"Is half an hour enough time?" Stone's tone is disapproving as we stroll along the corridors together.
"It's plenty, trust me. I don't think I could last a full hour with him…" I trail off as Stone's forehead creases with concern. "No, no, it's not that bad! I just think short and sweet is more effective."
"But you have a full hour with both Tetch and Crane? Not to mention an hour and a half for Zsarsz."
"They're not The Joker." He stares at a patch on the floor for a moment then inclines his head to the side in agreement.
"Duly noted. Look, I'm not fussed with you taking a half hour off, I'm just worried you have… reservations about your sessions. Has anything happened?" Stone wasn't the only staff member who found it exceedingly astonishing that The Joker had apparently taken a liking to me as his therapist.
"No, no, nothing like that. Actually, he's been nothing but well behaved." This seems to put Stone's qualms at ease and he no longer pressed the matter.
The next few sessions with Jack went very much the same as the first; he'd try to probe into my personal life and opinions, and I'd try to deflect.
But he never ceased to surprise me with his responses. Take, for example, my querying of how he obtained a school bus for his havoc-wreaking purposes.
After seeing the face I made at his horrendous 'joke' about massacring schoolchildren, he'd revealed:
"Only joking, I actually like little kiddies. You know, have a soft spot for them." He'd shrugged casually.
"Really? Wouldn't have picked you for it… Why's that?" Somehow I didn't think that the usual reason people liked kids would apply to him. The image of Jack holding a small child entered my mind. It seemed odd.
"Well they're all insane aren't they? They have no concept of right or wrong, yet each of them is thought to be considerably cute. Why, every bizarre thing they come up with is simply adorable." He'd explained, hands dashing around animatedly.
"I suppose…"
"To see them is to see myself; running around tearing up the town, all the while being absolutely adored." He'd elaborated.
"Do you think you are childlike?" I certainly thought he was childlike, especially when he didn't get his own way.
"I think I'm adorable?" He bats his eyelashes and I couldn't help but giggle like an idiot.
"Jack," I began after the humor had dissipated. "I don't think you believe you're insane."
He nods in agreement. "Sanity is relative. Most things are. I think they're all insane. And I'm simply free."
Occasionally he'd say something he knew would make me uncomfortable, just to watch me squirm:
"You ever watch someone die, Harls?" He'd asked abruptly in our eighth session. I was struggling to catch up with his erratic chain of topics.
"… No." The memory of him bluntly asking Ainslee if she'd ever been raped came to mind. I shift uncomfortably.
"Mmm didn't think so. Not to worry, you'll get your chance." He'd declared, as if it were a fact. It had sounded somewhat threatening, though whom he was threatening, I wasn't sure.
"Are you… what do you mean?"
"Oh Harley, ever so touchy!" Jack tsked, waggling his pointer finger at me.
"Well I'm sorry that I don't find the topic of death humerous, Jack."
He chuckled as if I'd made a joke.
"Well you can't spell slaughter without laughter!"
Perhaps if it had been presented in a different topic, I'd have laughed too.
On this particular day, it is our fifteenth session and I'm looking forward to seeing him as usual; excited to see what intriguing viewpoints he'll come up with. The Joker might be twisted, but he is charming. Or maybe he's charming because he's so twisted? In any case, it's hard not to be intrigued by him.
I even brought along a notepad and pen, deciding it was ridiculous that I had to run back to my office to jot down notes after each session and it was time to swallow my pride.
However, my happiness quickly disappears once I enter our room.
He is sporting a gruesome black eye. And the amount it upsets me is troubling.
"What happened?!" I gasp.
Jack ignores my question, instead quirking his eyebrows in mock incredulity as he notes the pen and notepad in my hands.
"Well, well, aren't we a keen bean today, Doc!" He exclaims caustically.
"Jack, your face…"
"Beautiful, ain't it?" He grins, motioning to his face. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, which remain solemn. As he flutters his fingers across his face, I note that his hands are also battered.
He looks drained… deflated. A husk of his usual bouncy self.
"Who did th… You didn't do that to yourself, did you?"
I'd been told about The Joker's tendency of self mutilation.
Most of the time he did it just to piss off the guards as it meant a highly annoying trip to the hospital wing, wherein they had to section him off from the other patients and search the room with a fine toothed comb to ensure there was nothing point he could get his hands on.
I imagine that for Jack, it meant a comfy bed and endless amusement.
"Oh this." He presses at the purple flesh, which bleeds into a sickly yellow green at the edges, with his pummeled fingers. "This was a gift from those lovely guards."
"What?! Guards did this to you?!" The disgust is evident in my voice.
Jack chuckles grimly. "Take it easy, Harley, it's a little game we have going. Don't be so surprised. This is just part of my routine here at Arky." He states simply, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear as he shrugs.
"That's - that's just sick. I'll speak to Dr. Stone about it straight after this session." I have half a mind to do it right now, but first I want to cheer Jack up a little; get that sparkle back into his eye.
"Mmm. That's what all the quacks say." He inspects his fingernails. "No offense." He adds of the term 'quack', glancing up at me earnestly.
"I'll talk to him, James. I promise."
"You promise?" His voice is so small and childlike I just want to reach across the desk and squeeze him!
"Yep, those guards leave you purple and blue, I'll see to it they get the pink slip."
"Sounds like my kind of rainbow!" A small smile graces his lips and I start to feel better. He extends his hand. "Shake on it?"
There it is again, that incessant urge to please him; to prove myself.
I eye his nimble fingers dubiously. They don't look threatening. Long and slender; quite delicate in their shape, but broad in structure.
I don't know what is more unsettling; that I want to touch him to appease him, or that I want to touch him to satisfy my own curiosity.
... And what's the worst that can happen? He grabs you, you yell, in come the guards and you're out. Nothing major.
I lean across the metal desk, extending my hand slightly, palm out.
His hand makes contact with mine and it is gentle; a light caress of his fingertips along the flesh of my palm. It then engulfs my own, thumb slotting beside mine.
His hand is warm. Very warm. Absent-mindedly, I wonder if he's running a fever or if he is always this hot.
Our hands rise and fall as we 'shake'. His eyes are liquid ore and they pour into mine. I can feel them swimming in my own; connecting us somehow. I couldn't break this gaze even if I wanted to.
When he lets go, my hand feels strangely cold in the wake of his.
Then, he is reaching upwards, towards my face, with one coy hand – the other hand following suit to allow for the chain. His eyes are still locked on mine, hypnotizing me with their severity.
I find myself leaning into his outstretched palm, yearning for that peculiar warmth.
And it is the stupidest thing I have done yet.
He grabs two fistfuls of my hair on either side of my face; wrenching me across the table as he stands - hunching over so that there's enough slack in the chain running from his ankle shackles to hand cuffs. My knees smack painfully against the edge of the metal desk.
Jack flips me onto my back and hooks the chain around my throat, dragging me across the surface by my neck.
I give a strangled gasp, then the palm of his hand is slapped over my mouth before I can scream for help.
His other hand encircles my throat, hoisting my face up as high as the restrictive chains will allow him to. I can taste the bitterness of the hospital-grade asylum soap from his hand across my mouth. The smell of it filling my nose and stinging my eyes.
Jack's breath is in my ear and his hip bone is digging into my back.
My fingers grip feebly at the wrist of the hand almost crushing my jugular. Indistinctly, I can hear out a strained, high pitched whining and realize it's coming from me, from high in my throat. It is the sound of sheer panic.
"Shh, shh, shh." I can feel his smile against my cheek, no doubt amused by my pathetic attempts to free myself. "Caaaaalm down, Harley. You're going to hurt yourself. Shh, just relaaax."
My heart is hammering away in my chest, it feels as if I'm being punched repeatedly in the ribcage. I struggle against his hand at my throat, ignoring his instruction for me to be calm.
"Harleen." His voice is suddenly low and harsh, spoken through gritted teeth. I freeze at the warning and unwillingly release the tension in my muscles, sinking back against his torso.
"Thaaat's it. Gooood girl." His grip on my neck eases. My legs are still splayed awkwardly across the metal desk and there is a rip up the right side of my dark gray, fitted pencil skirt. I watch my left kneecap as a small line of blood trickles from the fresh cut.
"Why do you try so desperately to hide your absorption in me, Harley? Sometimes I just wanna slap that serious expression off of your face, Doc. Would you like that?" He leers down at me and I give an embarrassingly girly little whimper as his eye comes into my peripheral vision. His face looks even more frightening from this angle. "Hmm? Are you trying to get a reaction from me?" I try to shake my head against the palm covering my mouth.
His hand leaves my neck and returns with something in it.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the ballpoint pen that had been dragged across the desk beneath me, now hovering an inch away from my face.
"You scream, you lose an eye. Capisce?" He warns. I nod stiffly, gripping the sides of the desk instead of his wrist. His hand finally lifts from my mouth. I let out a shaky breath then run my tongue across my front teeth, feeling where the flesh of my lip had bashed against them.
"I see you for what you really are, Harley; one sick little puppy." He whispers into my tendrils. His free hand is wandering across my ribs. "You're twisted: a misshapen piece trying to fit itself in with all the straight cuts." The last two words are hissed into my ear.
I can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound like a defensive childish retort. Am not! You are!
"You don't know it yet - maybe you've got a bit of an inkling; maybe you've got a touch of an idea that you're just not quite right - but you don't reeeaaally know it. Not yet." I make a small noise of disdain, which he ignores.
"But I'll show you. You'll see how pointless your attempts to tessellate are..." He's muttering to himself now. Jack's hand is still exploring my body, caressing every inch of my torso.
I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I got myself into this position. You fucking idiot Harleen.
"You're a loner." He continues forcefully. "Yeah, I can tell. I can see it. Now, I'm guessing a gal like yourself should make friends easily, so it must be by choice that you spend all your life here. Perhaps it's because you feel more comfortable surrounded by the, uh, the freaks in this joint, hmm?" He nods encouragingly.
"Could that be it?" He urges. I let in a sharp intake of breath as his free hand runs down my hip. "Yeah?"
Jack bends to inhale deeply and very deliberately at my hair. I stiffen as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The hand holding the pen slides over my collar bone and skims across my breast - down to where my silky blouse had risen; revealing the strip of my skin above my skirt. Goosebumps flourish across my whole body at his touch. He traces my bare flesh with his thumb and I tense, my insides feel like they are dissolving.
Now both his hands are at my hips; fingers wide and clutching at me possessively, kneading at my flesh as if he can't quite feel enough of it at once. Jack's breathing is heavy in my ear.
The fingers of his right hand sneak up my blouse, raising the material as they go; revealing my stomach that is noticeably quivering in nervousness. The fingertips of his left hand, still holding the pen, skim beneath the band of my pencil skirt. I reflexively lash out with my own hands as his dares to creep lower.
His free hand shoots into my hair in retaliation, the chains swinging and clanging together with the fast movement. Jack's fingers tear lines through scalp and force my head to tilt backwards at an awkward angle against his shoulder. I give a strangled cry through clenched teeth at the sudden pain.
"I haven't been allowed to touch a woman's skin in months, Harley. Are you really so selfish as to prohibit me this one kindness?"
The hand holding the pen rises to my throat again and begins to constrict. I still instinctively.
"Why are you being so cruel, Harley?" Jack whispers into my ear through gritted teeth. He is hunching over me, making me curl in on myself.
"Jack," I rasp against his choking grip. "Stop!"
"Mmm I dunno, Harls. What have ya done for me lately?" He asks calmly. Jack doesn't seem to be exhausting himself in the slightest as he easily subdues my struggling against his hands.
"Please-" I squeak with watery eyes. His eyes roll into the back of his head then flash back to mine with burning intensity.
"I hate that word."
His fierce grasp doesn't waver for what seems like hours as he stares down at my contorting face with sick fascination. His fist in my hair is so painful and my lungs are burning.
I squeeze my eyes shut in pain. My shoes slip around helplessly on the stainless steel tabletop. Black starts spotting my vision and my extremities begin tingling.
Just as suddenly as it had all occurred, Jack's hands had left my body.
It takes me a while to realize I am now bereft of his hold.
I stay where I am for a short while, leaning against his chest and shaking uncontrollably as I gasp down painful breaths through my mangled windpipes.
The sound of the pen clattering to the ground works to pull me out of my stupor.
I retract from him, sliding back over onto my side of the desk and collapsing onto the floor. I scamper backwards until there is half the room between us and curl up against the wall behind me, visibly shaking as I put a hand to my throat to feel the extent of damage.
The Joker is grinning, highly amused at my pitiful display.
For the first time, I see what everyone else sees. I see a deranged psychopath standing before me.
"Aww did I scare little Harley?" The Joker mocks.
Only when my breathing has leveled out and my hands have reduced in their shaking, do I cease my cowering and draw myself up to my full height. Even as he stands a few meters away, I still have to look up to meet his gaze. The tall bastard.
I smooth my hair back and pull down my shirt and skirt which he had raised to an obscene height, eliciting another smirk from him.
Taking a moment to steady myself, I declare in the lowest, most threatening voice I can muster:
"Listen to me, James." I say his name like it's a disgusting profanity. "If you EVER lay a hand on me again, if you even look at me the wrong way, I'll make sure you're so heavily sedated that the rest of your stay in Arkham will consist of a nurse wiping the drool from your chin."
He raises his eyebrows sardonically and his mouth scrunches as he stifles his grin.
I turn on my heel and stalk towards the door, feeling tears of humiliation forming.
"Oh? And what are you going to tell them, hmm?" He calls. "That you willingly reached across the desk to touch the chained madman?" He roars with laughter from behind me.
I keep walking, knowing that if I turned around he'd see the tears rolling down my cheeks and my 'I'm tougher than you thought' façade would be ruined.
"You were juuuust starting to impress me, Harls!" Jack taunts as I slam the door shut behind me.
I try to pretend that last call didn't affect me as much as it does.
"Back to his cell." I hiss at Greg in the corridor, who evidently hadn't heard any of the scuffle. Jesus Christ how thick are these stupid walls!
I hate him, I wish I had have punched him right where he'd already been punched.
I want to punch myself because I'd put common sense aside for my stupid, illogical enthrallment.
I wanted to touch him. I wanted to know what his skin felt like.
I wanted him to respect me, in the sick way I knew he would.
What he said to me had rang so horrifyingly true. He'd managed to uncover and prey on my most closeted anxieties.
I'm in too deep. I'm in way too deep and I've only had fifteen sessions with him! Hey, that's longer than anyone else has lasted! I suppose it wouldn't be THAT gutless of me to throw in the towel… It's what's to be expected, right? Right.
So why do I find the idea so unappealing?
Because I'd be doing what people expect me to and I hate doing that… Yes, that's it.
It couldn't possibly be because you've actually been immensely enjoying your time with the most interesting - not to mention strangely attractive - man you'll ever meet? Shut up, logic. Nobody asked you.
I thought I could do this. I thought I could handle him. I thought I could handle myself with him. But obviously not.
What the hell had I been thinking?! I'm no different than any of his other therapists. The man's a fucking psychopath with them and he's a fucking psychopath with me, I was an idiot to think he'd be anything but.
Now enough is enough, a line has been crossed. I'm done with him.
Author's Note:
Reviews welcomed! :D