Jill Gabriel

Subject: N/A

I...can't even describe what's goddamn happened since I wrote last. It's just...fuck, what can I even say?

Harvey Dent chased me outta the building. I ran for the air ducts, thought I'd crawl away real sneaky-like. Well, the heat was on, and I couldn't fucking tell you how if I tried. It was just...on. And hot. So fucking hot. I burned the shit outta my hands. Jumped back, turned, tried to run past Dent (who'd fucking seen me by then, and was giving me this 'Are you retarded, mayhap?' look). Well, he shot me. I just realized this, right now, 'cos I'm sitting in an alleyway writing. And I'm bleeding. A lot. And fuck it hurts me.

I got away, though. 'I Believe in Harvey Dent'. I believe that Harvey Dent is fucking insane and would've shot me dead without a second goddamn thought.

God...

What did this city come to? Our heroes are fuckass crazy and scarred all to hell, our villains dress like clowns and routinely gun people down to cure boredom, and our resident saint/lunatic dresses like a goddamned flying rat and decided, one day, that he was going to put aside his personal life to dress up and go out to beat up the bad men that killed mommy and daddy. Hell, I don't even know if that crazy fuck ever had a reason to start. Did his mommy and daddy dump him in the gutter, and did he decide that the criminal element of this city was a perfect target to relieve frustrations? Was he some kid hiding in the closet of a foster home hoping to God or whatever the hell he thought could ever love him that daddy was too drunk to look for him there?

Or did that happen with the Joker, whoever he is...whoever he was? Was he just like me, at some point in time? Naive and looking for a good time, ending up in shit so deep that he was drowning in it? I wonder if he ever ended up shot, crouching in a dark Gotham alleyway in the middle of winter, bleeding all over himself? I wonder if he was ever a nice guy.

I just...I just don't know anymore. I wonder about things. I wonder about too many things. I'm kinda delirious right now...it's been hours since I got shot. In the gut, actually. And believe...believe me; it hurts. It's the most fucking painful place you can get shot, I think; it hurts so bad. The only reason I'm even outside is because Dent dragged me out, kicking and screaming and sobbing because it hurt so fucking bad. He left me at the mouth of this alley, which is right next to his building, and this is where I am. I can't get up, I can't move beyond kicking a little and rolling over, and rolling over takes so much effort. I can't do anything. I passed out awhile right here, from the pain. I just woke up just a few minutes ago, and it still hurts, but it's numbed by now, and that's bad, real fucking bad.

I think I'm gonna die here. I'm real sorry if I do, because this adorable little apocalyptic diary would end here, but I might. Even if somebody does save me, then what? Then I get to run back to Arkham and sit there and stare at my hands and drool, like every other prisoner. Like everybody else does in Gotham.

This city eats souls, I think. Turns people, living people, human people, into things. Not people, but things. All of us into Bartleby, that sick scrivener that had no soul.

HA. Listen to me, getting all introspective and shit. We need more fucking comedy in this book; if it's my last entry, then it's going to be A FUCKING GREAT ONE. So I'll tell you all one last great story, before I might/might not die. It's an Arkham story. And it's fucking gold.

So we were all hanging out in the recreation area, right? That's where all the good stories start. And we were sinking to new levels of pathetic and in need of stimulation. We were so fucking bored. And so we decided to tell stories, while somebody, I don't remember who, decided to go off and look for something we could do/play with. We decided to tell stories of what we'd done. And you know what? When people in Arkham want to scare each other, they let Joker start telling stories. So everybody else went first, and Joker was fine with that. We heard a bunch of awesome and amazing things the criminal element of Gotham had done, from Riddler systematically destroying an entire mafia family through riddles and death traps (he made sure to tell us that if they couldn't figure out the riddles, then he was cleaning up the city and doing everyone else a favor anyway,) to Killer Croc's memorable tale of tearing a man to pieces with his bare hands (we didn't know if it actually happened, but we didn't question it because holy fuck that's entirely possible considering it's Killer-fuckin'-Croc,) to Mad Hatter's silly ditty that included a tale about mind control induced by absolute horrific torture and mental anguish (he was happy to tell us, and we were all in freaked out silence [except for Joker, who seemed real amused] while he told it in excruciating detail).

When Scarecrow told us about how he'd gassed and lit Batman on fire, everyone cheered. Crane seemed unaffected by the fact that everyone apparently thought him a fucking badass (at least, slightly more than before) now (because fuck, who gets to light Batman on fire? That shit doesn't happen on a regular basis), but I think he was probably satisfied with himself about it. I told about how I'd been kidnapped and committed to Arkham on false terms, everybody seemed kind of 'Fuck, that's bullshit, man', and it made me feel better. Helen gave a long detailed explanation of how she'd elaborately plotted getting in touch with Joker; everybody yawned that one off, and Joker threw something at her. I think it was an old rusted nail he found somewhere.

When Arkham patients want to be scared, they have Joker tell a story. And he did. He told us about how he'd crashed a Wayne party, which everybody already knew about. And then he told us something nobody knew about except for us; he told us about how he'd kidnapped some woman at that party, some stupid bitch that had accidentally smeared her lipstick or something and made a Joker smile. He told us that he'd kidnapped her and tortured the shit out of her back at his sooper-sekrit-hideout-base. And I'm not talking the 'Lololol im gunna keel u' mind torture. He explained, very intricately, how he'd completely wrecked this chick. He'd shoved toothpicks under her fingernails, and pulled out her teeth with pliers, and gouged out an eye, and shoved knives in places...oh god I can't even imagine...places where they shouldn't ever, ever go.

He went fucking Patrick Bateman on this poor girl. He literally used the adjective, "Kind of Patrick Bateman-y" in his story, and outlined some other tortures, which included glass, barbed wire, and a stapler. She eventually died, and he'd just filled her full of knives and a bomb and stuck her somewhere. And she'd taken out a building. When we, all suitably horrified/disgusted/disturbed asked, "Why?", do you know what he told us? He smiled, and he said, "Because I could."

This is why we do not fuck with the Joker. Ever. This is why we all play nice in his sandbox. Because he does this kind of shit because he can. Because Joker is what would happen if you turned Gotham City into a person.

Storytime ended. We got a radio to listen to, because the staff didn't want anyone listening to any more Joker stories either. 'Stuck in the Middle with You' came on and we reenacted the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs, because we could. 'Fly Like an Eagle' came on and we all just laughed, because this was the most miserable fucking place in the most miserable fucking mood to have that song play. We ended up singing to it.

I think I'm almost done here. If Mr. White was right, then I should have the rest of the day before I die. And I hope he's wrong.

Cordially yours {bitches},

Jill Gabriel