A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

Me: Thanks for the appreciation! It's good to know that some people like my story, even if it isn't the million reviews I demanded. Where are my reviews? Now for a psychopathic freak chapter.

Chapter Ten: Walking On Broken Glass

"So did you have, uh... fun, Breech?" Joker asks me. He sucks on his scars, and I wonder if it's a tic, or if he does it because it seriously unnerves people. It really could be either. Although I admit, I'm getting kind of used to it now. But I stare for too long.

"I asked you a, uh... question, Breech. Did you have fun?" he asks again, his tone much nastier.

"Hmm?" I blink, "Oh. Yes. And no. See... I kinda get it. Those bastards killing each other to get to kill me. But now... now I know. Now I've got a purpose again. I've got a job," I emphasise, "And the important thing about your job, is that you don't get emotionally attached. So it wasn't fun. It wasn't anything, really. Oh, how I've missed having a job..." I reload the shotgun, smiling.

"Well then," he smirks and hands me the tape he recorded everything on, "Post this, will you sweetie?"

I take the tape, which is covered in stamps, and addressed to Gotham Tonight's main offices. We stop at a mailbox and I shove it in.

"Now... homeward bound!" he laughs, "And we can watch the chaos ensue."

"The Batman is going to pay attention to this," I smile suddenly, "That's why you recorded yourself. To get his attention. I mean, me, who am I? A job for the cops. All I did was kill a few guys who deserved everything they got. But throw the Joker into the pack and suddenly everybody gets a lot more... serious."

He giggles maniacally, "You're finally getting the joke, Breech," he pulls up outside the warehouse and stops laughing abruptly. The cop car is burning and from what I can tell from his expression, he didn't do it.

"Well, this is the Narrows," he says eventually, "You leave a car outside a house with the, uh... keys in the ignition, what do you expect?"

"Could just be some cops recovering stolen property," I point out dryly.

"And how would they find out where I was?" he asks, producing another shiv from his jacket. How many of the goddamn things does he have? "Huh? How'd they know?" The shiv's at my throat, "If there's even one cop in there, Breech... even one... you die right here."

Anyway, we scour the warehouse from top to bottom, with me having a shiv pointed at my throat for every damn step. God, if they've tracked him down...

But, no cops. I've never been this relieved to see a lack of cops in my life, which is a little surprising considering the circumstances and the many times I've been relieved to see a total lack of cops. But I can't die now. I've got so much work to do...

"Well, looks like you are an honest woman, Breech," he takes the shiv away from my neck and I breath slowly to try and stay calm, "I don't meet many honest people. But I'm a man of my word," he drawls slowly, taking off his duster and hanging it up. I hang up my longcoat with it, as well as my weapons.

I breathe slowly, unsure of what to do or say and finally deciding that silence is the best survival option. He walks into the kitchen and starts boiling up strong coffee. In one cup he drops a couple of wake-aids. The other he pushes to me, "Drink," I hesitate, "DRINK!" he growls.

I drink. It's bitter as hell, and the cup is dirty too, "You... need to clean this place up," I say slowly, "It's filthy."

"I've got, uh... more important things to think about."

"Well..." I pause, "I could do it."

He weighs me up, a bored look in his eyes, "Sure, why not? That's what gals do, isn't it?"

"It's what people do," I reply.

"And there you were, saying that all people are people, even people like you and me," he laughs. Damn, I'd thought he'd forgotten me saying that. But the Joker has a damn good memory when he finds he can use it against you.

"Of course, there's the bathroom needing cleaning too," I add quickly, "You could do that. All that mess, I bet that's you. You know, with all that DNA the cops might just be able to peg down who you really are," I pause, watching his irritation build up at the truth of the words, "And then they might just be able to peg down how you got the scars."

Now he's starting to look pissed. Not really mad like I've seen him go whacko once or twice in the Asylum, but like he wants me to stop now.

"I bet..." I pause, "I bet it's not about you not wanting people to know how. I bet you don't want to remember. If I could forget just how I got this way, I would too. It's," I sneak a sly look, "...perfectly normal to feel that way about a traumatic experience."

The punch knocks me off my feet and to the floor, with the coffee mug shattering on the floor, and I gasp as he hauls me back to my feet by my hair, his shiv at my throat. I giggle. I can't help it. He realises if he shivs me, he loses. He lets go of my hair, and I actually drop a couple of inches to the floor.

"Scarecrow taught you good," he concedes, scrutinising me, "The cat thing, though... most people hide who they are with a facade of being a nice person. 'Cus they can't stand that they're monsters, deep inside. I just paint my real face on the outside. But I wonder, you being a freak like you are and all... is the cat thing what you really are? Or is it the mask? Is that why you didn't care whenever I, uh... drew attention to it? Cus the monster is the mask and you... you want to hide the good person deep inside?"

This time it's me who twitches – only very slightly, but he reads it like an open book, "Why should I want to use a freak as my mask?" I ask him, "Don't you think if I could choose my mask I'd choose something... else?" I ask.

"Or maybe," he looks thoughtful, "Maybe you just wanna prove those bastards right so bad. They want a monster, so you'll, uh... give them what they want."

Now I'm not twitching. Now I'm just stiff with not reacting. I got to him, and he took it and turned it on me. I don't mind being psychoanalysed by people who hate how I look and are always drawing attention to it by saying that it's not something to be ashamed of. I just ignore them. But when people start pretending that they don't care about the fur and the claws and all that shit... even when it might be true I start feeling the pinch.

Especially when it might be true.

The Joker finishes his coffee quickly. It should probably be burning his mouth. Although I never saw the Joker as one to care about pain. Arkham's orderlies have proved that until they've gotten bored.

He crosses the room and goes into the warehouse, then slams a disc into a player. I instinctively turn – I hate having him at my back. Although it occurs to me, I've never seen him shiv anybody in the back... He goes through several tracks rapidly before settling on... a waltz?

"Now," he looks at me icily, "Dance with me."

"Wh-what?" I manage, then, add hastily, "I mean, why?"

"Is there something the matter with one freak wanting to dance with another freak?" he asks with a smirk, holding out his arms, "Especially one as beautiful as you," he laughs mockingly.

I give up, and step forward. He's a foot taller than me, and while I have to reach up to wrap my arms around his shoulders, and my face rests on his vest, his bare forearms have to reach down. He takes one hand and pretty much holds me in place. The other is in my hair, although for once he's not pulling, and we start to sway a bit to the beat.

Well, if he's going to make me feel uncomfortable as shitty death like this, then I can play games too. So I do what I do best – I don't fight it, but go with the vague sway of the beat, resting the side of my face unflinchingly against his chest. Now this is the part where I'm supposed to tune out...

Supposed to.

He's warm, like I remember from all those times he's held on to me before. And strong, too. This man is a sociopath; an instinctive liar with zero empathy. If I am anything to him, I am a toy to be played with until he can find out how best to smash me. I mean nothing to him. Or do I? I have to find out. Even if it's what kills me.

"You never answered my question," I tell him.

"Which one?"

"Why dance with me? You could walk out into the night, grab some pretty girl, drag her here, have a dance and throw her away with the morning garbage - in pieces if necessary - and I'd still be here to clean up your kitchen tomorrow. So why me?"

"All the pretty girls in the Narrows are whores. Probably think that the Joker's grabbed them for a dance and that means there's something special about them," he answers.

I try to look up at his face. He feels the attempt at movement and pins my face to his chest, and I can't see it. But there's the tremble of a sneer in his voice. I know if I'm anything to him, he'd never show it openly, "Do you dance often?" I ask.

"Often enough that I know what to do with whores," he answers.

I let the music carry us a little while longer. Then I make my move. It's not much. I never was any good at faking tears. I'm not a crying sort of person anyway. So I fake holding them back by hiding my face, breathing a little harder, and tensing again. I need a reaction.

"Relax," he swings me around rapidly on a beat, "Don't be so scared. I don't bite. Often."

Scared? Well, scared will do, "I'm not scared," I tell him.

"HA!"

"It's just that..." I slump in his grip, "Never mind."

He tenses a little, "What?" I give him a hesitation, "What?" he growls.

"You're so good at reading people, and I'm not," and suddenly, stupidly, the truth is coming out, "And you're good at lying, and I'm not. I was gonna try and trick you into being dishonest, because by logic if you know a man always lies, he always tells the truth in his lies. I tried to read you but now I just blurt out the truth and I'll never get it!"

"The truth," he replies dully, but I'm angry and I twist away.

"I'm a freak and a monster and even if you were crazy enough to find that appealing, you wouldn't because you don't care about people!" I shout. I turn away stiffly and I don't know where to go. I just walk into the kitchen and grab a glass and smash it in my left hand and I finish by ramming that hand into all that broken glass until I scream.

I want to feel pain now, and this is better than what I'm risking.

I thought the dancing was just some fun. A game.

I never thought I'd feel anything, because I never do.

I thought she might try to play the game right back, and that's no problem, because I'm better at it.

I never thought she'd admit to it.

The scream from the kitchen gets me moving again. I know a scream of anger from one of pain, but this is both. Breech's hand is dripping blood and there's broken glass in it. I manage to force a mocking laugh, "Well that's a fucking stupid thing to do!" I tell her, smirking.

"If you're going to kill me or hurt me or destroy me, do it now!" she shouts, and she's crying, "If you're going to torture me, get the fuck on with it! Right now, clown! But quit playing with me!" She steps forward, and she puts her bare foot on more broken glass.

And I dash forward and put a shiv to her neck, just to stop her walking on more glass. Why? "You are fucking impossible, you know that?" I hiss, looking down at her, "First, you go and glass yourself so you can't hold a gun properly! Then you start screaming at me to kill you as if you think I won't! And then you walk on broken glass so you can't even fight properly! Useless! You're useless!"

"Don't you think I know that by now? Just get on with-"

"Just..." I grimace, "Shut up! You're such a freak! You're honest, and you're hardly a hypocrite at all, and you're not even afraid because you're so busy being angry!" I grab her and throw her over one shoulder, but her cry of surprise is not comforting. Glass crunches under my shoes as I walk out of the kitchen. Then I throw her onto the pile of blankets, "Get that glass out of your hand, and your foot," I snarl, "Then bind them up. If it's not done by the time I'm back, you really are useless and-" I realise I'm almost shouting. I hardly ever shout. Always in control, that's me. I take a breath, and manage to get back to my regular tone, "And I'll just have to carve you like a, uh... turkey dinner. You cover pain with anger, don't you, Breech? Well let's just say, I'll find out well your anger can cover your pain before you, uh... die screaming."

I manage to smile. The threat makes me feel a little better, and I hold the mocking smirk, but when I see the look of unabashed surprise on that cat's face, I know it's too late.

I grab my coat and fling it on, walking out of the warehouse into pouring rain, and it's only once I'm out of the warehouse that I punch a wall so hard, I feel a brick crack. I rest my head against the wall.

I don't feel right.

I really need to get away from that woman and kill somebody before I lose my mind.

Me: Yeah, everything goes a little bit crazy when you're hanging with the Joker.