AN: Hey everyone! It's been so strange not uploading every week, but my schedule's calmed down a bit and I'm going to try and return to my weekly posting schedule. I'll have a bit more of a note at the end, but please be aware that the TW's for the last two chapters apply here too. I know reading what's happening to Miriam is a brutal ride right now, but hopefully you stick around to see what happens on the other side when this story gets close to the end. I hope you like the chapter, despite its harrowing grimness.


No, no, no—I don't want to see this, I can't see this—

I don't have a choice in the matter. The Joker has a hand on my neck, keeping me facing the screen. What I see dispels any notion of moving from where I am.

The camera's focused on Parker, beaten bloody and covered in swelling bruises.

I'm paralyzed. I don't want to watch this. My heart—something's happening to it, almost beyond my ability to describe. All I know is it hurts, more than anything else in my life. The only thing that rivals it is when Mom died.

Everything is silent. No noise comes from the Joker or me, nothing from the TV. Parker's face—the marks are a blend of fresh and old wounds. His lip's split open; blood and saliva drip down onto his already bloody shirt. His head hangs like he's asleep, but his eyes are screwed up in pain. A thick rope is around his chest, and burns mark the entirety of his neck. Every part of me is frozen—I can't blink, can't move a muscle. The world falls away. It's just Parker and me retroactively experiencing his suffering. My lungs are about to burst, but I won't draw in air, not willingly.

"Tell us again, Mr. Kwan. Why are you here?"

The voice isn't one I expected. I thought it would be the Joker's, but it isn't. It belongs to Zsasz.

Parker doesn't answer, he looks beyond that. His face is a mess of cuts, and the black ichor I saw in his veins at the arcade is peeking up past the collar of his shirt. This must have been in the days after they pulled me from the river. I flinch like I'm the one being hit when Zsasz's fist connects with the swollen tissue of Parker's face. Pressing myself back away from the screen, I sob. I still can't move in any real capacity—I can't get away from any of this. It's only vaguely that I realize the Joker's arm is around me now, draping across my shoulders and holding me close.

"Don't be so shy. You were so eager to talk before, weren't you?"

Zsasz is taunting Parker. Inflicting all that pain and laughing. Just like Ivan's men. Flashes of overlapping incidents of violence—all of which I was a witness but never a force of help—nearly blind me. It's too much for my mind to handle and nothing's coherent. The screen's going black.

No—that's you. Stay awake—it's not safe to pass out. You need to fight. Fight.

It doesn't matter what my brain's telling me. There's almost nothing left to fight for. The Joker shakes me. Hard. The screen comes back into focus.

"Why are you here, eh?"

Parker spits out a large clot of blood. His teeth are covered in it.

"S-Screw you." Another hit to Parker's face and the sound of crunching bone makes me scream—as if that could stop what already happened. I can't move my arms, I'm bleeding too much, and barely aware of what's happening beyond the screen. "B-Because… because…"

"Come on now, boy. You're here because of your friend, aren't you?"

"No—"

"Don't clam up because of the camera. You're here because you sold out our little girlie. Being friends with the wrong people can bite sometimes, can't it?"

The camera zooms out from Parker, showing a dark room with walls covered in graffiti and grime. From the windows in the background, it looks like a room in a house. It's dirty, as if it hasn't been cleaned in years. The further the camera pans out, the more of the floor is revealed. My stomach nearly climbs up my throat when I finally see that Parker's chair is in the middle of a large, dry pool of blood on the hardwood.

"So, tell us—what did you do? How did it all come to this?"

Parker didn't do anything to hurt me. He wouldn't. Never on purpose.

Everywhere I turn, someone's looking to turn me into a liar.

"I… I told Maroni I was friends with Miriam. What kind of projects she was working on. We—we made a deal. I'd get Miriam to—" Parker stops and cries, his head bowed and mouth in a tight grimace. Zsasz is patient, placing a hand on Parker's back and giving false motions of reassurance. Bile and disbelief choke me.

He wouldn't do that—Parker wasn't that kind of person—

"I'd… I'd get Miriam to do something big for him if it squared up my parents."

"That's right. I'm sure it feels good to get that off your chest, eh? So, you admit you sold her out," Zsasz laughs, leaning close to Parker as he flinches away, "that's cold, mate."

"I didn't mean—"

"Weren't very loyal, were you? Go on. Tell us the rest. What else did you give Maroni?"

Parker's mouth opens and closes, but he doesn't speak right away. Deep lines are engraved in his forehead, and I've never seen such a deep look of agony on another person's face.

"I… I told him where she'd be. Wh-What her schedule was like."

No. No—he—Parker—

I would give anything for Parker to be here right now, to hear his voice like I used to remember it. Not this pitch of pain that's burying itself in my brain, rewriting every memory we ever made together. I can't process what's happening, even when it's something so obvious.

The Joker was right. He was right. Parker is the reason this is happening. I'm here because he told the wrong people things I should never have talked about, things I never should have touched if my life depended on it.

How did this happen? Why did you do this, Parker?

No, no, no—that isn't true either. This all started because I failed to help him. It doesn't change the fact that I'm still alive and Parker's the one who paid with his life. I'm getting what I deserve. He might not have known it, but Parker finally got his recompense. I'm enduring the share of suffering that should have always been mine alone. I deserve this. All of it.

"That's good, Parker. Very good. Telling the truth is its own reward, eh? Too bad there's none of that here." Zsasz is laughing, circling Parker. There's something in his hand. A glint of silver.

It's a knife.

"W-Wait—I did what you wanted—stop—"

No, no, no!

I shriek as the Joker turns off the TV, taking away the last images I'll ever see of Parker alive. I double over and scream, wail with despair—knowing that I'll never be able to rectify any of this. I'll never be able to help him or take back the irreversible. Parker spent his last days in agony, and I can't find any anger in me for what he said—what he told Maroni. All I find is a resounding level of hate for myself that corrodes my being.

It all comes back to you. It always does. The Joker was right—you ruin people.

Parker did die because of me, because of my presence in his life—my fucking existence. My head spins—going back to every moment, every interaction I ever had with the people in my life and searching for how I poisoned them, too.

"You idealized him so much, and for what? He's no better than anybody else when you put a little pressure on their necks," the Joker whispers in my ear, rubbing my back in small circles. He's wrong about that. This wasn't Parker's fault. It was mine. "Do you believe me now, Miri?"

I shake my head and choke out a sob. Once I acknowledge the truth in what he's saying, that will be the end of me. The end of everything I ever was.

"I-It's my fault—it was always—" Air doesn't move past the thick knot of convulsions in my chest, and I can't talk anymore.

He sucks his teeth and grabs me by the back of the neck, pulling me upward. I'm thrown around like I don't even weigh anything to him—being spun around to stare him in the face. Instead of looking angry, he seems exasperated, as if I'm not catching onto something important. His eyes roll in an exaggerated arc, head shaking from side to side in tight gestures.

"You're, ah, missing the bigger picture here, sweetheart. Yeah, it is your fault, isn't it? Bu-t… can't you see that these—these people—" He smacks his lips and raises an eyebrow, gesturing to the TV in a gesticulation of accusation. "You keep thinking that, somehow, they're better than you are. They're not."

Nothing seems real anymore. The world is taking on a haze, blunting the edges of the knives embedding themselves in me. Every word out of his mouth is taking on a meaning my mind is desperate to cling to—anything to explain what I can't define.

No, Miri—you can't. Don't listen to him—

"People like that—the, ah, 'good ones'—" The Joker takes his hands away from me to make large air quotes before returning to grip my neck, shaking me with each burst of emphasis. "They're the worst of 'em. You wanna know why?"

He jerks his chin down, looking up at me. The effect used to make his eyes look like dark pits when he wore the makeup, now it's a gesture that makes them seem concave and hollow—nearly skeletal. It's not until his fingers bite the muscles that I realize he wants an answer.

"Why?" I whisper.

No—don't answer him. He's fucking with you—you need to fight—

"It's because they're lying. All of 'em." I shake my head, but he's succeeding in what he always wanted—shattering every sentiment of comfort I placed in others—every feeling safety and craving to have someone close, every wish to never feel alone. He's making me realize I always was on my own, that I was lying on a level I didn't even realize—a delusion that outdid any fantasy I imagined to gloss over the ugliness that defines my life. "Miriam, I don't think anyone ever took the time to tell you these things, did they? You want honest people in your life. The ones who give you all the… hard truths. And, uh, they're rare-ly kind."

Any resistance my mind is capable of giving is eroding quickly. Warm streams of blood weep from my arms and my head feels light. The drug, the image of Parker, knowing—deep down—what the Joker's going to do to me—it's creating a counter-instinctual wave of apathy. What used to keep me tethered to everything I thought was important is coming undone.

Think, Miri—think about what he's inferring. Don't give up. C'mon, c'mon—

I'm so tired, weary in my bones. The Joker shakes me when my eyes grow heavy and I sway like a sapling in the wind. I'm trying to look at him—I am—but I can't keep myself from drowning in this.

"You don't see it now, but—y'know, I am a friend, Miri. Your friend. I haven't lied to you, have I?"

Shaking my head, I try to bring back the context, put meaning to the words I can barely translate.

What is he talking about? Think.

He's saying he's somehow not my tormentor—someone who's caused me nothing but pain. I shake my head, trying to signal as best I can that it isn't true—he has lied to me. I know he has. But… I can't bring up any examples of when he did.

Don't think like that—

"No, that's right. I haven't," he says, pulling me closer and pressing me into his chest. I still can't move my arms, can't make myself sit up and push him away. Even correcting him requires an effort that's beyond my ability to summon anymore. Another arm goes around me. I want to scream, but I don't. I let myself lean into him, eager for warmth as I shiver hard.

That's because you're losing too much blood—use your head—

"Haven't abandoned you either. And you know what?" he asks, voice getting gentler and quiet. It's soothing, lulling me to a place that's far from here. He isn't lying now. He won't leave me alone.

A twisted thought forms. One that leads down a rabbit trail to a dangerous realization. I shouldn't acknowledge it—it's sick. He's sick.

"You don't like what's in there." I jerk away when his hand goes to my chest, fingers pressing against the ribs that barely contain my erratic heart. I don't fail to realize how he almost fully touches my breast in his hand, and I force myself to push beyond what my body's telling me—I shove myself away and sit up. I'm still too weak and he pushes me back down, pinning me in place. "But I do. I see you, Miri. The real you."

How can that possibly be true? He doesn't know anything about me. Nothing. He's fucking delusional—don't listen.

I try to internalize reason, but his words… they're resonating somewhere deep in me—the parts that were never visible but always wanted to be acknowledged. I shake so bad my teeth chatter together, and it only makes him hold me tighter.

"I like what I see. I like you."

Everything about him is the personification of intensity—as if the grip on me could permanently impart his words on my skin. He says it with a gravity that almost makes it impossible to doubt. The words would infer some sort of confession of love or affection, but there's none to be found here. What he's seeing—whatever it is he likes—isn't anything in me that's valuable. There's nothing about us that's the same—nothing that would make any of this founded in logic.

He's a psychopath—psychopaths don't care about people. There's a lie right there—hang on to it. Don't believe him. He's going to use you for whatever fucked up plan he has and kill you. He's using you—

"They'll all leave you—they already have. I know everything about you. Everything."

I still completely. That's a claim that I should discount immediately as false, but I can't. Everything—from how he's holding me, putting pressure on one of the cuts as he warms my freezing limbs, the sound of his voice—gives him a demented sincerity that scatters any room for uncertainty.

Miri—he's the one who made those cuts. He just showed you a video of Parker being tortured—you're not thinking. Alfred's in dangeryou're in danger. Use your head. Challenge him. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon—

"N-No, you d-don't. T-That's impossible. H-How would y-you know anything a-about me?"

I'm shivering so hard I can barely force the words out. Goosebumps rise painfully along my skin and drag my mind down to a sleep I hope I never wake up from. He laughs and rubs my arms, building up warmth through the friction of his touch. It feels like he's grating against my skin with a straight razor. His face splits into two, becoming afterimages that trail one another but don't come together. I still don't miss the roll of his eyes.

"Do I need to, ah, prove that to you, too? Maybe you want a movie night—shoulda just said so."

What the hell is he—

I shut my eyes tight when blinding white light comes through the TV screen again. He's starting up another video and I want to scream already. I can't handle whatever it is he wants to show me. He pulls my hair, keeping a firm grip at the base of my skull, and twists my neck to face the direction of the searing wall of white. When my eyes adjust, I catch the end of a scene card like the first that played before showing Parker. Except this one says, 'Memory Lane: Vista Cruise Edition,' and it's not Parker's face that's shown after. It's mine—just like the first video when I came in here.

No, no, no—

The first video showed just how bad the damage the Joker did was, but there's something different about this one. I try turning, sliding away from the Joker, but he holds me like—like—

He's holding you as if you're a couple. Miri—you need to fight back. Don't just let this happen—you know what comes next—

The shirt I'm wearing rides up, exposing my lower back. He takes advantage of it, placing his bare hand there and sliding further up my spine. I try shifting away, but the motion of the camera makes me forget about him. Something's tugging on my mind—shaking loose images that coincide with these, but from a different perspective. The ones I'm seeing are from the ground staring up, and this is staring down at my sleeping form on the bloody mattress. It's dizzying—confusing for my mind and impossible for me to work out what's real and what my head might have altered.

My vision centres back, the world stabilizing and easing nausea-inducing vertigo. The camera is focused on my face again until the shot pans out to show my entire torso at a speed that makes my head spin. Several of my shirt buttons are gone and the fabric gapes open, showing my chest and bra. Bruises, the ones that still mark me, are starting to take form in the shape of fingertips and hands. The camera stays steady, as if it's revelling in the image of me on the ground.

It's with a punch to the gut that things start coming back. I'm remembering how I got the bruises, how my blouse came to be ripped open and my skirt bunched up around my hips. I heave even when I know there's nothing to purge out of me—nothing to get rid of the memories burning through my skull and destroying my stomach in a bath of acid. A loud whimper comes out of my mouth when I hear the Joker speak through the TV—a louder resonance of a voice that will always haunt me.

"Miri, Miri, Miri. Don't you want to play? We'll turn that frown upside down."

My eyes flutter in the video and a sound of pain comes through the speakers when I start to wake up. That's another familiar line. I heard it in the car on the way home from the hospital. I was remembering then, too—my head was trying to tell me the truth even when I wouldn't listen.

They were always there—you knew parts of this the entire time. You know you did.

Another self-perpetuated lie I forced on myself. It was easier to keep them down; it kept me safe. There's nothing safe here. Nothing to keep me whole. I'm splitting apart and the Joker—the fucking Joker—is the one holding me together.

"No… my head…" My arms try to move in the video to cover my face and hands reach out and push them back down at my sides. The Joker makes a tsk sound when he zooms the camera in on my face as the one next to me chuckles at some private joke.

"C'mon, what'll it hurt, hmm? Up, up—"

The Joker pulls on my arms and tries to hoist me up with one hand, jostling the camera into a frenzy of jerked movements, renewing the nausea I'm experiencing from watching this hell unfold; one I already know all the answers for but can't bring myself to acknowledge. When the version of me on the screen cries out, he sets me back down and huffs in exasperation.

"Afraid of a little, uh, pain? It's not that bad—don't ya think you're being a bit dramatic?"

You bastard. You nearly killed me and you're calling me dramatic?!

I squeeze my eyes shut and attempt to master my anger. It won't help me right now. I need to save it for when it will. Addressing the insult now isn't helpful. The Joker chuckles knowing full well he's getting a rise out of me.

Keep your head, Miri. You can break later, but not here. You can't do it here.

"No… not—not afraid of that. It—it just hurts. Please don't… don't make me get up." I sound so small and weak, so acquiescent. My eyes are barely open, eyebrows bunched up in pain. It barely even registers that I'm staring at a ghost of myself, not with the spike driving through my head and splitting me apart. "I… I'm so tired."

The angle of the camera drops down, and the bobbing of the Joker's knees tells me he sat down next to me, leaning over to get a good shot of my face. I want to be sick, but nothing comes up—it's just another thing building in me until I reach the breaking point. A gloved hand reaches out and smooths my hair back and it's like I can feel it happening now, even as the Joker's hands don't leave my back and arm.

"What are you so afraid of, Miri? Tell your new friend all about it."

'Friend'? This sick, fucking bastard.

Screw it—anger is good. I need to hold onto that. I need anything to replace what's trying to annihilate me. Even then, he was trying to spin the lie of him somehow caring about me. I haven't told anyone what I'm afraid of, not entirely. There's no way I told him—no matter how concussed I was. I watch the screen intently and almost forget where I am and who I'm with. The video's quiet for a moment and I'm appalled when my lips move to answer.

"I… I'm scared of the dark."

No, no, no—you didn't—how stupid are you? No, no, no—

I'm horrified. Another memory hits me square in the chest—a tidal wave of realization that nearly drowns me. Everything goes slack and I slump against the couch as understanding makes my nerves burn hot. I told this homicidal maniac my worst fears, the ones that plagued me since I was a child—the ones that still affect everything I do.

All this time, I was keeping the pain of remembering from buoying up and still couldn't stem it completely. Bursts of it slipped through and they were powerful enough to nearly knock me off my feet. There's nothing to stop that assault here. Even as I know for certain I can't, I still try to bury everything back down to a level of ambiguity that pardons me from examining what's causing my chest to rip open. The Joker doesn't give me time to compartmentalize, his voice comes out from the speakers and the version of him next to me has his mouth curled in a wicked smile.

"Mhmm." I don't like that sound, like a cat's purr, that's coming from the Joker in the video. "What else, hmm? If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"

Why am I not moving, why am I answering his questions?

I know why. I didn't have the power to do anything but lie there. He was the one who kept me alive—even if it was only the bare minimum. The thought tugs on a memory. He spent a lot of time with me after—after what Zsasz tried to do, but his care was limited. He gave me water, kept me awake to make sure I wasn't choking on my own tongue, and ensured I didn't lapse into seizures, but it still took an intense amount of effort to move past the pain when I regained the full use of my body later. I was so tired then—just like I am now.

"Hospitals… don't like them," I rasped out. It's clear I wasn't in my right mind—my eyes are staring out at nothing and I'm limp like there isn't a soul trapped inside me. "They… remind me too much of Mom. I don't… I can't—"

My voice trails off, but I remember what I was going to say. Being in hospitals brings me right back to when she was dying—when her heart monitor flatlined after they sedated her so she could rest. I don't think she even knew I was there. She likely died thinking she was totally alone. I'm not breathing anymore, not on purpose. The air coming in my lungs is a happy accident in between aching sobs.

"Understandable."

How could he understand anything? This—he's sick. He's a goddamn bastard and I'm going to kill him. I will.

I try to wrangle the rage, but it's twisting even as it forms, transforming into a devastating hurt that erases everything else. Nothing has existed beyond the suffering I feel right now. I remember all of this—I know what I'm going to say next in the video, but I don't want the memories to be realized. They can't be made real. They can't.

"Turn it off—please, don't—"

It's too late. A new nightmare unfurls its bloody wings as it sinks its talons in my neck.

"I-I'm always… always alone. I don't… I don't like being alone."

The hot fire of fear turns into a cold slap of painful reality as I bear witness to what I would give anything to forget. My eyes are open in the video, but they're staring far away. I can see myself shaking from the cold just as I feel myself doing the same now. Tears come from both versions of me in this sick mirrored world. The Joker wipes at them in the video, adjusting my head to look up at him with dazed complacency as the camera zooms in.

"None of us do, sweetheart."

I wail at how his voice sounds: it's sweet and kind and a fucking lie. He's pretending to listen, to care—as if he understands it in a way that says he's human and not an unfeeling abomination in the guise of one.

"Everyone… everyone always leaves."

The Joker's thumb rubbed along my jaw and temple in smooth arcs. I'm sobbing in the video and it's not until the Joker pins my body to his in the present that I realize I still am, too. I want to be alone in my grief, but he won't let me. My knees come up and I press my eyes against them, trying to block out the sensory information that's obliterating me.

How did I let this happen? I gave him the toolkit to torment me, gave the devil the roadmap to torture me and everyone I care about. I did this. Oh, Christ, I did this.

Everything's falling into place in my mind, each memory a bloody cut that creates an interwoven pattern I could always feel but never see before. The Joker knows where to hit because I told him where it hurt the most. I exposed my flank and invited him to sink in his teeth, and now I'm here. I could have protected myself—could have saved so many more if I wasn't such a coward. This is what I do: I forget and keep everything that's hard deep down, thinking it'll save me pain when all I do—every goddamn time—is create opportunities for new levels of suffering. Parker's dead, Alfred's going to die, and I'm still here, suspended in pain as I await the sentence my executioner will offer me and end this.

"I won't."

My head snaps up. The words were so quiet I almost missed them. His hand is still holding my face in the video, but his voice is so altered it doesn't sound like the same person anymore. This isn't the voice of the Joker, but it is at the same time—just in a form I don't recognize. I don't remember this. The tears stop as the tension exuding from the screen—from the pores of his body next to mine—enraptures me.

"You… you won't?"

Something's happening in my chest, a relived sense of—of hope, almost. I want this to end. I don't want to feel like this anymore.

"You can count on it, sweetheart."

Why—why does he sound like that?

It's—it's totally unlike everything I've grown familiar with him. There's no cruelty—no trace of mocking hate, no savage niceties wrapped in falsehoods. He sounds more real and genuine than almost anyone else I've ever known.

He sounds like Parker. That's the kind of thing he would say to me, especially when I'd cry. My face—watching the emotions play out on it as a third-party is strange. It's disbelief and mistrust that gives way to a desperate, longing wish for his words to be true. I shouldn't—I know that—but I feel echoes of the same feeling here now, even as my arms continue to bleed and I know who's really sitting next to me.

"OK… thank you…" Shock jolts me. I believed him so easily—so desperate to have someone that I clung to the man who put me in that state to begin with. It's unfair and confusing because my head's searching out that same reassurance. And, once again, the Joker's the only one I find.

No—don't think like that. You can't—

"What… what are you afraid of, J?"

'J'? Oh my god, no, no, no—

Another memory stirs. 'After all we shared, too'—that's what he said when he was making that fucking video—the one I remember. I thought he was messing with me, trying to get in my head. No, he was telling the truth. I just didn't remember it. I was more blatantly honest with him in ten minutes of video than I have been with anyone else.

"There's nothing I'm afraid of, Miriam."

His voice sounds foreign still—that same expression of care and affection. My name doesn't sound like an insult, a pulling down of my identity. It's the most violating and confusing thing I've ever experienced. Every muscle in my body spasms when I see his hand reach out again, not to mock me by twisting my head, but to stroke the side of my jaw. His hand isn't gloved, and his bare thumb runs over my lips in some tender motion I've never consciously experienced. The cold disappears completely, and my entire body erupts in waves of burning when his hand trails down to my collarbone. I don't even jerk away when I realize he's emulating the motion on me now.

"That must be… must be nice." My voice is breathy; a sigh. Horror finds me again when I see my head lean into his hand, encouraging him to touch me more.

"You've got no idea."

The video cuts to black and I want to scream, but any noise I want to make dies. Just like I want to. Everything he's said is impossible not to acknowledge now. He was kind to me—he sat there and listened. I—I told him about Mom, how much I miss her and how her delusions at the end convinced me that I was the one who caused her suffering. And he was there to reassure me. I never told Parker that, though I think he knew. I talked about my frustrations with Bruce—how I felt like such a disappointment to Alfred. Parker—I almost choke on the thought—I'm the one who told the Joker all about what I did. A howl tears out of me and I push him away when the recollections of telling him my hopes and dreams—that I couldn't stop feeling sad—bores through my spine. The more I told the Joker, the kinder he would be each time I saw him.

"I—I haven't told… told anybody this." I said that after I eviscerated myself in front of him, spilling out every secret recess in me. My head was intact enough to tell him all about the past, but I couldn't understand what was happening in the present—who I was really talking to. "You're… you're a good friend. I—I like talking to you."

I invited this. I literally invited this.

The Joker holds me close as my skull's pried open with the visions that were buried. I think he's saying something, but I can't hear him. That moment is stuck in my head now—I don't see what's in front of me. Instead, I see how he was surprised by what I said, a red flash of embarrassment that went down his neck. He was wearing his makeup, but he was an entirely different person to me. I bared myself to him and, in exchange, he told me I would never be alone. He did keep his word—I just invited the monster in my house and was surprised when he began to tear it down.

"You won't be alone anymore."

How long had I dreamed about someone saying that to me? And it came from him—the man who's killed everything else in my life.

No. You drove him there.

There's no denying any of it—there's no way I can. I did this to myself.

"C'mon now, Miri. Do I have to keep showing you more, or do you finally remember?" he whispers in my ear. I jerk back but he doesn't go anywhere. He's waiting for an answer, and I feel compelled to give him one.

"I—I remember," I choke. I wish I didn't—that I could have kept living a lie. It would have made existing bearable. Now I can only hope he kills me quickly.

That's… that's what people like him do, right? They get what they want and then they—they—

And then they get rid of what was such a source of amusement and throw it down into a black crevasse, never to be found. I want him to do that to me. I want to disappear and never be found—to be erased: me and everything I've done.

The Joker takes my face out of the cloud of my thoughts and turns me to look at him. There isn't any malice there—even though he's ripped me down to nothing. His eyes are dark liquid gold, mouth relaxed, eyes dropped and heavy, and his touch gentle. Leaning in, he kisses me softly and I let him, not returning the act but not stopping him either. A bloody hand goes to the back of my head and keeps me close, the other on my ribs. I close my eyes and try to be somewhere else when my lips part and his tongue probes along my teeth.

I'm not here anymore—I'm at the pagoda waiting for Parker to find me on a summer day. Everything's green and bright, warm with the sun beating down. Looking out across the water, I hang in a moment of perfect stasis. Nothing's there that can hurt me—no one to remind me how much I failed. I hear Parker's voice—he's calling out to me. When I turn to look, it's Zsasz I see instead.

The vision ends when the Joker's hand goes inside my shirt to cup my breast in earnest. It shocks me into movement—I don't know how, but I bring up a fist and punch him. It's hard enough for him to stop and I drop off the couch, tearing open the clotting wounds on my arms and stomach and trying to get my feet under me. I don't see the Joker anymore. I'm seeing Zsasz.

It's not real—wake up and fight, Miri—

I can't shake what I'm seeing. It's Zsasz getting up from the couch and coming toward me. I can see the tally marks just as well as I can feel his weight on me. Moving faster than I thought I could, I make it to the kitchen and try to stand, reaching for the butcher's block holding what might be my only salvation.

C'mon, c'mon—

Shaking and almost falling, a knife is almost in reach when a hand wraps itself in my hair, tearing me away from the counter.

"No! No—stop—" I shriek, tear at the hand holding me, trying to do anything I can to dislodge his grip, but—just like before—nothing I do is working.

I don't smell blood and detergent mixed with gunpowder anymore. It's cigarettes and sweat and a scent that's unmistakably Zsasz. Hands are on my throat, squeezing the air out of me. A hand's going in my underwear, bunching fabric around my hips.

"Please—please, don't!"

I'm folding my legs up, trying to protect myself, but I can't even see right. I'm not in a house anymore—I'm in that metal room. I'm trapped and I'm going to die. Zsasz is going to rape me and I'm going to die. I'm a wild animal caught in a trap. A crushing weight's flattening my lungs.

I'm dying—I'm going to die, I'm going to—

A sharp slap to the face creates a kaleidoscope of bursting colour. Air forces its way back in my lungs and nothing I was feeling before is happening now. The Joker is over top of me but not with any crushing weight—not like what I felt a moment before. The room isn't metal and the smells are gone. It takes a concerted effort to callback what the hell just happened.

You were hallucinating—blending the past and what's happening now. You need to wake up—you aren't safe if you can't—

"You gonna calm down now, sweet peach?" the Joker asks. An edge is back in his voice, and his eyes aren't open anymore. They're annoyed. He rolls them and gently taps my cheek, making me flinch. "You'd think the house was on fire, jeez. Cop a feel and suddenly the sky's falling!" he laughs.

Heat burns my face and neck. I was confused—remembering what Zsasz did and conflating it with what's he's doing to me. It doesn't dampen the panic. Quite the opposite. I'm going to have to fight him off—like I did Zsasz. I remember that now, too. It's when his hand went in my underwear that I clawed his eye and hit him in the head. Just like now, I don't know where the strength came from, but it was enough to keep him away. When he let go of me, I just kept hitting him, screaming and taking him by surprise. I didn't stop even when Lewis—yes, it was Lewis and the blonde boy—pulled me away while another held Zsasz back.

Another flash pushes past despair and it makes me freeze. The Joker was standing in the doorway. He knew what Zsasz tried to do and he let it happen. He demonstrated all too well on Lewis that he isn't a forgiving person. There are no pardons when it comes to offending him.

That proves it. Focus on that. He doesn't care—he was lying.

I was starting to believe that what I saw on the videos was genuine, that what I remembered was a confounding glimpse into a man I'll never be able to understand—but he's showed himself again. Doubt's still raging in me, and he might be able to pretend he's not, but he's a monster. Just like Zsasz.

"Get away from me," I spit, trying to move until he pins my hands down. He shakes his head and licks his lips, staring over me and muttering before smacking his lips in an audible pop.

"Really, sweet peach? What do I have to keep doing to show you we're beyond all this, hmm?"

I'm in no place to challenge him, but I do anyway—straining at his grip and boring into him with a glare.

"Beyond what?! You—you are always hurting me. What—what do you want from me?!" He doesn't answer and the tears come again. I scream at my helplessness, at my inability to move him. "What do you want?!"

He quashes the resistance in me with silence and a hardened frown, holding me down until I've burned through what little energy I gained. I'm a crying mess underneath him, waiting for something I have no way of controlling.

"T-Tell me—please…"

I really don't want to know what the answer is, but I need to know. There must be something else to this. Why would anyone do this to another if there wasn't something beyond what I'm missing?

He chuckles and shakes his head again, readjusting his grip to latch onto my biceps. Pulling me up, he props me against a nearby wall, crouching close and keeping his hands on me. I whimper when they gently trail from my arms to my legs. I'm about to yell at him to leave me alone when he rubs his lips together, tasting the words before he speaks them.

"Miri, what do you think happens after all this? Death, I mean."

I stare blankly at him, the pain I'm feeling forgotten.

What… what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

"Think you're gonna see mommy when you die? You think this is, ah… it? The here and now." He twists his head to the side, glaring at the direction of the living room. If my body didn't feel dead, I'd bolt for the door. His fingers flex against my thighs and I jerk away only to hammer my back on the wall. "Well… if this is all there is, you don't have much of anything, do you?"

This is a new angle, one that elevates my distress. I want to shout him down and argue—tell him why he's wrong. But I don't; I'm exhausted. I had my opportunity to fight and get away and it's gone. His words are mollifying me, pulling my head down in a haze of despondent anguish.

"I mean, there's the money and the Almost-Wayne name and all, but that's not what, ah, makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside does it?" His voice takes on the tone of mocking I've come to know, the one he was hiding before. He's finding another way to strip away at me, and I don't want it to, but it's working. Shifting his feet, he looks at me with dark eyes that burn like they're live coals.

You need to push back, Miri. Fight even if your arms won't work.

"Y-You're crazy. Insane." I want to mean the words, but my voice wavers. When he moves his hand, I think it's to hit me or drive in the knife to make a new laceration. I cringe but he's squeezing my jaw, making me focus on his eyes.

"You wanna know something, Miri? When people think of, ah, madness, they think of a singular event. One big bang of crazy and your mind comes apart at the seams! But that's not what it is at all. No, no, no." There's madness in his eyes right now—something he'll never be able to rationalize away. I try to shake my head, but he holds me in place, gripping harder every time I try to move. "Y'see, madness is a… it's a process. Slow at first. Can't even feel it. Then one day…"

He looks away, growing quiet. I find myself straining to hear him finish. Realizing what I'm thinking, I try to force it out of my head—but he wants my attention only on him and he doesn't let me even blink before jerking my gaze back to him. The thought settles, burrowing in my mind. Nothing but the sound of his voice remains, his face floating in front of me.

"It's just… there. Like an old friend you haven't seen in a while. Except that voice is quiet… whispering. Telling you all the things you've thought but held back, getting a little louder." I've always known it was dangerous to look in his eyes for too long, and I'm past the threshold of resistance. Rather than terrifying pools of black, it's a mesmerizing lake that takes away everything that's killing me. "It points out all the lies, the holes in this fucking hell we call 'reality.' But that's not what's real at all, Miriam. No—listen."

His voice turns feral when I adjust, giving the appearance of not listening to him. Stilling, I keep staring as his voice becomes white noise that blocks out all else.

No, Miri—you're forgetting the important things. You have to remember—

I'm not sure it matters much anymore. That welcome sense of apathy is coming back. There isn't anything here I can change, and what he's saying… the longer I listen, the more he makes sense.

Miri—that's as dangerous as his knives are. Your eyes are open, but you're falling asleep. C'mon, c'mon—

"Fear—that's another, uh, old friend. One that's holding you back. Limiting your… potential." I slump and I'm sure if I could feel anything right now it would be freezing cold. It's creating a vortex of reality where he's the only thing that exists. His words ring true, even if I can't explain why. "You're so afraid, sweetheart, when you don't need to be. Some friends are better left behind."

What is he saying?

The words register but I can't analyze them. They snake into my mind as implicit truths, an echo of things I've caught myself thinking before.

"They're wrong when they attribute madness to matters of, ah, brain chemistry." The changing direction of the conversation has me paying close attention now, hanging on his words. "Sure, it helps. But madness… madness is rejecting lies. That's all it is. They—they can't even understand that!"

Taking away his hands, he throttles the air. I watch him make the motion, how the tendons jump in his arms. The cold's disappearing, but heat doesn't replace it. It's just... nothing. Blank nothing.

"You know why?"

I shake my head.

What don't they understand?

He hits my face when my blink turns into an attempt at passing out.

Maybe sleeping is the best option...

He shakes my head, making my eyes pop open even as they stay heavy.

He wants you to answer.

I don't remember why I shouldn't. There was a reason, wasn't there? Something I need to remember.

"Why?" I whisper.

"Because it's 'scary.' They don't like that, so they'll bury you—just like they tried to bury me. They're cowards."

He's comparing us again, but the meaning of that doesn't clue in. I do feel buried. Neck deep in sand.

"Some minds are, uh, weaker than others, but—but you and me, we're not weak. No, no—because you can see it."

I look at him with confusion. His words are slurring, time coming to a near stop.

It's the blood loss. You need to wake upyou can't sleep. Use your head.

He's trying to convince me we see the world the same way. He's trying to tell me I'm going mad, that I have been for a long time.

No, no you're not

But aren't I? Wouldn't that make sense—explain why I'm on my own, why no one can be around me?

Don't go there, Miri. There's no coming back when you go that way

"You can, can't you?"

Fight him. C'monfight.

It's my last ditch effort to dissuade him, to counter the immense pressures constricting me into a husk of nothing.

"Y-You've hurt me... you're alwaysalways hurting me. How—how could you be saying the truth in anything?" A thick mist covers my eyes when hot tears spring up, unwanted and undermining everything coming out of my mouth. He has the upper hand. He's already winning and this is just a show before accepting defeat. "You don't—don't care, you're just—just like everyone else. I know you are."

Even in the state I'm in I can see how weak my argument is, but nothing comes out that isn't based on pure emotion. He huffs and slaps an open palm against his forehead. Muttering, he looks down at my arms, twisting them and eliciting small whimpers of pain out of me. He lets them drop and smack into the floor and I can't even stop it.

"And I'm almost sorry about that." He rolls his eyes and I close mine, trying to focus on breathing. "Really, I am. You can't see it yet, but I'm helping you."

That's a lie I can hang on to.

"Zsasz," I say the name like an accusation and he pulls back and gives me a sidelong glare. "You—you let... you let Zsasz nearly rape me. I—I almost died. How—how was that supposed to help me? You're lying. Y-You are." The last words are a desperate, whined plea I don't entirely believe. Things are just coming out of my mouth and it's like I'm going through a series of motions and can't get to any sense of real conviction. I don't want to accuse him; I want him to explain it to me. I want to know why all of this is happening. Why I'm being forced to suffer through all this.

Making another tsk sound, the Joker stands up, dusting off his pants in large motions. Relief and fear battle to see what's coming next, anticipating release and the worst. Just when I think he's going to leave me to bleed out on the floor, he threads an arm under my knees and behind my back, picking me up in a swift motion that almost makes me black out. My head lolls against his chest as he laughs mirthlessly.

"Oh, tricky Vicky. You won't have to worry about him soon, hmm?" He's walking, but I can't see where. Everything's finally become too much. Release is coming, I just have to wait and let it happen. The rage I feel coming from him is the only thing keeping me awake. "Now, there's a person who deserves to hurt. He's an... animal. An animal that needs to be put down."

I can't answer him, but thinking about what Zsasz did—what he let Zsasz do to me and Parker—makes me sob. The Joker coos at me and I'd be begging to die if I could summon the words. When the warm flickering light on the edge of my vision becomes more prominent, fear finds me again and reawakens my reverberating panic. I try to move out of his tight grip, but I can't. Just thinking about it drains me.

"You've already got a few good hits in, didn't you? Don't you worry about him, sweet peach. We'll save that for, ah, later."

My mind struggles to actively translate the horror into words I can understand—whether as an act of self-preservation or because I really am dying this time.

Noyour head's still working. You're aren't dying yet. You know what he's saying. It means he's going to make you see Zsasz again.

"Pl-Please, please don't."

I don't even know what I'm begging him not to do. The smell of warm vanilla breaks through and almost sinks me.

"No, no, Miri. Pain's a good teacher—it helps you find the, ah... important things." No, it doesn't—can't he see? It's taking everything away, not giving anything back. "You're strong when you need to be, hmm? Just got too many, ah, blocks in place—limiters, you could say."

It's not until I'm laying on something cold and hard that my eyes snap open as I try to tremble warmth back into me. My eyes are wild, looking around and falling into a state of primal instinct; my conscious mind falls back until it's just a distant scream in the howling wind.

"You can only protect yourself when you just... let it all go. Like me. You get past all those pesky little limitations and go feral." He's a wolf, his smile wide and all teeth. It's distantly terrifying, but even that barely makes an impact. I'm stuck under thick ice, banging on an unyielding surface as I drown, the world becoming muffled and stiffling as ice fills my lungs.

"I—I don't... I don't want this. I-I don't want to be here. Pl-Please, I want to go home."

That's itdon't let him win. C'mon, fight any way you can.

His face is in front of me and I can't tell where I am, just that I'm somewhere low. Begging isn't a win at all, but it's better than doing absolutely nothing. Confusion eclipses the immediate need to keep a hold on my pride.

How did I get here? What's happening?

That thought's interrupted. I've done something to trigger a malevolent onslaught. His eyes are angry, even as he's smiling so sweetly at me. I can't move on my own, only accept whatever he has to give.

"I'm no, ah, prize piece myself, but you could do worse, really. There's a lot to be said about... honesty. Maybe that's why everyone leaves you eventually, hmm?"

What... what is he talking about?

I didn't think he could drag me any lower, but he can and he will. His fingers play with my ear lobe, tickling the skin and unnerving me.

"Who do you think gave me the call at the arcade, hmm? It was dear ol' dad, looking to make a quick buck."

My father's a monster but that's—that's a low I never thought he would stoop to.

"N-No—he... he wouldn't—"

"Think about it. You've lied almost your whole life, hmm? Brucie just—just couldn't wait to get away from you. Took him nearly ten years to come back! Why do y'think Parker never loved you back and threw you to the fucking hyenas?"

There's no alternative my mind can conjure. He sounding back the things I've felt all along. Bruce didn't want me. Mom's life would have been better if she never had me. Jahan never cared—never even loved me. And Parker—Parker's another person who should have never met me. That smile he gave me in freshman year, he deserved to give that to someone else.

You're poison. Cursed. A bad omen.

Any logic I could have relied on is gone. All that remains is pain and disappointment and the Joker pointing out all the things I never wanted to know but should have questioned all along. It doesn't mitigate my suffering, only serving to heighten it. My heart is gone, only a pulsing vacancy is left behind.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I whisper.

He cups my face tenderly in his hands. The hard edge is banished and only unalloyed pleas for understanding is left behind.

"I'm not trying to do anything, Miriam." I shouldn't, but I believe him. "I want you to see the truthaccept it, like I have. It's only when we're, ah, honest that nothing holds us back. Nothing hurts anymore."

Is it really that simple? It takes it all away?

He leans down and his nose is against mine and his lips find me again. His teeth bite into my bottom lip, hands holding me up by the shoulders, and his tongue going in my mouth to feel the edges of my own. It takes away the air in my lungs, pulling on my stomach in a way that's painful with the rest of the agony in my chest. He breaks the kiss with a groan and his tongue peeks out to wipe along his lips and touch the corners of his marred mouth. I feel the force of his want in the air and it's...

Don't go there, don't even think about it.

I can't help it. I hate myself for feeling it—but I'm so desperate for anything other than this agony that I'm eager to feel his gentleness. I don't want to hurt anymore.

You're missing somethingsomething important. Think.

"You're alone right now, aren't you?" he asks. We both know it's rhetorical, the answer is obvious.

"Yes," I say. He's against me and I'm finally starting to feel warm. Just like in the video, he shakes me enough to wake me up.

"Say it." I can't see his face anymore, but his voice is sharp and heavy.

"I'm... I'm alone."

I'm empty now. Utterly vacated. Everything recognizable is gone and I don't recognize what's been left behind. Crying is pointless, but my body can't seem to help itself. He's not holding me down, but I might as well be chained for all I can move.

"All alone," he repeats back to me, demanding another echo.

"I'm—I'm all alone."

"That's right, sweetheart. You are alone."

Why does he keep rubbing it in? What else could he want from me?

There's so much that's left my mind—some of it's waiting on the periphery, hoping for me to snap to my senses. But his voice has fought for a place of control and dominion over me and I don't know how to make it stop.

"You don't want to stay that way, do you?" I shake my head. The loneliness—the expansive chasm swallowing my being—is killing me as much as the physical suffering. "Do you think I'll ever leave you? Hmm?"

I would have denied it outright before, but now I'm not sure. He has become my own personal djinn, a demon who's binded to me until he finally decides to release his grip on my soul. There's nothing good about it, but it's nothing I didn't bring on myself.

"N-No," I whisper.

He maneuvers himself so he's straddling me, just hovering above so I'm not crushed by his weight. He's reaching back for something, and I can't bring myself to care what it is, even when he throws it in the air and catches it in a flash of glittering silver.

"Believe me now, Miriam?"

You didn't give me a choice.

I don't say anything, hoping whatever look on my face will be enough. The glaring look of menace, the straight line of his mouth, and twitch of the maligned scars tells me it isn't. The entirety of his eyes is dark, his brow catching the light and making his skin look like a mask. The sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbones are dulled by the blurring of my vision.

"Do. You?" His voice is nasally but quiet and something tightens along my stomach as he waits for an answer. Resistance has gotten me nowhere. There is no escape from this. None at all.

"Yes... y-yes, I believe you."

He doesn't have to have his hands on my throat to choke me.

"What do you believe, hmm?"

The more intense he gets the quieter I become until my voice is a hoarse rasp. He's not even shouting but I sob like he is, cringing away as he cocks his head to the side like a predatory bird.

"You—you won't leave me."

He smiles and it makes me break out in a cold sweat. It feels like my organs are shutting down, one by one, and like I don't have limbs anymore.

"Mmm-hmm," he purrs. He's leaning down, encroaching on the small space I have left. He doesn't have to ask, but I know he wants to keep hearing it—the repetitive summation of a desperate wish that's destroyed any chance of making it come true.

"I—I don't want to be alone anymore."

He doesn't stop until his forehead touches mine, his hands and something cold hold my head up. He's grinning like a lunatic, as if he has all the dark secrets of the universe and I've given him permission to share them with me.

"Of course, you don't. And you won't be. Not anymore." He sits back and preens like an often-admired bird, chin tilted to his chest and a grin he can't help on his face. "Lucky for you, I'm patient. I can see… potential."

'Potential'? What does that mean?

I should be screaming and clawing, fighting him. The flickering light in the room hypnotizes me, dulling everything until it all becomes part of the warm glow. Murmurs whisper by my ear but I don't pick up the meaning. Letting my head roll to the side, the tears fall and I feel so disconnected from my body that my soul's connection to it must be severing completely.

"Right here, c'mon."

Wait... what's he saying?

Hand on my chin, the Joker tilts my head back to face him. His eyebrows pump up, expecting an answer out of me.

"Are you shy, Miri? Kiss me."

No, noI don't want to do that. He... he can't make me do that.

I shake my head and close my eyes. That's a new transgression I won't invite. He can force himself on me, but I don't want to return any of what he wants to give. Trying to turn away, a sharp pain along my thigh makes me shriek pitifully and snaps me back to the immediate danger. He brings up the bleeding knife and rests it on my cheek, the damp warmth of my own blood coating the skin.

"Stop—no more, please—"

"What did I tell you, Miri? Did you, ah, think I was lying? That I wouldn't cut your eye out because I think you're pretty, hmm?" he spits. I try to squirm but he pins my arms under his legs, crushing them to the floor.

"Nono, don't—" I'm on the verge of squealing and already lightheaded. The tip of the knife breaks the skin just below my eye, pressing gently and growing harder by the second.

This isn't real if you don't want it to be. Justjust do what he wants.

I don't want to be in pain anymore. Not like that. Sobbing and shaking all over, I try to stay still as I bring on another new insult—a purposeful invitation for him to continue whatever he thinks this is.

You're a coward. Always have been.

"I—I'll—oh, god, please—" Choking on the words, I hope they're enough to make him stop long enough to listen. It is—he stops the progress of the blade and glowers. "O-OK, I-I'll—" I can't finish. Not blinking for fear of upsetting him, my eyes stay wide open even as the tears obscure everything. He takes the knife away and kisses where the tip of it just dug in, licking the trickling blood.

"Good. Then. Kiss. Me," he says after pulling back.

The Joker stays a small distance away from me, making me work to appease him. I feel completely sick to my stomach.

I don't want to do thisoh Jesus

I want Mom so badly right now. I need Bruce to come through for me, to take me away from this. I need salvation and have no way of finding it.

No one's coming for you. You're all alone, remember?

That's right. I'm on my own. It's just me and him. Nothing else beyond that can exist in my head—not even in the waking dreams I relied on so much before to get me through the daily events that caused me so much pain.

"C'mon now, we know you do deserve it, though, don't we?" he asks. It's an insidious thought; one I can't push away as unfounded.

I do deserve this, don't I?

My mind is no longer on my side. It's fallen for the call of complete sublimation to a force I have no way of overpowering. This is what the rest of my life will be—short as it is.

"Don't we?"

There's more aggression in the words, making it a command requiring an answer.

"Yes."

I want that to be enough. But it never is for him.

"Yes, what?"

Why can't I die? Why wasn't it always me?

Squeezing my eyes shut is the only way I'll get this out. The air required to make the words is a razor in my lungs, slicing along my throat and making me gag on the blood.

"Yes, I—I... I deserve it."

He laughs, and it's pernicious and cruel.

"That's right, sweetheart. You do."

Just push your mind back. It doesn't have to affect you if you don't let it.

Years-long defensive mechanisms that I've built are heightened to the point of breaking my conscious mind, but it's the only thing from shattering my psyche. He's staring at me, demanding more. Always more.

"Because all you do is hurt people, right?"

He's snapping the hard consonants, and it makes me feel distantly afraid—even as I know he's just reiterating painful truths I've always known.

"All I—all I do is hurt people..."

"That's right." He comes back down to my level, his breath tickling my nose. He grips my face hard enough to hurt, but I barely feel it. "C'mon, sweet peach. Kiss. Me. You, ah, were so willing with boys who didn't give a fuck about you, but I do. Don't hold out on me now."

His words bring a dulled sense of disgust, but even that is fading into background noise.

It doesn't have to mean anything. None of this is real. None of it.

Closing my eyes, I raise my head the rest of the way and place my lips on his. It's hesitant and weak, and his hands go to the back of my head to keep it propped up. His lips part immediately, eager to press against mine. He groans in my mouth when my tongue touches his. Hands work their way in my hair and cup my jaw, keeping me close and unable to pull away. His scars feel odd against me, soft but hard—corded tissue that rubs against my mouth and cheeks. The rippled skin tickles at certain angles, creating strange new sensations. I push my mind back, push away the sensory information that's overwhelming me.

Even as I'm doing that, I can't fully ignore the zaps of electricity coursing through my mouth to somewhere deep in my stomach. I don't want to investigate why, how I could be feeling anything other than revulsion for any of this. But I can't deny that this feels nice—despite the horror and the pseudo negotiations of what level of assault he can lay against me. It's confusing and terrifying—just like he is.

Think about someone else, think about anyone else.

It's been almost five years since I kissed anyone, and it's an event straight from Satan's handbook for it to happen like this. My mouth moves automatically, unconsciously—becoming a bodily response I don't understand. His hands leave my head to trail down my neck, touching the opening of my shirt. I break away and try to find clarity in this as I struggle to breathe.

Wh-What's happening to me?

I don't understand this. Any of it.

How did I get here?

My head can't recall what transpired an hour ago—but there's something important. Things I'm forgetting.

"You're—you're starting to understand, sweetheart, and that's good." I look at him in confusion, seeking guidance. His face brings feelings and sensations that harken back the physical pain I'm holding back, and they pull on something inside my chest—something I don't remember feeling.

Where am I?

"Bu-t… you're so prone to forgetting the, ah, the import-ant things. I think you need a... reminder."

"W-What?"

I'm not sure that it matters anymore what he's said.

Nothing matters at all.

Some things are peeking through, prodding at my mind—trying to stir me to action. He's smiling differently. It looks like compassion, but something's telling me I'm supposed to know better.

Why am I on the floor?

It's a question I don't have an answer for, one I can't make my mouth move to ask. Cold air creeps along my chest, raising the skin and reawakening my numb nerve-endings.

"I'd like to say this isn't gonna hurt, but that would be… dishonest."

A moving line of dark silver floats in front of my eyes. The weight increases on my arms, pinching the skin to bone.

You need to move, Miri.

But where can I move to? Nothing's working. There's no point to anything anymore. It's meaningless. Just like I am.

C'mon, Miri—get up, get up—

Where is this coming from? Every moment passes through and I have to hold on tight to them before they disappear. Thoughts and sensations are sifting in my mind and turning to dust in my outstretched hands.

"Ask me to do it," he says, his voice low and clear.

His face isn't visible anymore, only passing shades of colour that meld into a mess of confusion. Something like a groan comes out of my throat, but it's hard to make the words come. His hand cups my face, making me focus on him.

"Ask… for what?"

Is that my voice? Why am I answering himwhat's he asking for?

"You don't wanna be alone anymore, so you won't be. Ask me to never leave. Ask me to always be close."

It doesn't sound unreasonable, and it is something I want. I don't want to be alone anymore. There's… there's something off. Something I'm not getting.

Miri, you need to get up—

"I… don't want to be alone." The words aren't mine, but they leave my mouth. Tears come again, spilling down my cheeks and pooling in my ears. The shirt I'm wearing is unbuttoned, and I don't remember doing that.

What's happening? You need to get up—

That voice doesn't matter either. What has it brought? That's something that remains intact for reflection. Reason hasn't helped me, it never stopped any of this. I was so wound up grasping for control that I broke everything I tried so hard to hold. I have no control here, and maybe that's its own form of freedom.

"Don't… don't leave me."

I'm choking on the tears, on the deep ache that's constricting my chest. I'm saying the words, but not really at him. There hasn't been anyone, not a single person who wouldn't leave me behind. I need someone to stay, someone who's just as broken as me.

Miri don't think like that. You aren't safe—

Self-preservation doesn't matter because there's nothing left to care about anymore. I'm all alone. Nothing matters anymore.

"I—I want you to do it."

What are you agreeing to? Snap out of it—

The Joker smiles, and it's filled with a kind benevolence that makes it feel like I did something right.

Something bitterly cold touches my chest, right between my breasts. I'm about to ask when it cuts through the muscle to nearly scrape the bone beneath. White bursts of anguish go beyond anything I've experienced. I'm trying to shout at him—beg him to stop—but the knife cuts down, lacerating the skin in large arcs. Nothing coherent comes out and it's a savage sensory overload that makes me insensible to anything else. My entire chest is ablaze—he's cutting off my flesh, skinning me alive. I bite my tongue in the effort to get away from the knife and splutter as I shriek and try to get away.

As quickly as the pain started, it stops. The entirety of my vision is black. Instead of my mind becoming my prison, it's my body that's become the cell keeping me trapped with the Joker holding the key. I feel like I'm dead. I must be.

Lips land on mine, soft and tender but not demanding. They aren't there long. I still can't see, even as my body's pulled up and the heavy weight is taken off. Something warm is holding me, and I desperately want it to breathe life in me beyond what I'm experiencing.

"This is only the beginning, Miriam."

His words snap something back, but it's only temporary. It sinks below again and I retreat to a place where my body can't betray me.

I don't know how, but I'm on something soft. It hugs my limbs, shields my body. I'm drifting, floating somewhere far away from all this. I was right, none of this matters. I'm too tired for it to have any weight.

"Now you know I'm not going anywhere, hmm? No matter where you go or what you do, you'll always think of me." I whimper when a hand touches my chest, drawing back into the soft warmth surrounding me. I faintly register a laugh. "You're gonna help me now, aren't you?"

I don't know what he's asking, but I don't have any reason to say no. I'm the one who asked for this, didn't I?

That's right. You should help.

Something feels wrong, but his face comes back into focus. Looking past the dark circles under his eyes, he doesn't look much older than me. I feel sorry for him, to have his face destroyed and maligned into something that looks so full of twisted pain.

"Y-Yes," I whisper. He nods and smiles, stroking my cheek.

Yeahit'll be OK, right? I'm not alone anymore... I won't be alone.

"Tell me about TL-56: HAVOC."


AN: Hello again! Jeez I missed posting, but I really hope I can get back in a groove and go back to posting weekly updates (and, as far as I can see), that shouldn't be too much of an issue! I want to thank you all again for keeping up with this story and for being so patient in waiting for the new update, I hope it lives up to the expectations of the other chapters!

To clarify a few things happening here, I want to start with Parker. There are some potentially upsetting things that I hinted at previously that seem to have come to fruition. I don't want to spoil things too much, but I do want to outline that the Joker is most certainly not above manipulating small (or big) truths to suit his needs, and that is something that is happening with Parker. Also, Miri is not in a headspace to properly examine what's happening. She's experiencing and reliving trauma that clouds her judgement, perceptions, and actions - in this chapter especially. Miri is in shock, especially toward the end of the chapter, hence her confusion and willingness to accept what the Joker is saying. If there's one thing he's good at, it's persuasion - even if it's coming with heavy doses of violence. I have a line in chapter 22 about the Joker leading people to the light with a hand on their hearts before crushing them, and that very much applies here. The Joker succeeded in wearing her down, but there's still another eleven chapters to go before the end of this, so expect further madness to come!

In some instances in the last few chapters, the Joker has shown genuine affection (or, as close to what we would call that) for Miriam, and that's because he does see a lot of his old self in her, in particular when it comes to feeling abandoned and outcasted by those who are supposed to care about them. There's some sinister sexual elements happening here, and while I don't think he's above it if the circumstance calls for it, I do not see the Joker as a rapist. He will push the line and indulge what he wants without consideration for others, but rape is a beastly act and, much like he sees himself as above people like Zsasz, he thinks (I believe) that resorting to that (in particular when it comes to breaking someone) is a level of depravity he's beyond. Though what happens between the Joker and Miriam is far from over, that's not something I have the Joker planning on doing.

I've been doing a whole lot of build-up, and I hope it's been enjoyable (as twisted as it all is) for everyone! I'll be back again next Saturday with another chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts, and thank you again to all of those who have taken time out of their days to leave comments - they mean so much! Until next week!