on fire. My mouth is dry, like sandpaper, but he strokes my wet skin, humming a maddening melody that makes me want to taste him, to press his lips on mine and bite and suck him until he feels something back. His image wavers and I moan, distraught, the noise building in the back of my throat like a needy animal. Ivy takes his place, her green eyes glowing like neon, and she forces more cold water down my throat. I'm drinking a river and I'm drowning.

The world is glittering, sparking with the tiny white fire in the sunlight. So pretty. The shiny flakes drift like metallic mites, and then they're on my skin, coating me in tiny insect bodies that bite and burrow into the pores of my skin. I scream and scream, black clouds erupting through my mouth until my vision blurs and I lapse into the dark warmth they provide. It's nice here in the dark. Floating in the nothingness. The world shakes and I hear Ivy murmuring that it's going to be okay. I snarl, biting at air, how dare she? Nothing is okay. I miss the nothingness. Light burns my eyes, and they water and sting, lava runs down my cheeks hot, digging a molten trail through the flesh.

Something is digging into my wrists, snakes that coil and coil until I can feel their fangs. My heart is a hammer, pounding inside my metal breastplate, I ring like a gong, vibrating with each solid pound echoing through my metal flesh. If I only had a real heart I could be human and follow the wizard down a yellow road make of sponge twinkies. I gasp as I feel something cold press my cheek, it digs in until I can taste the gun powder.

"Wakey, wakey sleeping beauty," a voice stirs in me, slipping into my skin and tickling my brain. I open my eyes to a sporadic array of green and blue, I'm being sucked into a color void and dripping into it. The pressure in my cheek increases, I taste pennies, sharp and thick. They fill my mouth, clinking against my teeth until I spit out dollars.

I open my eyes again and I see a familiar shade of green. Not like her eyes, but darker, slicked back from a pale snow. Eyes webbed in red, their pupils a vibrant disc of blue. My breath sucks in, filling me up like a balloon.

"It's you," I feel myself radiating a rainbow, it can't be him. Not really. I've dreamed him a million times and I always wake up. But this time I want to stay. To keep pretending. Groggy I grasp this figment with all my will. The air vibrates between us, humming, my cheek throbs. Like a tap on the shoulder, impatiently trying to remind me of something. I go to reach up, but my arms are still stuck, they feel numb, maybe I'm dead. A corpse in full rigor mortis. That seems nice, nothing can hurt a corpse.

"I can't believe it's you, I missed you so much," I tell him musingly, "But you don't miss me, and that's okay."

I feel something jerking at my dead wrists, they burn like fire is being poured on them. A voice in the background screams.

"Don't hurt them! My babies! You bastard!" I recognize that drawl, even in the high pitch of hysteria. Ivy. She's nice. Sort of. My brow crinkles. Why is everything so fuzzy? Like the world is stuffed with cotton.

"Upsy-daisy," a voice singsongs, it's him, I'd recognize that maniacal glee anywhere. The world spins and I feel myself float, suspended in air. Fingers dig into my hair like vice grips, my head lolls and I watch the world tilt on a merry-go-round even as I try to catch a solid image it slips away and melts into a dizzy spin. I love merry-go-rounds! Faster! Faster!

"That's my girl," he croons, the world is a swirl of white green and red, "You don't look so good, puddin', what did she do to you? You know you only want me to hurt you, right doll?" The words bounce against themselves until they become meaningless sound. I giggle. Do it again.

"You're so funny," I make my finger float, it touches a nose, "Boop. Boop the funny."

"Take that one to the docks and shoot her," he tones dryly, "When this one sobers up I'll pump her full of gas and leave her to create some real fun. She's earned it."

"Sure thing boss," I hear a faraway voice sound.

"You'll pay for this," a female voice hisses, full of venom. "She'll never be what you want her to be."

"Oh," eyebrows arch, a red mouth blazing a wide grin I just want to kiss, framing a gleam of silver teeth, "but she already is."