Again, sorry for the delay. But I don't think people are reading this thing anymore, so I'm not that hurried to publish any of it. So, here it is.

"Why do ya live with Uncle Jim, hmm?" he asked, "What happened to mommy and daddy?"

Ginger ignored the swarm of unease and aches in her stomach and, in a hopeful attempt at distraction or moderation, continued to trace the cracks in the wall with her eyes. "They died."

"ah-oh," his response was equally casual, however, Ginger could sense she'd spiked his interest; his eyes clung back to her like a magnet. Anything concerning the likes of death or pain was his specialty, his hobby. She imagined if she were him, lashing out and slitting the throats of chaste humans, the nerve and callousness one would require to act on such horrid things. She imagined seeing the horror and the plead in eyes as she beat them merciless, the purple splotching bruises fading into sight, the trails of blood from the broken skin, the chunks of flesh tumbling out from their sheath… She had to bite the inside of her lip to erase the images, and she suddenly couldn't abide to look at him, knowing he had done such abominable things and laughed, like death was a joke. Which it was, to him. "That's awful. How'd that happen?" He asked, the nonchalance in his voice ringing with a sick sanguine.

"A car accident, when I was eight." She watched the wall like it was a movie, only she barely saw it; she was silently wondering if he would pick up her smuggling of accuracy.

A beat of silence. "You're lying to me."

Ginger shifted in discomfort, swearing in her thoughts. "No I'm not. My dad died in a car accident."

"Oh, gee. And, ah, what about mommy?"

Should she lie? No, he could espy a fib in less then a second, and his surly manner would most likely not allow a second chance. However, the more he knew, the easier it would be to raid and infect her head without consequence, like she knew he would try. "She had cancer."

"Mhmm…? Is that all? You're not gonna fill me in on the gory details?" His voice rang with a hard edge.

"She had a brain tumour, she died when I was seventeen."

"Uh huh." He abruptly shoved his deck of cards into an inside pocket of his bulky jacket and rotated onto his knees to confront her nose to nose. Ginger's eyes widened with a start. She could feel his hot breath throbbing on her lips, and she could barely refrain shrinking as far back onto the wall as she could. He noticed this (of course); his eyes flickered to her legs as they prolonged to slide her back farther. "Listen-ah to me," he hushed. He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger, wriggled forward to straddle her lower half, a shockingly small distance between them, and smiled like a lion on the verge of pouncing. She tried to draw her head back to create further distance between their faces, but it did nothing. She hated being so close to him, hated it. The invasion convoked the flashbacking memories of unwelcome skin, dominating and hungry… Just like him. "I don't really like being lie-ad to, okay? If you're a smart little girlie, like I think you are, you'd tell me the truth. Hmm?" He moistened his droughty lips, and she could feel the warmth of his tongue as it passed.

He forced her to look directly at his eyes; it was like looking into the depths of hell. She squeezed her eyes shut, instead. "Okay," she croaked.

"Don't shut those pretty litt'l eyes of yours," he suggested. His body weight shifted, and she could feel the motion on top of her. "So, I'll ask you again, what happened to mommy?"

She refused to permit escaping tears, not now, not in front of him. Was she truly that weak? He had no visibly weapon, his only defence the proximity of their figures, his own reputation and his knowledge of her agitation. That was his greatest asset. Of this, Ginger thought repeatedly of how incredibly stupid and pathetic she was. She had welcomed him inside her head. He was so agile and cunning, his own strength of mind capable of marauding the deep emotions that were so alien, yet so simple to him, and now he had her by the neck and he was gripping. The acknowledgment of her own piteous fragility made crying more tempting, but she abolished it. Not here, not before him where he could crucify her with mockery and humiliation. The painful columns stored deep within the cockles of her mind were being conjured, and its forward path was not a pleasant one. With hesitancy, Ginger began "she… She was—"

Her confession abruptly interrupted was by the sweeping motion of the opening door slapping the wall. "Hey, Joker, it's time—" The goon fell silent, registering the degrading positions of either one, and made a sound of uncomfortable shock. "Am—Am I interrupting?" His large grasshopper-like body noticeably erected, and he took a small step backwards.

The Joker, more then clearly irritated, clenched his jaw and gingerly swivelled his head. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you were interrupting, Giggly. You'd better have a good reason for doing so."

"Yeah, I… Uh…"

"Spit it out."

"We gotta go now. It's almost five and—"

"Uh huh. You're absolutely right," Joker leaped to him feet in one nimble movement, making Ginger jump, and he straightened his tie. "Well? Scram and double check everything if you really want to, if you don't have anything better to do then wander around like an imbecile…" He went on, though 'Giggly' had already scrambled away from the glooming cloud of the Joker's fury.

Ginger chewed on the inside of her cheeks, resisting the self-loathe and desire to bawl. She tried not to peer up at him, as she knew his eyes were fixed on her. Whether this was to catch her attention, or intimidate her more intensely, or out of mere curiosity to watch her, she wasn't sure. She kept her eyes on her far wall.

"As for you," he finally voiced, his voice abating to a lower drawl, "I'll be back later. Oh, and one last questions before I leave for my little rendezvous; what is your favourite food?"

Her stomach lurched at the mention of nourishment. "Um, strawberries I guess," she answered reluctantly. She hated how helpless she was before his scheming logic.

"What about… Your least favourite food?"

"I don't know. Uh…" She felt ridiculous answering such trivial questions, and honestly, she could barely even think of any kind of food she would detest at this particular moment. "Black licorice."

Joker's lips stretched outward, not particularly upward, and he nodded as if taking orders. "Well," He sighed, "see you later, Honey Bunch!" He sing-sang, pulled the door closed behind his animated self.

She felt the hot tears slip down her face, and again, she was aware of self-hating waves at her own apathetic nature; to tidy her brain of memories, to freeze them and stack away into a dark corner, bound them to a forlorn isolation where they would struggle to attain freedom. It had been so long ago, and she was childish to have never accepted it, to simply banish them like a feeble test result at school in hopes of never having to look at it again. Immature and stupid, just like her. Once an acknowledgment was publicized, it was sent ablaze like a sand storm. She had made this known to the Joker, and he was fondling it, observing it for a pliable patch and wanting to press it.

She wanted to sleep again, having nothing else to do, but she was opposite of tired. She wanted to get up and walk, to run, to eat. God, to eat. And to drink. She could feel her stomach begin to feed off itself in starvation, however, she had learned to avoid the sensation by holding her mind away. She seemed to be good at stuff like that, except when she was confronted. Uhg.

She pushed with her frail legs, and her back slid up the level wall like an elevator. She was conscious of her shoulder blades, hurting from the strain as her arms hung back, embraced at the hands. She moved her leg along before her, trying to extend it, and the tendons tingled from lack of use. Her socks were off, and the carpet was brusque under her dirty toes, and she was briefly reminded of when she was a child, when she used to amble through her backyard without her shoes. Her mom would tell her to wear her sneakers, that she could step on a shard of glass and get an infection. However, Ginger was immune to her scolding. She did it anyway; she relished the grass beneath her feet, the cool soil damp and rough and earthy. She'd detested wearing her shoes in the summer, having those useless strap-on sandals that gave her blisters along the rims of her feet. Even in the house, she seldom wore footwear; not even socks. She liked her skin sticking to the humid wood floor when she walked, the smooth surface and the pieces of dust lingering on the floor that would cling onto her. Mindy, her mother, had been completely different in that manner. Mindy had been a greatly immaculate when she was alive, always trying to organize the details of her somewhat mediocre life. She'd had a list of goals, a list of daily chores, a list of things to buy, a planner for outings, gas-stops, breakfast, lunch and diner. One could speculate this trait with one glance; her short, ivory hair had been cleanly cut behind her ears, awarding her a fresh, tidy look no matter what the circumstance. She'd loved to wear virginal white blouses and ruffled skirts, trim slip-on sandals, and Ginger remembered the cloudy greyish pearls she had been so devoted to. Her husband, James, had given them to her on their three year anniversary. Ginger had them in her room somewhere, in a box full of precious treasures.

Sometimes she wondered to whom she had shared more traits with; Mindy or James. It was a difficult question when she recollected the similarities they all shared. She knew she had the physical appearance of her father, as everyone had always reminded her when she was a kid. "Oh, you're a spitting image of your father!" They would say, "Like a miniature James". She had inherited his wild auburn hair; a mixture of dark red, brown and scarce nuances of violet. She had the baby blue shade of his eyes, only his were never quite as large as hers, and the lips she owned were a mere replica of his. After James had died, nearly eighteen years ago now, Mindy had obviated looking at Ginger for the fear of mistakenly seeing her husband.

She remembered the bleak period following his death, the first grievance ever experienced, despite when her hamster, Marble, had escaped and vanished. Mindy's face had been producing gaunt shadows under the depleted eyes, her lips always cracked, hair always oily and stale like hay. Adam had proved to be equally devastated, most likely more so then Ginger, having understood the veracity of death, being roughly four years older. She would have endured more depth to her agony had she been perhaps a few years older, but her pain had solidified at such a young age of innocent oblivion that she was somewhat glad that she hadn't been able to take the full strength of it. By the time she had reached the stage of maturing, the sorrow had already settled, and couldn't repeat accompanied with the anguish of the comprehension. Of course, like most afflictions, they can ameliorate through the process of time, occasionally with the assistance of a gracious boost, an angelic being that could convoy into a blinding light. A light so bright, that it perhaps could be an illusion.

There, a little bit of input on Ginger's past. Like it? Don't like it?
Leave me a review, then!
They do me well. Hey, are any of you guys into the Mortal Instruments series? City of Bones, City of Glass..? I just got the third one, and I can't put it down. If you haven't read them you should check it out!
Anyway, I have the next chapter written, but it depends when I publish that one. If this one gets some attention, I'll continue, but I think I might stop the series.