Chapter 10
"What's your biggest... fear, Doctor Quinzel?"
It was their eighth session now and Harleen didn't even know how they had gotten there. To this point. To the deep and meaningful.
So far, in all their eight forty-minute sessions together, Harleen still hadn't gotten a proper word out of him, about his past history, about why he was the way he was, why the tattoos and the teeth and the hair and the vendetta against Gotham's vigilante, The Batman. She'd read in his file that Batsy was the sole reason he had been institutionalized in the Asylum for the third time now; There was a scuffle, and he was delivered to the asylum, but her patient wouldn't elaborate. He mainly directed personal questions to her, ones that really made her have to stop and think. Her patient had a way of making her feel special, she realized, particularly with the way he was staring at her now, so focused, so intensely, with bated breath as he waited for her reply. When they were in their sessions like this, Harleen felt as though she were the center of his attention, that she were his entire universe.
That was probably simply because they were the only people in the session room and all of his human social interactions were solely reduced to her, but still. It was... nice.
Her stomach twisted in knots at being put on the spot as she leaned back in the chair, her fingers curling around the foam, watered-down cup of espresso coffee in front of her on the steel desk. It was the very last question she had expected him to ask of her this morning.
When she hesitated, fumbling over an answer, a deep gruff sigh left him as he shook his head, as if her hesitation to answer was getting him all agitated and impatient, "You know, what... scares ya more than anything else in the world? Hmm?"
Her eyes darted down to her fingers as they played with the brown coffee cup, noticing they were trembling for some reason. What good reason did she have for her fingers to be trembling? What?
"Water," she admitted in a soft, scratchy voice; the connotations that the single small word alone had invoking an involuntary, tense reaction out of her. Her heart raced, she felt beneath her armpits trickle and dampen with sweat. She brought up a shaky hand, wiping around her forehead. "Probably water, Mr. J. Water scares me more than... anything else in the world."
Most people probably loved playing in water. The feeling of getting their toes wet. How cleansing it felt immersing oneself into water after a hot, dry day. But not Harleen. Water was harmless and fun- to other people. But other people probably hadn't gone through what she had gone through.
"I'm terrified of drowning and I... I can't swim. Not even now, at my age. My mother and my... my father, they never bothered to teach me. I think they just assumed that its like... a natural inbuilt thing that humans can automatically do. Swimming." A wave of bitterness swept over her, startling her. It hadn't occurred to Harleen how much it had still affected her until then, speaking about it. Then again, it was something she had stifled and flattened down inside of herself for years, speaking about anything to do with her childhood. "I had a real bad experience when I was a little girl. And by that, we're talking like... seventeen or eighteen years ago. Something that happened a real, real long time."
Despite how long it had been and all the years that had passed now, Harleen could still feel how it felt, so vividly, as if she were right there, back in that moment as a little girl again. The sheer panic at floating down under the surface of the water, as if she were a sinking ship, as if invisible hands were reaching out towards her, grabbing on tight and wrenching her down to the pit of the pool .
"It was a hot day and one of the neighbors suggested my mother and me come over and play in their pool. These neighbors, they were real rich, real classy compared to us, and they... had all this fancy stuff. They had a daughter, about my age back then- she had everything she ever wanted, this dollhouse and all these cool clothes which made me feel, like, super jealous enough that I remember wanting to hit her- and so my mother thought, 'Yeah, sure, why not? It'll be fun, seeing how these real classy people live, whether they even... live like us at all'."
She shouldn't have even been doing this; speaking about something so private with him, yet there was something about being around him that made her want to spill her guts; Revealing every dark, little niggling secret she'd locked away and kept all to herself. She hadn't even spoken about it out loud to anyone before, but when Harleen glanced up at him through her glasses self-consciously, wondering if she was both boring and irritating her patient, she saw The Joker was still and motionless. He seemed enraptured, listening and hanging on to her every word.
"So we went over there to the neighbors house, my mother and me. Everything was cool for a while. The daughter's mother was showing her stuff inside her house while the daughter and me played outside the backyard near their pool. It was this humongous pool, like... the size of a football field almost, with no protective gates for us kids or nothing."
She could see it so clearly; The large pool, the cobblestone edge.
"Anyway, I remember her daughter throwing something into the pool- a ball or something, 'cause we were playing- and it was floating near the edge and I thought I'd try get it, being some silly careless girl who couldn't see the dangers at the time."
She felt as if she was right back there, that she wasn't even present in the session room at Arkham anymore. She heard the constant whulping noises of water as her head kept submerging under, no matter how hard she flailed and tried to kick her way up through the surface in order to breathe. The chlorine in the water stinging her eyes. Her throat and stomach convulsing as she desperately tried to heave in air.
"I must've gotten too close to the edge because, next thing I knew, I was slamming right in there. I knew I was gonna die then, instance I fell in there. I had a creeping feeling that the daughter wasn't gonna alert my mother, that I was just gonna drown and it would all be over." She stared down at the rim of the cup, plucking at it with her thumbnail. "I'm not a heavily religious person or nothing like that, but I... I could have sworn I'd seen a bright white light when I looked up. Like heaven was calling to me or something." She shook the thought away, her throat tightening. "But then something grabbed at me, at my ankle or foot or something, and somebody pulled me out. I think it was the... other girl's mother. Mine just stood there."
She could see the memory so clear; something that had always plagued her.
The neighbor rubbing at her arms as Harleen shook frantically with chattering teeth and sobbed over the experience. A warm white towel being swaddled over her as the woman cooed softly and patted at her dripping, lanky-locks of blonde hair tenderly with the palms on both hands. Fussing, fawning. Treating her like Harleen was an adored, brave princess that had just survived something terrible. The girl's mother had seemed so concerned for her, like a mother hen pecking at her brood, ensuring she was alright and that she wouldn't need to be taken to the hospital for medical care.
Her very own mother, however...
She had kept her distance, watching her young daughter shiver and cry from her traumatic, near-drowning experience, as if Harleen was something unlovable and alien to her. The neighbor had acted more motherly to Harleen in that moment than her own biological mother ever had in her entire twenty-six years of life. But that had always been the way the Quinzel family was and how her childhood had played out growing up.
Cold. Aloof. Distant. No laughing, no emotion, and most definitely, no affection whatsoever. Not even for a child when she begged and longed for it the most.
Harleen dug her fingertips into the Styrofoam cup angrily at the memory, imagining herself slicing it open with them viciously, watery coffee cascading out everywhere onto the table like hot, fresh blood. She knew her nails were not even near sharp enough, but at the moment, she wished they were.
"Anyway, it was like... the most terrifying thing I'd ever have to go through as a kid, no exaggerating. What made it worse, I think, was... afterwards. Just... seeing how my mother was to me. She never cared, I don't think. It used to cut me up inside, seeing how much she never cared. She wasn't like the other mother. She wasn't fussing over me or making sure I was okay, she just... stood back, cold and emotionless as she always was. Never even said a reassuring thing to me once, just let the other mother take charge."
It was at that defining moment in her childhood, at around seven or eight years old, that Harleen had realized her mother never loved her. She couldn't even bring herself to love her very own daughter.
"I was never good enough for her," she muttered confidently; the words she had never dared to so much as speak out loud into the open before. She felt such hot, intense stirrings of anger, of pain."No matter what I did, I was never... enough. It never mattered that I threw myself into my school work, trying to get good grades for her so that she'd be impressed with me. I thought maybe she'd.. start to love me, be a little more affectionate. It never even mattered to her, now, when I told her I was interested in going to University, that I wanted to become a psychiatrist. And you know what she said to me, Mr. J? When I told her that I got accepted into here, and that I'd passed and gotten my diploma?"
She shouldn't have been doing it, and red flashing alarms were ringing off inside her head, yet she couldn't stop. His question, it had opened an entire floodgate of emotions. It all just wanted to gush out, like water bursting out of a cracked pipe.
"When I called her and announced the news, she told me that 'Oh, you'll never last long there, Harleen. They'll see you for what you really are'. And it was the same thing when I got accepted into University. 'Oh, you won't make it past the first year, Harleen. Six years is a long time and it won't amount to anything. Your worthless and your not smart enough. Time to wake up and smell the roses.'" Her Brooklyn accent was out, snapping like a whip with the hurtful words. "Always, every time I try to do something, she's there putting bad doubts inside my head." It was like she couldn't stop, as if her mouth wasn't cooperating. When it flew out next, she knew she had stepped over a major fatal line then, "Sometimes I just want to kill her, you know? I know that's awful to say about your mother, but sometimes its true. What's the saying? Good riddance to bad rubbish."
Brutally coming to her senses, as if someone had whacked her across the skull, Harleen pressed her lips together, falling silent. It was a complete breach in protocol, what she was doing. Especially the last comment, lighthearted as it may be meant, of wanting to murder her mother. While she trusted he wouldn't repeat what she said outside of the session room to any of her colleagues and security, it was wrong of her. What was she doing?
Her skin was blistering hot after her tirade, as if she were standing close to a naked flame.
"Jesus, I'm sorry, Mr. J," she whispered guiltily. "I'm acting like we're gal-pals in a schoolyard or something. Or like your my... my therapist." Morphing back into her role after her transgression, she moved her cup aside, shuffling through her case notes. She had to get herself under control. "Talking about that sorta stuff just brings back a few issues," she explained, trying to regulate her voice back to the tone she often put on for work. "But that's why I just... I don't like water. That's why its mainly the one thing in the world I fear most, drowning in water. That one bad experience."
The Joker's slow, infectious laughter broke her out of her embarrassed trance, Harleen's gaze landing on him as she corrected her glasses. She felt her soulmark tingle at the way he was, leaning against the table, his grayish-blue eyes twinkling at her speculatively.
He tilted his head to the side, his crimson painted lips opening and closing, before he seemed to get over the hesitation to speak, "You ever... ever... ever end up killing her, Doctor?" His question was an enticing deep and low rumble, as if he was urging her to spill another secret to him.
"What do you think, Mr. J?" She combed a stray strand of hair back behind her earlobe as she tilted her head, mirroring him. "'Course not. I... I've thought of doing it a few times, but... its just harmless thinking. Never doing."
There was no sting at the thought of murdering her mother, no ache or painful feeling felt at the idea. She wasn't sure if that made her innately a terrible person, but the thought of her mother dying in an excruciating way, it made her feel... empty. Apathetic.
"And besides, you really think I'd still be legally allowed to work here now as your psychiatrist if I had something as serious as murdering my mother on my criminal record?"
"Bet you could get away with murder, Harley Quinn." His voice went low, husky again. Seductive. "Bet you could get away with anything with them beautiful... cheekbones of yours. Bet you could even cut a few throats with them cheekbones like a knife."
Beautiful. It was all she seemed able to process of what he was saying, and Harleen felt her face flush. Beautiful cheekbones. Beautiful. It wasn't very often of late that someone had called her that. Beautiful.
Harleen couldn't even begin to feel bad at how calmly they were speaking of her murdering her mother, as if the entire conversation was an amusing private joke shared between them. She let her eyes flit to the window, spotting the guards outside, their uniform bright. They couldn't hear them and no one was monitoring their sessions. She was especially grateful for that now. Talking about this, the subject of murder, of killing, it was dangerous. Dangerously exciting; Something she hadn't spoken about to anybody before, the things she'd fantasize about when she was lost and lonely when she was younger, apparently unlovable to her parents.
"No, I've never followed through with, you know. I've mostly just fantasized about it, about... what it would be like, killing somebody. I know when I was younger, when I got real fed up with my mother, I'd wonder about it, sure." She moved her gaze back to The Joker, a strange thrill passing through her. It seemed so decadent, so naughty, what they were speaking about. "I would wonder how it would feel, whether it would feel... sorta good or mostly bad."
"Oh, careful." His lips pulled back into a glistening silver grin as he chided her in what, Harleen assumed, was a playfully stern way, a foot going between her ankles beneath the table. "Careful, careful. They hear us from out there, they're going to start think-"
"-Think what, Mr. J? Think that I'm crazy, that I'm... abnormal 'cause I let myself wonder about these sorts of things?""
She arched her eyebrows at him while interlacing her fingers together. She rested both elbows on the cold table, leaning on them while holding her folded hands up against her chin.
"You know what I think? I think its bullshit if somebody thinks someone's crazy because they let themselves think about how it would be to kill somebody else." She paused, glancing towards the window reluctantly while licking her lips. It was something she had thought about for a while now, the conviction in her voice sending it quivering. "Because that's life and nature, isn't it? Don't we all do that, though we mightn't... admit to it? Don't we all have a... a natural curiosity for dark things?"
Harleen felt a gleeful, spiteful bitterness in her chest.
"They can't hear us out there through the glass, Mr. J. They don't even record the conversations we've had in here," she pointed out assuredly. "They leave it all for me to do. I'm supposed to be... documenting every single word you tell me as my patient." She peered down at all the files in front of her, all the blank spaces where her notes should be. There was a fleeting sense of panic there at how unproductive she had been, but she brushed it off quickly, preferring not to have to dwell on it now. "They can see us out there, sure. They can supervise. But they can't hear us and what we're saying."
"Well, then, in that case if they can't hear us, Doctor..." His voice was loud and purposeful, as if he was about to wheedle her into doing something, "I got a little... suggestion for ya."
"Suggestion?" Harleen felt the blood trickle from her face, like she was hanging upside down, at the unexpectedness. She was clueless on what he was going to do today. Then again, he kept her constantly surprised every session they had. Harleen loved her surprises and the way he kept her on edge. "Okay then, Mr. J. Let's hear it."
"Well, you ever, uh..." A deep moan left the base of his throat as his eyes roamed slowly around her face, her hair that was tied up into a ponytail, the few loose strands tucked behind her earlobes, appraising her. "You ever wear your hair down, Harley Quinn?"
"My hair down?" Harleen's hands automatically flew up to the crown of her forehead, her palms flattening down her ponytail nervously. He hadn't spoken much about her personal appearance before. "What? You think my hair doesn't look nice up, Mr. J?"
It dawned onto her how much it would disappoint her if that were the case. She wasn't sure whether it was a soulmate thing or whether it was just an attraction thing that she felt for him, but... she desired his approval, his acceptance.
"No, no, no," he tore out through gritted teeth, shaking his green head furiously, "I never said that. I just want to..."
"What? What do you want?"
He made another deep grunting noise as he lifted his head high up towards the dank ceiling, showing her the pallid muscles in his throat, his mark. Harleen had learned well enough by now when reading his body language during their sessions that he only did it when he was feeling especially frustrated by something. It was either her that was frustrating him or he was mainly frustrated because he couldn't vocalize what he was trying to say to her properly.
"You going to finish what you're telling me?" She touched her hair again anxiously. "We've been having sessions three times a week- this is our eighth session together- and yet, you wait until now to tell me that something's wrong with my hair? Huh?"
Another exasperated noise escaped through his parted lips, "There ain't nothing wrong with your hair, honey bunny." His forehead creased, his red lips into a scowl. "It's just that you ought to..."
"What?" she asked softly, her heart racing. She needed to hear what he was trying to tell her, so badly. "I ought to what?"
"Maybe, just maybe, you ought to... wear your hair down a little bit? Hmm?"
"Wear it down?" It wasn't the sort of suggestion she had been expecting from him, but it was doable. Usually, she liked wearing her hair up at work. She felt it was more professional that way, as well as easier to keep her hair out of her face and out-of-the-way. "Like this? Is this what you want?"
Without thinking, Harleen lifted up, slipping two fingers underneath the elastic hairband that held up her hair, pulling, twisting, yanking. She shook the strands of her long hair loose, pushing it around with her fingers so it fell around her shoulders and the back of her neck.
The Joker dropped his chin, focusing on her. The way he looked at her then, it took her breath away. His eyes seemed brighter, fervent, as they inspected her face and the way she looked with her hair down; a noise tearing through his teeth that reminded Harleen oddly enough of a parched, dehydrated dying man in a desert.
"That better now?" Her voice sounded unrecognizable to her ears; Low. Breathless. Babyish. "Is this what you want?"
"Well, well, well. There she is." He sounded as if he was choking, as if he had a hand clenched tight around his throat, fingers wrapped around his windpipe. His eyes searched her face again as he leaned his chest against the table, something lascivious there in both his gaze and smile that made her feel like rejoicing. "Where ya been hiding all this time?"
"Hiding?" Harleen felt her face close in on itself in confusion as she blinked at him slowly. "What? I'm right here."
She felt hypnotized, captivated, by the change in him, all simply because she obeyed him and took her hair out of its ponytail. The heat in his stare...
"You ever wear... some lipstick, Doctor?"
"Lipstick?" A short, nervous laugh bubbled in her throat. "I don't like to wear makeup much at work, especially not lipstick. When I'm out for the night maybe, sure, I'll wear some lipstick and some eyeliner and all that stuff." Harleen couldn't help gaining the suspicion that he was trying to change her, mold her into something else. "Why you want to know that for?"
"Oh, I bet some lipstick might do ya some good," his voice dropped so low that Harleen had to lean closer in the chair, his voice a muted caress, "Bring out those pretty, pretty, pretty lips of yours." His eyes fell on her mouth as he breathed heavily with a rattling sound, as if saying it alone wasn't enough for him to make his point.
A flash of an idea came to her. Something mischievous, something way out of patient-staff conduct. Mr. J was always playing with her- the gift that was really an excuse for him to lay his lips on her, the footsie games beneath the table, pretending he had been inflicted with a bout of deafness when she had visited his cell that morning. Why couldn't Harleen play as well?
Resting both elbows on the table, she pushed off the chair until just the very edge of her backside was comfortably perched on it, her eyes flying to the guards outside the window cautiously. From what she could make of them, they appeared to be distracted, engaged in their own conversations. She swallowed against a dry, nervous lump in her throat as she turned her gaze on her patient again.
"Okay, Mr. J. Maybe I will have to try some lipstick after all? Huh?"
Her soulmark on her tummy burned, as if it knew her actions ahead of time. The apples of her cheeks straining to prevent the smile from spreading across her lips, she reached over with her left hand, pressing the pad of her thumb into his cool lower lip, swiping at the red lipstick staining it. She heard him hiss deeply through his gritted, silver-capped teeth, his eyes clenching closed in what appeared to be pure bliss at her touch. Once she felt enough greasy residual on her thumb, she pulled her hand away, waiting until he reopened his eyes slowly again. Harleen felt as if his gaze was devouring her, eating her whole.
"Is this better now, Mr. J?" Another giggle caught in her throat as she slathered her thumb around the lining of her lips, very slowly and deliberately. "Was that sort of what you meant?"
Moving her hand away, she rubbed her lips together, feeling the slick remains of his lipstick coating around them.
"Ooh, after that, you better come here." His feet hooked and pulled at her stilettos beneath the table restlessly with a hoarse grunt. "Come here, come here."
"Why?"
"Because I got something."
"Again?" It was a ploy she had since learned he tended to do during their previous sessions together. Admittedly, it sent a delicious thrill up her spine every time. "What do you have for me this time?"
"Come closer and see." The strength in his lower legs were strong, pulling, straining at her feet. "Come on, Harley Quinn. After that, you got to."
"Fine."
She indulged him, lifting up off the chair, leaning over the table on the balls of her feet, supporting herself on her elbows. The nearer her face got to his, the more she felt it growing. The not-too-pleasant heat around the cursive lines of her mark, the glowing. The atmosphere seemed to change in the session room; the light bulb above them blinking and flickering.
Harleen felt her breathing alter and change the closer their faces became, her eyes on his mouth and the little J on his cheekbone. He was leaning closer, matching her posture, his green hair brushing up against her forehead. The anticipation, the sheer need to kiss her soulmate, to feel his lips on hers at last properly...
The buzzing of the doors opening made Harleen reel back, her backside falling back into her chair. The guards entered the room, and she hadn't even realized that their forty-minutes were up for the morning's session. Heart hammering in her chest, she kept her eyes lowered to her lap while she intertwined her fingers, her patient being directed to stand up so they could escort him back to his cell. That had been close. Too close. What was she doing?
She only found it safe to glance up once she knew for certain her patient was gone. When she finally mustered the courage to, she felt her heart sink dejectedly in her chest, a painful, remorseful ache forming there as her eyes met his now vacant chair.
Breathing deeply through her lips and dropping her eyes to her hands again, she uncurled her hands, then dragged the tips of her sharp fingernails along the inner wrist of her other arm, scratching, stinging, a low hiss escaping her gritted teeth in relief at the punishment it presented her. Then she yanked the long sleeve of her blouse back down over it, covering the red lined mark. Bad, bad, bad. Patient. Soulmate. Patient. Soulmate. Patient.
They were really going to have to do something about their situation.
I'm really worried about this chapter, I was struggling to do assignments and this at the same time. I'm sorry if its a disappointment or really bad! This was meant to be a bit of a time jump, but I've probably failed and made it too sudden? Sorry! Please go easy on me. Thank you so much for reading, it really does mean the world to me! Hope I'm doing Harleen's character justice. The way I see it is that she always had a natural inclination towards sadomasochism and violence, and a deep yearning for acceptance and love that was absent from her childhood. J was just the one person that acknowledged the "Harley Quinn" within her and tried to bring it out, if that makes any sense? Well, that's how I'm trying to write it anyway. It had to be something more, something biological and already there that caused her to change the way she did, not just J's torture.