Gods of Chaos
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 8: Enter Laura
Here's the thing about sleep:
It's
Boring.
Sure ya can dream...but most of the time what ya remember is all fractured, split up, doesn't make any sense
-like purple leaves fluttering in a purple sky and blood on the pavement-
-like moonlight that hurts and Spanish muttered low, like a badly tuned radio-
-like a girl driving a needle into her eye and cats screaming and the heavy blunt shock of a bullet in the throat and Batman fading into a room stripy with wallpaper, sucked dry and dusty-
I don't like them.
Dreams.
Sleep, luckily, is something I can do without.
I can go nearly a week- done it a few times-sometimes I'm just too busy to sleep.
But when I want to...
And I Can't (I'm in the position, face down in a pillow, sheets tangling up my legs)
Come on come on comeoncomeoncomeon
Sleep.
Get sleepy!
...
...
...
Nope.
No dice.
The one time I actually want to sleep...
What's that?
Okay. Either Possum's back from his little shopping spree...
Or the most inept burglar ever has just arrived.
Jingle of keys.
...
Ah well. Maintain the fantasy. Burglars have keys sometimes. My knife's still in my pocket, keeping Possum's pills company-I have to fight the sheets to get my fingers down there (what is this a bed or a death trap)-but just when I touch that chill steel-
Creak.
I nearly break my nose slamming it back into the pillows.
Door opens.
A moment's considering silence-I breathe low and deep-and then the door clicks shut again.
My my, someone's grown a pair since I arrived this morning.
I wonder what else he did on that little ex-cur-sion-
How much do ya really know about him huh...people are springy little things...when he saw me this morning...I took his pills, he's gotta be feeling better...how do ya know he ain't on someone else's paycheck now, hmm...he was devoted, a loy-al little doggie...and we all know how loyal dogs are when they're hungry...
My head hurts.
You shoulda checked up on him before coming-never woulda slipped up like this before-something's wrecked up there in your head-used to be sharper-used to be-
SNAP-Arrghhhoo-hhaaa-ooh-OOH.
ooohHOOhoooooho.
That thrill goes right to my core (HELLO) and I'm calm all over again. That familiar cold slick feel of pain-still had my fingers there on Newbie's ex-knife-and I've pulled the-oooh.
I've gouged a strip right outta the side of my leg there-orange threads stuck in the wound-blood on the sheets and
Clarity.
That cool cool clarity that only comes with a nice sharp sting.
It's all in ya head. I mean-heh-literally.
Withdrawal-betcha if I could see the time this would be BEEP time-
Classical symptom of withdrawal: anxiety.
Along with a few others, my heart is stinging in my chest, I'm sweating, and hold out my hand and lookie right there-I've got the shakes.
(Pathetic the way the body can be trained to respond.)
First things first-
Dehydration.
Another day and night of this and the only time I'll see the Bat is at my funeral.
(Me in my best suit-Him all got up in black-black for mourning-heh-bet He wears it for years)
So.
Go and find the water you told Possum to buy (nice one) and then check out your newest stab wound (unconscious defense mechanism-go ME) because infection
is a bitch.
So what if ya can't sleep-it's Christmastime!
The stations are choked with crappy movies-and I like crappy movies-because I can think.
No one ever suspects someone to be thinking while watching Christmas crap-which is why ya do it, remember?
Oh yeah.
Yep.
I escape from the bed, take big strides, (I can feel the pull, the skin splitting on the outside of my thigh-blood trickling down my calf-) yank open the door-
-and promptly fracture both my shinbones on the water bottles directly outside.
"Fuckgggaagghh-oohooHOO-geesheesh!"
Pinwheeling my arms, I stagger, narrowly avoiding a face-plant on the carpet, and instead end up flat on my back.
I lie there and giggle quietly (really should get up) but I'm tired and I've never really wanted to kill someone so much in all my life-but I sit there and listen to Deep Purple playing on the radio instead.
Hee hee.
Ouch.
Smooooke on the water...
A fire in the sky.
Slice a hole in that shiny plastic, free a bottle, twist off the lid and take a swig. Nausea coiling in my stomach- I can smell roast chicken- twin pains of hunger and disgust.
Polish off the bottle, throw it awkwardly overhead and it bounces into the ensuite bathroom. Goal!
Crowd goes craz-y.
Snag a second bottle, roll back to my feet, ignore the feeling like someone drove a stake through my legs, pull the jumpsuit down and trickle water down my thigh. Blood turns pinkish, trails speeding away down my skin. It won't need stitches...probably scar though.
Good.
Now for the arm. Gonna need a mirror for this one. I head into the little bathroom, snap on the light, golden light tracing shadows into my scars. I've left the jumpsuit crumpled on the carpet (good riddance)-I look better without it on, if ya catch my drift.
Heh.
Hey, the old curvy scar low on my left hip-old smooth familiarity-there's a chain of bruises up my ribcage-and their purple-blue-black circles turn it into-it looks like-
It's a smiley face.
HA-haha ha Haaa.
There are stories etched into my flesh-and I can't help running my fingers over them-the ones on my face are just the most visible.
I am pink and white-dull red and blue-vibrant purple and yellow and black-head to toe: a masterpiece.
Cut, stabbed, shot, scraped, gouged and beaten.
And still smiling.
I look back into my own eyes thoughtfully.
Oh yeah.
My arm.
I lift it, turn it, study the mark Newbie left. It's incomplete- the knife snagged on the rough jumpsuit material- it's a scratch, incomplete, interrupted grooves. It's not deep enough for anything permanent.
Bad luck Newbie.
Ya just didn't leave enough of an...impression.
I step into the shower, crank the heat right up. I like it when the water pounds me, when I feel like the steam's gonna cook me like a lobster, when it's too hot and at any minute my skin's gonna start tearing off.
Water pressure's good here (I think of everything) so I lean against the wall (blink away the headache behind my eyes, force the room to behave and stop spinning) and let the water slam away.
Laura stands patiently in the line, ignoring the press of Christmas shoppers behind. She's in a little butcher's shop, not connected to any major shopping malls. It's small, out of the way, but always has a boom this time of year, because it stocks free-range produce, and with the recent spate of campaigning from The Gotham Animal Welfare League, it seems everyone's suddenly interested in how their Christmas dinners spend their short lives.
It's owned by Terry, a little fat New Yorker whose eyes are popping at the size of the crowd fighting to get through his doors, and he is bellowing orders at his two teenaged employees as they struggle to deal with the demand. Terry is never happier than when he's under stress and he winks at Laura when he spots her in the crowd. She sends him a rueful grin as she's shoved aside by a busy mother flanked by three small boys, all howling, their faces screwed up and beet-red.
She hates crowds, and she would give up and go somewhere else except Terry's already seen her and she really needs a turkey for this afternoon.
It's Christmas Eve and she's promised to help Possum make a traditional Christmas roast. She doesn't think he has many happy Christmas memories, and it will be good for him to create some positive new traditions in his life. He is getting better, truly, and she's made it a habit to go and look him up every few weeks. He always smiles when he opens the door and sees her... and it's nice to see patients recovering. That's all.
It's part of his therapy that a social worker should come and check up on him, and she's happy to do it. One of the nicer parts of a not altogether glamorous job. And he's a nice guy.
Her turn comes, and she steps up to the counter. Terry comes over, wiping off his greasy hands, and gives her a friendly grin. "Hey sweetheart, how ya goin'?"
She grimaces a little. "Oh fine, fine. You know how much I love this time of year."
"Ah come on Lou, everyone loves the holidays. Even the whackjobs."
He sticks a meaty thumb over his shoulder, indicating the television hanging in the far corner.
"Says the Joker busted himself out last night. Killed two people, stole a car and crashed it into the harbour."
She looks over, sees a news report, footage of a crumpled sports car being lifted from the murky waters. The camera spins over the spectators. She notices a grim Commissioner Gordon amongst them, arms folded tightly, detectives and police officers swarming around him.
"So...do they think he's dead?"
The sound's been muted, and she can't pick out the threads of the story from the pictures, which switch back to a news anchor's serious face. Terry shrugs happily, uncaring.
"What can I get ya, Lou?"
"Oh..um...just a turkey thanks, Terry."
He waddles off, shouting orders, and she looks back at the television to see the Joker's skull-like visage dominating the screen. It's footage from one of his threats, the screen bouncing about wildly, the Joker's snarling grin, stained teeth, a hot red snapping mouth. She remembers his laugh all too vividly, shudders. She hopes they find him dead in the harbour.
A pimple-faced youth hands over a wrapped package, and she fumbles for her cash, dragging her eyes from the madman's silent merriment, a cold knot of unease in her chest.
The apartment door opens after her second knock. Possum's been waiting for her, Laura realises, and feels warm. "Hey, P! Merry Christmas!" She gives him a friendly peck on the cheek, and he shakes back his unruly dark hair and signs a greeting.
She steps into the warmth, starts picking off her baby-pink gloves.
"So, are we all ready for the big turkey cookout-"
But she's cut off by Possum's eager signs, his fingers flying in the air, his face transported with joy. Laura stops, confused, unable to decipher the tangle of meanings in his hand movements.
"Hey, hey, slow down P. What's wrong?"
She's the one who taught him most of his new signs, having dealt with deaf patients before. His repertoire is a mix of standard signs and his own set-picked up from a life in gangs, in criminal groups, some taught by his own brother, who was in deep in that business.
He keeps repeating one, the sign for 'family' and then pointing down the hallway. And as Laura pauses, she realises that his bedroom door is closed. She's never seen it closed.
"Who's back there, P?"
He repeats the sign for 'family' again.
Laura feels the first stirrings of anger.
"Is that your brother back there?"
Possum nods gleefully.
His deadbeat brother, who's supposed to be doing time for the next few years. She's never met him, but she suspects that he's the one who started Possum off in the criminal underworld, and now, what, he's gotten out early and decided to crash at his brother's place? Pulling him back into a life of crime? Taking advantage of his loyalty? His hard-earned money?
Undoing all her hard work?
She's fuming now, and even though a little voice inside is telling her not to get involved in family business, that she's going to hurt Possum if she throws his brother out, that maybe confronting a convicted felon isn't the smartest thing to do- that white-hot flame of indignant anger is bright now and she hammers on the closed bedroom door furiously.
There's no answer.
Coward, she thinks viciously, and raises a fist to hammer on it again, when it springs abruptly open.
Laura freezes, one fist still in the air, unable to take in the reality of the horror before her.
He's wearing dark suit pants, a little too large, with the faintest purple pinstripes, with a dark leather belt cinched tight around his lean hips.
His feet are a startling white against the navy carpet, and terribly scarred.
His torso is bare-littered with angry lines, sharp, curving, rough scars- the viciousness of them scares her.
There is extensive bruising up his ribcage, a rainbow of colours.
His hair is dripping wet.
But this she notices as though in a dream- she's all taken up with-she can't stop staring at-his face.
My God.
Skull-like, bone white paint caked on, stopping abruptly at his throat. Deep black hollows around his eyes. A twisted red slash of a mouth. The famous Chelsea grin.
That little sardonic glint in his eyes, the beginnings of an amused smirk behind the greasepaint-she knows her mouth is open-those dark pits of eyes rake her up and down.
She feels sick to her stomach. She needs, suddenly, to pee, the bottom dropping out of her stomach.
Oh my God.
Laura has never been so afraid, never, not in her whole life.
The Joker lifts those dead devil-eyes from her, looks up to where Possum is standing in the hallway.
"Ya never told me ya had a girl-friend!"
Then his ear-shattering laughter breaks over her -and Laura drifts away, the world spinning to black.
Author's Notes: I meant to post this on Christmas Eve, but seeing as it's now 12:50am, (I've just got back from closing at work) I can say Merry Christmas instead!
Thanks go to Viick's and CalmingChaos. Your comments are appreciated and I hope Santa is good to you.
Just some things about this chapter: Meant to be longer, but I wasn't really in the zone/had enough time, so it's pretty much half the chapter I wanted to post.
"Smoke on the water, fire in the sky" is from Deep Purple's 'Smoke on the Water' song.
The part from The Joker's point of view has some line breaks in weird places. I'm using them not to signify a change of scene as such, but more a change in thought.
The Joker's dreams are not memories and I am not going to solve the scar mystery. I like him not having a background, and who can really say whether the stuff he dreams about actually happened to him? The girl stabbing a needle into her eye and being shot in the throat are both dreams I've had when I've been too hot in bed, and they were extremely vivid and scary.
Oh, and obviously at some point between the changing of points of view, stuff has happened. While Laura's shopping for turkey, The Joker's taken his shower, found some pants and applied his greasepaint. I do hint that he's done some stuff by having Laura look down the hallway and not see the container of water bottles that Possum put there. Inference: The Joker has moved them to protect his shinbones from further abuse. Hope that was clear enough.
Also, I understand this fic is so far severely lacking in Batman/Joker interaction. However I am trying to set this fic up properly. One doesn't simply break out of Arkham and get straight into a fight with Batman, especially not without one's costumes, accessories, men and appropriate dasterdly scheme. Oh, and health. Detoxing can be an ugly thing.
Next Chapter: Will Laura live to see Christmas morning? Will Possum get to cook his turkey? All these questions and more will be answered.
Merry Christmas to all,
Taluliaka.
