AMOUR FOU - XIV
Therapy n°10
"Thunderstorm"
Never thought you'd make me perspire
Never thought I'd do you the same
Never thought I'd fill with desire
Never thought I'd feel so ashamed
Me and the dragon can chase all the pain away
So before I end my day, remember
My sweet prince, you are the one
My sweet prince
you are the one
(Placebo, My Sweet Prince)
In the coming days Harleen Quinzel shall curse herself for not gleaning a sufficient number of details from such an experience.
He's strong. It was the first thing she noticed. He picked her up from the ground with a single arm.
"Hold tightly" he told her with his deep, throaty strange voice.
She had wondered whether he was straining his vocal cords or he had some strange gizmo deforming the sounds attached to his throat. Then she closed her eyes and clung to his neck.
She used to envision his costume as having the texture of tire rubber, instead the dark fabric is viscid and vitreous. His cape produces a deafening noise when he unfolds it to gain height with. He's probably using a rope. She wonders why he hasn't simply taken her in his arms and carried her up the stairs, if he really did not feel like using the elevator. Then she asks herself what happened to her aggressors. Finally she reflects that Pamela will never believe her, but remembers that Pamela is gone.
When all is said and done she's thinking of nothing when he gently lays her down on the sofa in her living room. Rick Thomas assaulted me… and I've been a member of his gym for four years…
No part of her body isn't in pain. They thrashed her badly, but it could have been worse. She doesn't wish to linger on the idea. She starts to shake, but knows it's merely the shock. If he hadn't shown up…
Batman. How many can claim to have seen him up close? Some even question his existence. But he's there, a dark silhouette against her open window.
"You must go to a hospital. Then to the police. You must report this aggression".
The hospital…
Bruised. Grazed. Maybe a cracked rib. Thankfully her head is unscathed.
My shoulder… I can't move it… it's probably sprained…
"I was saved by the Batman…" she whispers. "What are you doing here? Don't you have some big heist to prevent? Some big shot hostage to set free? Some mobster to throw into jail? A police car to run from?"
Ingrate. I'm an ingrate. I should thank him, nothing but thank him.
She talks to much, even Mr. J told her as much. She should learn to appreciate silence, especially her own.
"I'm watching you" the shadowy figure replies. "I've been watching you for two nights. What you're doing is wrong".
Two nights? At night she sleeps. And the thought that a giant bat is watching her does not sit well at all with her.
"What I'm doing….?"
Fine, he saved her. But now she would really like to be left alone. She has to tend to her wounds and… Call the police? She doesn't feel like it. They'll probably think she was asking for trouble.
"The Joker is a murderous maniac" the dark vigilante states.
No, really?...
Harleen clenches her teeth. Even the smallest movement causes her atrocious pain. She must take a painkiller as soon as possible.
"He's using you, and you fell into his trap. You're caught inside a delirium, Harleen. What do you think is happening to you? The Joker doesn't love you. The Joker cannot love. The Joker is interested in only one person: himself".
Being lectured by a vigilante in a chiropteran costume is the last thing she needs. Why would this guy hold the absurd idea that he's the only person who really knows Mr. J? The only one Mr. J is interested in? True, her darling can't stop talking about him. A bit too much, in fact. He considers him to be his perfect countercheck. She, instead, is his half, no matter what Batman thinks about it. No one is planning to take his place as nemesis, but he must not try to take the role of companion away from her.
She finds herself laughing, terrible flashes of pain notwithstanding.
"Clichés" she explains while studying his inexpressive mask. "Rhetoric. Call words. This is my field, B-man. What do you think love is? It's a natural chemical process. Glandular secretions. Visual and olfactory stimuli. Even the worst sadist in the world can fall in love. Even the most deranged mind. What changes is the result. Chocolate, bouquets, diamond rings… is this how you envision it? To sacrifice yourself for the other. Tears, tenderness aren't the rule, man in black. Get off your high horse and you'll realize that love is not a prerogative of the 'good guys'. Deal with it".
She can't stand him. The hero, the martyr. Who gave him the right to be what he is? Why did his illness, his psychosis, his cheap Ubermensch complex turned him into a legend while Mr. J has to be locked up? Positive madness. Negative madness. Good. Evil. Who decided?
"Rachel Dawes" the Dark Knight says clearly. "She was your age. Had a whole life to live. She too was in love, Harleen. She too wanted to be happy. Your protégé blew her up. They couldn't even find all the pieces. Why shouldn't he have the same fate in store for you? Think about it".
Why should she think about it? Yes, she remembers her and her guinea pig face. Harvey Dent's assistant. Harvey Dent's woman, the driving force behind her fast, extraordinary career. If Mr. J, who can be a real gossip whenever he feels like that, is to be believed, she had a story with the Batman behind her heroic betrothed's back. Apparently he was right.
Because, and it's self-evident, he prefers blondes, she almost says, but would rather he doesn't go on with his sermon.
"We'll keep him in Arkham" she says. She really needs to swallow a couple of pills. If that guy was half as clever as he thinks he'd realize this is not the time to chat. "So you and your charges can go on calling me 'the Joker's bitch' and feel morally superior for this. So the matter is not your business anymore. Don't worry, I'll keep him close to my bosom. He won't bother you again".
Harleen doesn't immediately realize that she's been speaking to no one. Gotham's own legend left, leaving the window open. How rude of him. Disappearing like that while a lady is speaking, without so much as saying goodbye…
Ok, what now?
She levers on her elbows, trying to get up. She has to reach the medicine cabinet. And close that window. And…
She clenches her teeth, then gives up and falls back. The phone is on the table right by her side. She reaches out with an arm and manages to get hold of it. The pain makes her hands shake. She breathes deeply until she regains her composure, then finds the number in the memory. Joan does not answer, and even her cell phone is switched off. After all it's Saturday night. A good doctor should always be available, but a head doctor can afford not to. Doctor Arkham? Yes, maybe she should call him, or…
Where are you, Pam?
Only two positions above Joan's numbers. All considered he's the only one she feels she can trust right now. And he answers after only one ring.
Jonathan Crane is by her side in less than a hour. He must have skipped every traffic light in Gotham.
Meanwhile Harleen was able to drag herself to the door, but when she lets him in she's on her knees and has to ask for his help to stand.
"It's nothing, nothing" she tells him before he has the time to speak.
She must have briefly lost her senses because she can't remember how she came to be in the bedroom. But she realizes that the simple fact that Jonathan is holding her hand makes her feel better.
"What's up, doc…" she says, but his expression is devoid of any trace of fun.
"What happened? Who did that? A patient?"
She sakes her head weakly. "Three boneheads in the parking lot down here. It could have gone worse had it not been for Batman".
Jonathan looks skeptic. He has some nerve. As if he didn't have more than one run-in with the Bat…
"Will you help me?" she asks. Right now it doesn't matter if he believes her or not.
"Harley, you know I'm not registered anymore. I don't…"
"Damn it, Crane!" even getting angry is painful.
Relax relax relax…
"I just need to get back up. I don't care for what they decided, you are and remain a doctor. An outstanding doctor. So spare me. And check me out and see if I have some kind of internal damage".
He stops protesting. "You keep everything in your bathroom, right?" he asks, then leaves the room without waiting for an answer.
In the following twenty minutes Harleen Quinzel is suddenly reminded of why Jonathan Crane used to be seen as the best by far.
"I'm sitting on your bed, and am taking your clothes off. I knew it would happen sooner or later" he says, getting a smile from her. But in the meanwhile his hands are becoming capable and professional. "Superficial wounds. Welts. A plate would be ideal. You took quite a lot of kicks to your stomach, I see".
"I'm not spitting blood, Jonny".
He throws her a ferocious glance, the one he reserves for unruly patients. "I have to put your shoulder back into place. Clench your teeth, because it will…"
A sudden shock. She can't even scream. She just sits up, mouth open, praying that the excruciating pain will go away quickly.
"… hurt. Okay, well done. What, are you crying? Be strong. There's a lollipop for you if you behave yourself".
Fuck you.
It's getting better. Knowing that she's not going to require stitches consoles her. She wants to avoid going to the hospital at any cost. She doesn't wish to be questioned.
"I want to bathe, Jonathan. I fell on the asphalt. I must be teeming with germs".
She knows herself. Soon, once her worry for her wounds will fade, she'll start to itch all over. But her medic for one night seems to have a good time torturing her. Gotham city's new favorite pastime.
She's starting to feel dizzy. The pills she swallowed are on the way to clouding her mind. She finally stops resisting. She accepts his help for a sponge bath, like a cripple, and realizes that she's being handled by a man who has a crush on her only in flashes.
What a sweet person. My dear Jonathan. So kind. So proper. You even avert your eyes as you help me get dressed again. And you blush like a little kid. You're just like him: the others can't see you for what you really are.
"Why did you call me, Harley?" he asks while looking inside her drawers to fill a purse. "Just in case they decide to keep you for the night" he explained. It really looks like there's no way to avoid going to the hospital. But she doesn't dare telling him that they'll have to tie her down to keep her there.
"Because you're a friend" she replies. She doesn't have many left.
"No, what I mean is…" Jonathan briefly abandons his quest for the right towel. How absurd: they'll be back before he can think. "Harley, where's your boyfriend? Why isn't he here?"
Jonathan Crane's eyes are limpid, innocent. And still, behind that kindly face lies a world of madness and terror.
Tell me, what it's like to be one of Arkham's inmates? To change your perspective completely?
"He can't move. Literally. They don't let him out. He scares this city's good citizens. Good citizens like the trio down in the parking lot".
She should not dwell on it. She should forget it as quickly as possible. Or perhaps not? She has a name already. What would Mr. J do with that name? He's use it to obtain the remaining two. Then he'd go medieval on those creeps.
"For the love of God, Harley…" Jonathan's voice takes a pleading tone. She knows what he's thinking very well: that the buzz he's been hearing is true. So what? Why doesn't he call Ricky Thomas so that he can finish his work?
"Please. I can't accept such a lecture from you, Mr. Scarecrow. You know, after all we're more alike than I could think when I took you as a patient".
He closes his lips together and remains silent. They're two loonies, and they're alone. They might as well stop pretending to be part of the social fabric. Perhaps someday they'll set a wonderful poker table up, she, Jonathan and Mr. J. And Batman.
At the Memorial they earnestly tried to force her to stay for the night. She offered her best resistance. Her being a doctor helped avoiding an argument. They asked her who offered her first help.
"I did it myself" she lied, sparing Jonathan to be dragged into the mess. Not a very credible story. She could never have reached some of the wounds on her back.
The stop at the police station was even more frustrating. They all, dear Montoya more than most, had that face. The "poor dear, here's what comes from associating with the Joker". Because he's always guilty, one way or another. Guilty of unleashing deviant behavior, instilling fear into the minds and deeds of uncensored people. They probably think it's a very sound reasoning; she finds it laughable and generic.
Your favorite scapegoat.
Why did it have to be Montoya? Why did she come running when she heard of her instead of leaving her to the care of some faceless cop she never saw before? At least she didn't get Gordon. Don't they have anything serious to do at Criminal police?
She answered every question they asked. Let them take a picture of the welts and bruises on her body. She even resisted the temptation to send them all to Hell when someone tried to suggest that she shouldn't have gotten medical help, thus muddling the proofs, and tolerated the looks of disdain for her companion. But when Renee Montoya asked her if she recognized her aggressors, she lied. His voice. The scent of the sporting male perennially hunting for game. She knows enough to realize that they're pretty poor evidence and that Ricky Thomas would not need any help from the Hyden, Jones, Thompson & Wayland law firm to be released and even demand damage payment from GCPD. And all those TV scenes with zealous forensic agents prowling for DNA fragments border science-fiction and are not so much as mentioned regarding assault and battery. And after all there's only one thing that interests the cops tonight: the Batman. And discussing him with those people put her in an incredibly melancholy mood.
I'm coming for you, Ricky… You simply don't know what a huge mistake you made tonight.
"Do you want me to stay?" Jonathan asks her as the car moves sluggishly under the pouring rain. A veritable storm, unexpected and fierce, is gathering. So in tune with the setting and her mood. "I don't feel like leaving you alone".
He's truly sweet.
Give me a bit of your toxin, Jonathan. There's someone I want to scare.
She likes thunders. Always did. They're powerful and beautiful. There's something magical and uncontrollable whenever electricity unleashes all its violence.
"No. Take me to Arkham. I think I want to sleep there tonight" she replies.
A storm and a gloomy castle filled with madmen. When did she start feeling at home at Arkham, considering it her own nest, unhealthy yet indispensible?
He says nothing. He just throws her a glance, then returns his attention to the road, almost indiscernible under the torrent of water and the yellow blades of the car lights.
"The weather is going mad" he comments, purposefully changing topic. "We had a spring-like winter. Wouldn't want the cold to come right now".
True. Very true. And she appreciates his switching topic.
Jonathan Crane. Is that really him, or is it just an empty husk? That man came close to destroying Gotham. Now he sells books, and seems to have no regrets. Or perspectives.
"I'm sorry, Jonathan".
"Don't mind". He studies her out of the corner of his eye. "If we don't help out our friends… Would you like me to come drive you home tomorrow, Harley? You have no car…"
"I'm sorry for what I did to you" she interrupts him. Everything is far too clear in its extreme horror. "I took everything that made you unique from you. To give you what? Your research is gone. Even your decision to try and attempt to set everything in order. That too did not go down well. And now? Do you ever find yourself thinking about it, Jonathan? About what you were, and what you're now?"
His eyes are locked to the road. He's tense now, she can't miss it. It takes him a while to reply, and ultimately it sounds as if he's mostly trying to persuade himself.
"You cured me, Harley. Gave me back a life worth living".
Sure.
"It's not true". She's almost despairing. Everything she did until this day seems to weigh so much now. And she believed in it until recently. She pretended to believe in it, even when the truth became obvious. But now she can't hide any longer. "I just destroyed the perturbing element. Without caring for you, for anyone I sent back into the streets, perfectly sane and reintegrated, wandering around asking themselves why all of a sudden the world has become grey. You should hate me. I expect you to. It's what I deserve".
Jonathan suddenly stops on the side of the road. She has no clue of where they are.
"Don't say anything further, Harley. It happens to us all, at least once. It's one of the bumps in our line of work, only it's gotten you real bad. It's a profession that engenders remarkable stress levels. And tonight you're shaken by what happened to you. If you want to quit, find another job, well, do. But only after a relaxing vacation and a lot of consideration. It's what you need now".
Gotcha, doc.
Did he notice that he talked about "our line of work"? Jonathan is wrong, stress is just one of the factors. In truth it's as if someone lit a bulb inside her head. She always did her best to understand what her patients were about. Maniacs, murderers, nutters. Now that she knows the only way to do that, it's as if her whole life was based on a single massive misunderstanding.
Madness?
"Do they need another clerk at the bookstore where you work?" she asks.
She should stop torturing, hurting Jonathan.
"You could fly to Hawaii and burn out the little treasure you put together with your self-pseudo-help books" he invites her, restarting the engine. "You're quivering. Close your eyes and relax, Harley".
She unconsciously obeys. Self-pseudo-help books. Once Jonathan Crane used to say it far more spitefully. That was before falling victim of that eccentric crush on her.
And I refused to go for it because I thought it was not ethical. How do things change.
"I have to stop here" Jonathan says, stopping the car by the fence. "I'm not authorized personnel anymore. How are you going to do with the purse and the umbrella? Harley… I don't think it's a good idea to spend your night here".
Afraid of ghosts? 'I am Martin Hawkins' specter… Behold my smoking skull…'
"I'll be fine. Thank you, Jonathan". She leans towards him and stamps a kiss onto his lips, swearing to herself that she'll never let them do to Mr. J what they did on the genius that Jonathan Crane was.
Arkham, the hell. Arkham, infamy and folly. How beautiful under the storm, so dark and threatening. But it's beautiful only from outside. Its stomach assimilates those who stay inside it too long. Arkham is an addiction. Time for cold turkey.
Marla Smyth opens her eyes and mouth wide as Harley walks into the infirmary, then offers her a cup of hot tea from her thermos. She's been in Arkham for twenty years and never has been in an incident with a patient, unlike her male coworkers, all younger and stronger. The day Mr. J was shot she wasn't on call. This is why her Puddin's shoulder now resembles a road map. Harleen is sure that Marla would have patched him up conscientiously. She's the only one to call the inmates "those unfortunate fellows".
"What a shameful thing" she then says, letting deep indignation filter in her voice. "A girl can't go around safely anymore. No way to live quietly, in this city. Are you well doctor? Have you seen the police?"
Everyone's obsessed with the police apparently. But Marla means only well: she really believes that there's a way to turn everything that's wrong in this world right.
Harleen asks her a bed. She could sleep in her office, of course. She could. But she keeps repeating herself that those cots are more comfortable than her couch. That there's no other reason. And sure, Marla does not object but offers to give her a supplementary blanket.
"There's only Sally Blaise tonight, but she's not a problem. She's sedated. After dinner she tried to tear her own eyes off".
Harleen replies that she's fine with it. Sally is just an unmoving form, that gives her her back. She'll never leave Arkham. She makes no progress. Doesn't even attempt to. She's been here for seven years, ever since she drowned her ninety days baby. A typical patient. One of the few women. There's something comforting in the notion that the women's ward is almost empty. We're constitutionally less animalistic than them… thinks Harleen, sliding into her bed and bidding Marla good night.
I had yet another proof of that tonight.
Harley Quinn, captured and locked inside Arkham. Harley Quinn, declared insane. And she will see the world from that perspective. Coarse bed sheets. Hard mattresses. She only lacks an uniform. Who knows how it's like to wear one. She'll have an identification number. Will her grant her access to the yard? And the recreation room? Harley Quinn is dangerous, Harley Quinn must be kept in isolation. No, poor Harley Quinn, she's a victim. It was the Joker who drove her insane. Maybe she can be saved. The primary problem of Harley Quinn is that she can't leave her obsession behind. Just let her man enter her view and she's lost again, and you have to start from scratch. Doctor Leland, will you accept the case? If I'm not mistaken you were friends before she lost her mind. She's in the infirmary now. There's just her and Sally Blaise in right now. Yes, she tried to take her own eyes off, again. Instead, Harley Quinn headbutted the wall many times. Said to the nurses that perhaps that would have gotten the Joker out of her mind…
Harleen grins in the darkness. Thunder, lightning, thunder crack. Barred windows. The picture is realistic. The perspective on her future very realistic. So that's how it feels like: a scared animal, unable to explain his reasons to anyone.
She needs another pill. Her side aches. The faint light of her wristwatch tells her that it's half past five of a dark and stormy Sunday. Did she sleep? She's not sure, but surely she's been imagining a lot.
Mad Harley. No, that won't do. She needs something with more bite. Harley Quinn, Dame of Chaos. Cupid of Crime. Nice. She likes it. It sounds splendidly.
She slips out of her bed while Sally Blaise starts moaning in her sleep.
She greets Marla and announces that she's having a shower and then will go directly to her office to start working.
So much for Jonathan and his sponge bath.
"It's Sunday doctor, why don't you go home to rest?"
She thanks her, then responds that work moves her thoughts away from unpleasant topics. It's almost true: her job gives her only pleasant thoughts. Her job makes her think of him only. Her job is him.
The staff showers are vastly better than the junk patients must do with. When a schizophrenic decides it's time to cut half his own face off, splattering blood on the nearest doctor, at least said medic has the comfort of being able to wash himself immediately, without feeling like an inmate.
The hot water makes her dizzy, but she doesn't lower the temperature.
Disinfection. Erasure. Rebirth.
Good as new she thinks, drying her hair. She should renew her medications, but what would the use be? In a few hours she might be dead. Happy but dead.
She doesn't wear a scrub over her clean clothes. Black pants and red shirt. Coincidence?
Believe it, Harley.
Her wardrobe is filled with more and more red and black clothes.
So what?
The time to take the bag Jonathan filled into her office. The time to have coffee and a glazed donut. The time to think about what she's about to do. Pretty little time.
There's no one in sight in the cellar. The guard… Morales or the two Nazis?... he must be inside. Harleen rings to make them open for her and the unpleasant, loud noise gets to her nerves. Happily it's Morales, although he's looking at her as if she was an alien in a Spielberg film.
"Doctor. Why are you already here? Good God, your face… What happened?"
Bruises. And I don't like them. These ones at least.
"A nice little assault attempt, Paulo. Nothing bad. Is he awake? If he is not, wake him. Bring him to my office as soon as possible".
"Now? I just had him return from the showers and he's not in a good mood. I don't think it's a good idea…"
In a bad mood? If they wake him up always so early for his mandatory ablutions it's a wonder he didn't massacre them using soap bars only. But the necessity to keep him away from other patients causes some little discomforts.
How romantic. We showered almost at the same time. Pity we weren't together.
"Now, Paulo. If he complains hit him. Tie him if you must. But don't sedate him: I need him alert. And… please try not to hurt him too much".
The good thing about Morales is that he never asks questions. The bad one is that apparently he understood perfectly what's going on. Ah well, she's tired of keeping secrets anyway.
Give me a megaphone. I want to tell it everyone.
The asylum is marvelous at this hour. And this day. Barely anyone around. Crepuscular atmosphere. And the sound of thunders is starting to mingle with the cries of the awakening inmates.
This lark here is Carmine Falcone. In reply, the high note of Jerry 'One-Handed' Tristan.
Harleen does not take the elevator. The shady staircases are all hers.
Home, sweet home…
The truth is, there's no point denying it: they're one big family. With dirty secrets and all the rest and the unspeakable secrets and the clannish mentality uniting the group and its members… Yes, yes. Everything wonderful. What happens inside Arkham stays inside Arkham. Forgetting that was Jonathan's mistake. Now it's her turn: Arkham or the outside world. Arkham or Gotham. And the answer is clear.
Wherever he goes.
Just another mad day. Unlike any other. He knows. It's visible in his face. Morales was right, he's in a bad mood. Because it's only ten past six.
"Sadism, Harley. Gratuitous cruelty. Forcing me to suffer your prattle at dawn. When are they going to plant hot needles under my fingernails?"
It takes something extraordinary to halt his sense of humor, something she hasn't discovered yet. And now Harley is almost sure that he's not crazy at all. Because he's not laughing as she was expecting. All considered, this detail brings her relief. He's studying her. It looks like he does not understand what he's studying. He gets close to her and examines her face closely, in silence. Such terrifying silence. One never knows what might come next. Harleen lets him peek at will, using the time to free his wrists.
Beautiful, beautiful hands, so elegant…
She's becoming boring even to herself.
"What's this? What's this?" he asks, lifting her face and keeping his eyes on her. "A lame job. Brutal, quick, mostly unsatisfying. No, that won't do. That. Won't. Do. Isn't the message clear enough? Who did this? Who dared to come and throw garbage on my turf? To brand my cattle? To… to…"
Come on, say it. Grow really furious.
"…to leave bruises on my baby's face?"
That's the way it should be. He knows it very well. The answer is "anyone". Everybody's repeating it in Gotham. "The Joker's whore". But this doesn't stop them. They lash at her because they can't reach him. And because, truthfully, they're getting over being scared of him.
"Your hair is wet. You'll catch a bronchitis".
As soon as she'll be able to take care of him full time, she'll force him to take more care of his own health.
"Bruises on my baby's face…"
"Not just the face".
Alea iacta est.
Seraphic, he opens the buttons on her shirt, one after the other.
She presents to his sight the marks the last horrible night left on her. She knows that his gaze will be purely clinic. His eyes don't give a damn about her half-naked body. His eyes only see the job that's been done on her.
And this hurts more than anything else.
"The only wounds I want are those you cause me. And don't you tell me once again that I'm crazy. I already know that".
If he's listening, he doesn't show it. Dissection without scalpel. A corpse on an autopsy table. This is how she feels. Soon she'll be a cold, dead body, unable to make him laugh anymore.
Mission failed, Harlequin, she thinks, as he rips the layers of gauze Jonathan placed around her body with exquisite care off.
It doesn't matter. It's even good: better to erase any trace of other men. Any kind of trace.
Beautiful, beautiful hands, so elegant…
She feels them on her waist, burning.
"You are right, hurting you is my privilege. We should beat it into their heads". It's a whisper, but so venomous.
Yes, exactly, but what am I supposed to do in your opinion? Get into the street dressed like a juggler and blow a few bombs off in your honor?
The question, and a few others jump out when she takes his red shirt off. Too much red this morning. To madmen like them it's a good excuse to lose their heads. No fighting or begging. He seconds her. He collaborates. Had she known it would be so easy she'd have made her mind much earlier.
"We have to… reinforce the notion, Harley Quinn".
Reinforce the notion. Mr. J knows that there's only one way: to give the mob outside what they want.
First question. To ask as long as she still has a sparkle of reason. No, she can't really ask it.
Are you married? My mother used to say 'anything, but never with a married man'. I don't want a wife to suddenly appear…
It's not as if he'd answer. And wives can die a violent death.
It took a lifetime to get her undressed, although she didn't wear much. Surely, she thinks, he did it on purpose.
Have we closed the door?
She has no time to make sure. Being literally slammed on the couch is an unpleasant experience for her battered back, but it's better than the floor anyway. All in all he's been kind. Well, more than usual, at least.
Fear. She's really feeling it now. Ad at the same time she's never been as euphoric. He's real. Palpable. She's done daydreaming about him. She's putty in his hands. Perhaps her bones will shatter. His are no tender caresses, it's a taking of possession. She bites her lower lip as she understand what path his fingers are taking. He's following her wounds, adding to them so that they may become deeper, so that they may become his. She does not ask him to stop, or to be gentler, not even when he plants claw-like fingers in her swollen cheek. It's all well, it's the way it was intended to be. That's the pain that sparkles inside her and makes her lose her head. His pain. He draws him close, searching his lips. Maybe he'll kill her once it will be over, and it doesn't matter in the least. The last months contract into a single instant, passing before her eyes. That first day her Joker was grinning.
"You flirting with me, lady?"
An eternity has gone in the meanwhile. Yet she knew even then how it would work out.
It looks such a stupid thing, true, but perhaps I've been loving you since that first moment, when I saw you and wanted to have you for me.
Her place in the world is at his side, his weight on her, her legs around his waist and the extenuating wait. She would like to urge him to be quick, but instead what leaves her lips is a question.
"Has any woman ever survived such an experience?"
She doesn't want to know. Not really. She doesn't even want to think about what could have been before in his life. He's hers now.
"Dunno. I've never stuck around long enough to check".
Yet another of his jokes. Or maybe not. Who cares? She holds her breath when she feels him slide inside her. Novels are always in such a devilish hurry. Novels heap words over words to reach the exalted 'ecstasy', the 'summit', the 'unheard of peaks of pleasure' or similar trashy paraphrases. They never linger on the suspended moment dividing definitively what was first and what came then.
The moment I become you and you become me. The moment that starts everything that comes next.
The beginning and the end. She is surprised to discover how possessive he is, yet at the same time lacking the brutality she had been expecting. Seems like he's determined to take every moment in to the fullest, as if discovering something unlikely and unexpected. And she becomes completely docile, to make him understand that he owns her, that she'll dance him to his tune, whatever that might be.
You are my drug. Can you feel it? Make it last forever.
Adagio. Andante. Allegro con brio. Has she ever hears entire orchestras in her brain before? No, she doesn't think so. What's so different?
It's different because I was made for you. I only exist since you chose me. You chose me because I always were yours, even when you weren't here.
Everything else is utter nihility, an emptiness to fill with life. Everything else has been sex and delusion. Everything else has been self-hypnosis and a pale shadow she dumbly called love. Instead, this is totalizing. Seconding you, guiding you, letting myself be guided. It's perfect. Perfect. You're my love, you are my life, you are me..
How does he feels? What's he thinking about? What is he feeling? The absolute evil, the murderer, the pervert jester… Gone in those eyes that burn feverishly as they look at her.
His rage comes sudden, and were her perceptions not limited to the boundaries of her body she could experience a new form of fear. But it's not like that. She likes his rage. It doesn't give her quarter, making him almost cruel. She knows that he hates her right now, for what he's feeling, that loss of control, for his desire for her. He holds her as if he wanted to snap her in two. She wants to cry his name, but he doesn't have one. He's just her lover, her Joker, her master. Her breath halts in her throat as every fragment of thought dissolves into electricity, flashes dancing before her eyes, fretting pulsations and a torpor that breaks her for good, leaving her without strength.
She wants to tell him something, anything, but apparently her mouth lost any ability to articulate finite words. And if he's silent, lying on top of her, with a heartbeat that seems unable to regain any regularity, why should she spoil that moment made of breathing and awareness?
She grins to herself, stroking his hair. Now she knows how to keep him tied to her. As long as he does not realize it. As long as he doesn't realize how much he wants her, how much he loves her, how much he needs her. Because then he'd consider her a weakness to get rid of. Yes, better to let him think that everything's under control. Let him think her just a pastime, his collared pet. It's fine. It's going to work out wonderfully between them.
The blade of the paper cutter on her neck barely stings. He pushes himself up, to look into her eyes.
When did he take it from my desk? He always outmaneuvers me. He's quicker than a magician. It must have been when he was struggling with the clasp, or immediately later. Who cares?
She's completely relaxed. He can do what he has to do.
Make me bleed, Mr. J.
"What are you expecting now, little thing?" The tip of the blade slides to her left breast. She closes her eyes a little and waits. "I know what you're expecting. Don't you agree that it would be very romantic if I carved our initials here, right upon your heart?"
Yes, it would.
But she doesn't reply. She waits some time, allowing him room to play. Let him do as he pleases. Let him do what makes him happy.
"Or…" The blade contours her neck, brushes her lips and rests at the corner of her mouth. Now she can say she's a bit scared. Just a bit. Disfiguring her face. It's almost a given.
"You seem to be in love with my scars. Do you think I should give you a similar set? You think I should make you like me? Then we would be a perfect pair. I could patch you up with a bit of needlework. And you would be gorgeous. It would hurt a lot, you know? For more than a month you could drink nothing but liquids. And you couldn't talk. And at times the pain would be so excruciating you'd wish yourself dead. And can you imagine what it would be like to look at yourself in the mirror?"
It's hypnotic. He listens, getting stoned with every word. The most open confession he ever conceded her. Fragments of pure, simple truth. Now she knows it really was worth it.
Would I really be your mirror image if I disfigured myself?
"No." He's so beautiful when he smiles. So beautiful when he discover some new little thing that puts him in a good mood. "Your pea brain expects it. Anyone would expect it in your place, and I hate being predictable. Always, always amaze the audience. This is the secret for a successful show. And I want to amaze you by leaving your pretty face exactly as I found it".
A sigh of relief escapes her lips. Will it be like this every time? Cat and mouse. Until the day he'll decide that he's tired of playing and the last reprise can go on stage.
"Do you know who did this to you?" he asks, lightly touching her swollen cheek.
She nods. Of course she does. And she's going to make them pay. She only has to figure out how.
"I'll go get him. Nobody can break my toys".
All in all is a nicer definition than 'turf' or 'cattle'. But she would like to take care of it herself. Channel the fury coursing through her. But it's so nice that you thought about it…
"Don't you want to leave some fun for me?" she asks, and this simple question drives him to laugh and repeat her name delightedly.
"Harley, Harley, Harley…"
Yes, I'm Harley Quinn again. Your very Harley Quinn, forever…
"They're really blue".
Mr. J seems to have made some extraordinary discovery while resting his shoulders against the metal grid of the open window, cig on his lips… a cigarette he took from my purse without asking… while glaring at her.
"They usually try to sell as blue eyes that really are grey or paltry bluish. But yours instead are really blue".
She smiles at him. It's probably an attempt to obtain her forgiveness for slipping out of her arms as soon as she mentioned Batman. A surprising reaction. He put his clothes back on quickly and started to mumble nonsensical phrases. She only understood half of them. The thought that the Bat had saved her sends him into orbit.
"He controls Harley, because he still has his idée fixe. Sure. Has he been looking for a new one? No way. He knows that he needs me to keep on existing. So he looks for me. Looks for what's left. An external contact. At times the rat is truly moving".
Batman. She's not happy when he talks about Batman. The topic enthuses him, and she doesn't wish to see him enthuse over anyone else but her.
You're a strange one, Mr. J. You should loathe him, instead he's your never-ending pastime.
Harleen sighs. Better not to think about that unlikely homewrecker. And after all Mr. J is talking about her eyes now. He's truly sweet.
He should get away from the window. Buckets of rain are falling on his back, not to mention the floor.
"Curious" she replies. "Usually when it rains they turn greenish. Are they really still blue?"
He draws in some smoke, then offers her a grin that might be caustic, but maybe is just tired. "It has to be the power of love".
Is he making fun of her? She must not fall prey to pointless paranoia. She only wishes that he'd come closer to her again. No way she's joining him: she can't move. Trying to get up feels like being pierced by scores of hot needles. Still she has to muster the strength to get clothed again. She can't just curl on the sofa waiting for Morales to break the door down to see what's happening.
That's assuming I locked it.
It really happened. Her skin is ice cold. She's already missing his warmth. She repeats to herself that it's been great but then realizes she's understating it. It was the strangest, most disconcerting experience in her entire life. She felt as if balancing on the edge of a razor. And her body and spirit are already looking forward to another try.
Now I can say it truthfully, no one knows you as well as I do.
"You're not circumcised…" she whispers.
She must cover herself somehow. She's trembling visibly.
He bursts into laughter. And his laughter means everything is fine.
"Sure, and assuredly this will the first objection we'll hear from mom and pops Quinzel once they hear about our… relationship".
How nice. It's not the right time to explain to him that in her life the spiritual element is practically nonexistent and he should not delude himself that wishing her happy Hanukkah will be all that is required of him. She likes Christmas, colored lights and presents. Expensive presents.
We'll discuss it around December, when I'll ask for a diamond necklace.
Relationship. He really said relationship. It's true. They have reached that stage.
She likes feeling his eyes on herself. He really seems unable to take his gaze off her. If she didn't feel so cold, if she weren't that hurting, she'd offer him a plastic, sensuous pose. One that would make him consider starting again.
I'll feel better tomorrow. Then I'll give you a couple of specials…
"You've got more meat on your bones than I thought looking at you when you had your clothes".
His typical way to offer compliments. She's beginning to get used to such a practice, and isn't sure it's a good thing. It's not his place. He's working with limited means. He's in a cage. He could never really show her who the Joker is. Still, it must be a rush to see him in action, and to be on his side.
She gingerly manages to get up. She puts her clothes back on, and it takes a lifetime. She should stay in bed for a couple of days at least, but does not feel like it. Better to suffer silently than staying away from him. Especially now.
Her hair are all tied in knots. She must make herself presentable, erase all traces of what went on before letting him out of her office. Unless Morales put two and two together, courtesy of the outstanding sound effects the renowned "Mr. and Mrs. Joker" provided. How much could his silence cost?
Once the brush has done its job she collects the gauze from the floor and throws it in the dustbin. This time she's really forced to cure her wounds herself. The couch… It was spared irreparable damage by sheer luck. Next time she'll have to cover it before they start spilling bodily fluids everywhere.
Next time…
There's something so wrong with the whole situation that she can't help but having a bad feeling. Keep hidden, make no noises, stay in the shadows, speak of it with no one, feign indifference.
Dammit why, why, why?
It's not right. It shouldn't be like this. He hasn't said a word since they finished. He's just stayed by the window, although he isn't smoking anymore.
To see him in action… just once…
There's only one thing she sees as proper and in context. She walks to him and puts her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.
Harley Quinn. What Harley Quinn wants. What Harley Quinn feels. Harley Quinn's nonexistent fears. The scruples Harley Quinn does not feel.
"I'll let you out of here".
She feels lighter now that she said it. After all she's been ruminating over if for a long time. His arms moving to hold her are his answer.
It feels so good… Is there a tiny chance that you might take me along?
"You fail to see the implications, Harleen".
Harleen?
Why so serious? It's not like him. He doesn't sound like himself.
Don't you call me Harleen.
"You'd become my accomplice. Think about it. You would lose everything you've built. You would lose the life you have now. You'd be bound to me forever, with no way back at all. You would have no choice except being mine for the rest of your life".
Gosh, this is too weird. Is Mr. J worrying about her? Can't he see that the idea of entrusting herself to him completely is so magnificent, she can't even think about it without feeling like fainting? His words only provide further incentive.
Was this an effect you were aiming for? And that silly Humphrey Bogart voice, is it made on purpose? Did you study everything in detail, Captain Anarchy? I'm so stupid.
And she can't stand him calling her Harleen, and won't gloss over it. And the way he's caressing her hair makes her feel bad.
He loves me. I know.
"I'll let you out of here" she repeats. "I will, like it or not. It's just that, if you don't help me I could make a mess and land the both of us into trouble. Then they would really lock you up and throw away the key and I could not be with you ever again. I will not allow it. You will one day be the father of my children. So tell me what to do so that everything goes fine. And don't even try to make me change my mind. It's a waste of time".
"Now listen, and listen well".
Easier said than done if he keeps on kissing her neck like that. He should give her a break, enough to concentrate on his words and not on his physical presence.
"Listen well".
Sure. It will be easy now that his true voice, the wrong one, the disharmonic and alien one, is back.
"It's about tearing a picture painted within schematics that do not concern us into pieces".
Schematics. She can feel his smell on her, a perfect chemistry. She needs some sugar now, or she could pass out.
"The question I have to ask you is very simple but fundamental. How far are you ready to go?"
It's really simple. She looks up into his eyes. Is the thunder storm outside giving that glint to his eyes? She'll always be off guard, never knowing what to expect the next moment. She'll put her life at risk, offering it to him without looking back. She will only ask his approval in return, and will do everything in her power to attain it. Everything.
"Far as it will take, and then some to make it fun as well".
It's a delightful sight, that makes her shiver, seeing him grin like that, discovering anew the sparkle of enthusiasm in his burning pupils. He really is a child. It takes so little to make him happy. One only has to become his perfect playing pal.
"Harley, you are… you are…"
I'm what, Mr. J?
"You're the greatest, baby".
He kisses her again and it's another moment when he seems perfectly sincere, another one of those moments that make it worth living, those moments when he manages to make her feel necessary.
I'm the happiest, luckiest woman in the world. And I'll be even more like that as soon as we'll be free.
Her lips are still wet and half open when he regains control of the situation and reminds her with a glare that he's firmly in control of their new-fangled, tiny partnership in crime.
"Now, Harley, listen to me well."
Never thought I'd get any higher
Never thought you'd fuck with my brain
Never thought all this could expire
Never thought you'd go break the chain
Me and you baby,
still flush all the pain away
So before I end my day
remember
My sweet prince
you are the one
(Placebo, My Sweet Prince)