Chapter Ten
It took four days for her to wake.
Taylor's lids peeled slowly apart, heavy and weighted from the lingering effects of sedatives. Dusk was the first thing to greet her, the room heady, warm, simmering in the velvety, blue-gray darkness of the day's end, as night crept near, on hands and knees. She heard cicadas in the woods—louder than she remembered them—accompanied by chirping crickets, and the boarish, vibrating croak of a bullfrog; the sounds of the dark come alive.
Gradually, her eyes fluttered open, and she flinched, the room somehow too bright despite the burgeoning darkness, arousing one of the worst headache she'd ever had. Her skull throbbed, like the contents of her brain were pushing themselves against that enclosed capsule, desperate to break through flesh and bone and skin. She let out a small, involuntary sound, and was forced to drop her head back against the bed, squeeze her eyes shut and grind her teeth as she rode out the pain, waiting for it to subside.
She wondered where the steady drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet was coming from. Couldn't remember her bathroom sink ever having leaked before. She opened her eyes once more, cast a bleary-eyed gaze to her bedside table and the alarm clock there. She startled at seeing an IV pole in its place. Fear and confusion gripped her with a vice; she traced the IV tubing with her eyes, followed it to where an IV had been inserted in her left upper arm.
What?
She lifted her other arm, intent on removing the offending item, but was stopped short halfway when she was met resistance. There was the jangle of handcuffs—old handcuffs, shackles, like something from another time, an old movie—as they were pulled taut. Those were definitely not the kind of restraints they used in the hospital.
Her heart quickened as she turned towards the window—open, but boarded—with not even a sheet of glass to protect her from the outside. She willed her eyes to open further, allowing them to adjust more fully to the dusky blues and blacks, wondering what time it was, how long she'd been sleeping, where she was. She noticed the threadbare sheet draped over her legs, the closed door on the opposite side of the room. The rotting floorboards next, and the peeling wallpaper, like the left-behind, furled-up skin of a molted snake. Damp, wooden furniture, bloated and swollen from the humidity, scattered around the room. The heat was unbearable, like someone had left open the door to the stove. There was the pungent odor of rotting wood and termite dust, making her eyes water.
Taylor gasped and jerked back when she noticed the figure sitting in the corner, near the foot of the bed. Definitely a man, given the size of him. He was tucked away in the shadows, but he leaned forward now at having been spotted, resting his forearms on his thighs. There was just enough light leftover to make out the features of his clown mask. Her skin prickled in horrifying familiarity, flickering shades of memory coming back to her, returning for the briefest of moments before fading away to nothing. She thought back to the last thing she could remember, but her memories lie frustratingly just out of reach, like she might remember if only she were prodded or given some kind of stimulus.
"Who are you?" she asked, working hard to find her voice, even as it shook. Her mouth tasted dry, acrid, like it had been stuffed full of cotton balls. "What is this?" she weakly lifted her shackled arm as high as it allowed, indicating the IV.
"Relax," the figure said, his voice calm. Authoritative. It was almost soothing in the near-darkness. "It's saline. And TPN."
Taylor looked at her at arm again, realizing that it wasn't just an IV. Someone had inserted a double-lumen PICC line, or a large bore IV that was threaded through a vein in the upper arm and ascended all the way up the arm into a larger vein, one close to the heart. It would provide intravenous access for months, if needed. She used them frequently in the hospital for patients who needed long-term antibiotics or who were receiving medications that were highly vesicant—but they had to be inserted with an ultrasound machine, and it was a sterile procedure. Nothing about this environment indicated even a modicum of sterility.
"Who are you? Where am I?" Her vision swam as she tried to sit up on her elbows, but it was harder than she thought. Everything hurt. She felt as if she'd been pulverized to a fine dust and then somehow put back together again. Her head threatened to explode.
"You shouldn't be here."
"Please, I just—" she trailed off when the figure stood to his full height and began to approach. She made a noise high in her throat, pulling at the restraints; she couldn't even defend herself if she tried. "Please don't hurt me," she whimpered.
"Rest," he said. She watched him retrieve a needleless syringe of clear liquid from his pocket.
"Wait, don't!" She strained against the shackles, trying desperately to pull away as he connected the syringe to an open port along the IV tubing and pushed. The effects were not quite immediate. Her chest heaved as she stared up into the blank, empty eyes of the clown mask. The clown's mouth was blue, parted in an expression as if he'd been caught off guard. His nose and the rings around his eyes were also blue, and there were red swirls of paint on his cheeks. The eyebrows were red, poised to look sharp and angry looking. He stared down at her in a way that made goosebumps prickle along her skin. There was something so familiar about that mask. Why couldn't she remember?
Seconds later, she felt her lids fluttering closed of their own accord. A warm heaviness settled over her, pressing down on her from all sides.
As she slipped into unconsciousness, she thought she felt fingers brushing the sweat-slicked hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. She imagined it was Austin.
When she woke for the second time, it was to the excited chitter of birds outside, and sunlight streaming bright and hot through the slats in the window. She squeezed her eyes shut against the light, thought she heard the bang of a door slamming, but maybe she'd imagined it. She realized, somewhat distantly, there was gentle movement against her face. Her cheeks. A feather-light touch stroking along the angle of her jaw.
"Austin?" she croaked. Her mouth was sandpaper dry. Her lips cracked when she moved them, and something that tasted like grease and leather had left a sharp, filmy tang on her tongue. It took a long time for her eyes to open. Everything was so bright. The hand at her jaw paused in its movements, pulling back from her entirely. She heard a strange chuckle, a tittering sound, high-pitched and low all at once, something almost sinister. It didn't sound like Austin at all.
She turned towards the source of the noise, blinking hard against the onslaught of light. And then she was jolting, suddenly wide awake, gasping at that awful, familiar grin. The grease-white face. Black, bottomless eyes. That tight puckering of scar tissue, slathered in red, the sunlight crawling deep into all those crevices of ruined flesh, highlighting them as if for her benefit.
No. No.
Tears sprang to her eyes. She opened her mouth, but no sound would come out. Not at first.
"No," she managed, this time aloud, and her throat cracked, like the column of it was a log that had split in two. "I thought—I thought it was all a dream." She had to turn her head the other away, couldn't bear to look at him, at this monster. It was all coming back to her. All of it. Dr. Bishop and the fear toxin. Jason's death. Being kidnapped, dragged here, and drugged. The car crash. Austin. The therapy. How was she even still alive? "I thought it was a dream," she said again, squeezing her eyes shut tight, like if she said it enough times she could will it to be true. She could reverse this, go back, wake up in the safety of her own bed.
He pulled her back to her with him with just his voice. She looked up at him through blurry eyes.
"A dream?" The cot creaked as he leaned against it, hovering over her. She could smell him, this close, and she crinkled her nose, only, she couldn't pull away. "No, no. A nightmare," he said, his breath wafting over her, foul and rank. "But you're used to those, aren't you?" His jacket had fallen open, draping over her, heavy and solid, the sunlight catching on the sheen of metallics tucked along the inside—knives of all shapes and sizes, grenades, surgical scissors, pliers, other items she didn't dare identify. She felt the brush of silk against her arm, the shiny, salmon pink interior of his jacket, looking so much like raw, scalped flesh that it sent goose bumps prickling across her skin. Her eyes slid up to meet his and he smiled, like he knew what she was thinking.
"You know…" he began, staring somewhere off behind her for just a moment. "You're more resilient than I thought," he said, with a hint of annoyance. Anger. She watched him work his mouth, the hard, rigid line of his jaw as it pulled taut. "Thought you'd crack under the pressure. But here you are. A fucking miracle, you might say."
Taylor pressed her eyes shut. "Why didn't you kill me?" she cried. Death would have been better. She knew that now, understood it better than she ever had before. Death would have been kind, and she wanted it, now. She wanted it so badly.
The Joker grimaced. He shifted closer, slow in the way he raised his arms, wrapped both hands around the column of her throat, stretching his long fingers across the span of her neck, applying only a gentle pressure. A warning. A test, like he just wanted to feel the rapid fluttering of her pulse.
"It's not for lack of trying, you know." His fingers around her tightened, and her throat bobbed against his thumbs when she swallowed. "Thought our little therapy would leave you a slobbering, incoherent mess. That you'd be docile and stupid. A shell of a human. That's what I wanted." He frowned, and his eyes narrowed. "But you just. Won't. Die." His fingers tightened further, and all she had was the narrowing of her windpipe, the unadulterated hate in his eyes, startling in its intensity, its scintillating clarity. Her pulse at the mercy of his fingertips, and still she was trying to suck in air, arching her head back as far as it would go, fighting to escape his grip. The shackles rattled in the silence as she struggled to fight him.
"I thought that's what I wanted," he corrected. "That it'd be easier if you were dead. Then I wouldn't have to think about you so much. I just couldn't make up my mind about you. I was practically going caaa-razy. But I had a recrudescence of thought." He released her, finally, and she gasped for breath, over and over again, sucking in desperate lungfuls of air. She stared up at him, wild-eyed, chest heaving. He went on, unaffected. "We need each other, don't we?" he said, narrowing his eyes.
Taylor shook her head. Her tears had cut a clear path down her cheeks, through days' worth of dirt and grime, and she felt them now slipping over her jaw, down her neck.
"Please—"
"Sh, sh, let daddy finish." He shifted again, swaying a little as he leaned over her, like it was impossible for him to just be still for a moment. "You know, us men, we just don't express our feelings very well. It's hard for us." He tsked, like this was unfortunate. "But the truth is… there's a war happening, just underfoot, a game… and you're holding a very important piece, aren't you? A special card."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's a good thing you're still alive, you know. There's been, uh, a change of plans." He paused for dramatic effect, allowing Taylor's mind to churn, to wonder what exactly he was talking about. "Turns out I'm not the only one in want of what you have. That makes you a bit of a, uh, val-u-able com-mod-ity, doesn't it?"
The way he strung out the words made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She twisted against the restraints. Was this about the fear toxin? The cipher? What exactly did he think she knew?
"What are you talking about?" she cried. "Please, I'll—I'll give you whatever you want. Just let me go. Please, please."
"You will give me what I want." The certainty in his voice was terrifying. She watched the corner of his mouth curl into a smile. "And you'll do it willingly. You'll come to me." He leaned down over her, fitting his mouth near the shell of her ear. "I won't even have to push."
The way he said it—slow, sensual—made goose bumps prickle over her arms and legs all over again.
She turned her head away in defiance, and she felt him smile against her skin where he pressed his forehead against the side of her head.
"What makes you so sure?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
She jumped when she felt the warm, soft leather of his gloves on her face, his fingers cupping her chin, pulling her face back to him, so gentle, that deceptive softness, where only minutes before those same fingers had been wrapped around her throat, and she thought he would crush the life out of her. She didn't pull away this time when he spoke, even with his hot, fetid breath in her face. He drew closer to whisper.
"Because I've done it to you before."
The Joker let her simmer for another couple of days, let her think long and hard about their discussion. At least—that's what she assumed he was doing. And as for the time, she thought it had been a couple of days, but it was hard to keep track of the passage of time, how many days had gone by since she'd last seen him. She tried to count the number of sunrises and sunsets, but some days were cloudy, and all days felt as though she were passing through them as if enveloped in a fog, the kind so thick you could barely see two steps in front of you. She felt like she was not completely there—not lucid—like she was faraway, somehow, or removed, like she was seeing the world through some gossamer sheen.
It reminded her of a time she thought she had forgotten. When she was just a child, standing in the open doorway to the bedroom of foster parent number eleven, though, even then, at eight years old, it was hard to keep track, and the numbers had begun to blur. She remembered the sheer, white fabric strung up around the four posters of the bed, a canopy—something cheap just to keep the mosquitos out during the summer—and sheer enough that you could make out the outlines of the occupants inside, but only just. She'd stood, riveted, watching the gauzy, undefined shapes of two people moving against each other. She could remember the shock of seeing sex for the first time, the bitter shame of curiosity. The men were always different. And they never cared that she watched. One of the men, after a particularly rousing session lasting nearly an hour longer than most, found Taylor curled around the doorframe, too riveted to scamper away, or pretend she hadn't watched. He looked down at her and slipped a finger under her chin, asked if she'd enjoyed the show, and then departed with a wink, as if this particular sexual encounter had been a private performance just for her. Only after did her foster mother gather up the loose bills on the dresser and slam the bedroom door.
Days wore on into what felt like weeks. Throughout it all, she dozed in and out of a medically-induced sleep, having little strength to do much else. Sometimes it was a struggle just to keep her eyes open. Everything was muddled and dim. She felt as if she were perched on the rim of the world, high and away, looking down at things she could not really see.
Every so often, a man in a clown mask would come in and change out her IV bag, hang new tubing, or push more drugs that made her sleepy and docile. Sometimes she would be offered a sip of water—always warm, stale, tasting just a little too salty not to be tampered with—but she would gulp it down to the last drop all the same. It quenched her thirst for all of five minutes before it was back once again with a vengeance. Sometimes when it was offered to her, her hands would still be shackled, and they'd force it down faster than she could swallow, and she choked, and half of it ended up down the front of her white t-shirt, and all she could do was look away and try not to scream in frustration as she felt the eyes behind the clown mask burning hot all over her skin.
Afterwards, the man would unchain her and herd her into the bathroom so she could use the toilet. He stood in the doorway when she did—they all did, it didn't matter which one of them it was—and didn't look away. It was humiliating and degrading and made her face color in shame every time. Was the Joker making them do this, or did they all just enjoy humiliating her in this very specific way? She tried to hunch over herself, laying her elbows and the length of her forearms along her pressed-together thighs, burying her face in her hands, waiting for it to be over. Crying into her hands, even though no tears would come. She was so dry. So empty.
There were four different clown masks in all, four different men. After a while, she assigned them names based on the expressions on their masks.
Happy, Dopey, Grumpy, and Chuckles.
Curiously, the one who had been at her bedside when she'd first woken had never returned. She didn't have a name for him yet. He was the only one who'd ever spoken to her, and though they all terrified her, Taylor had decided she liked him the best. It was a bizarre thing—deciding which one of these monsters she liked more than the others—but there was something different about him. He hadn't participated in the shock "therapy", and he hadn't yet participated in the daily routine of hauling her out of bed just so he could stand over her in the doorway with crossed arms and smirk at her from behind his mask as she pissed or shit into the toilet. It was almost as if he didn't want any part in those things, as if, unlike the others, he didn't derive pleasure from it. Taylor felt like she might be able to appeal to him somehow, maybe if she got him alone, she could convince him to let her go, maybe he could help her escape.
Perhaps it was all wishful thinking, that he was somehow kinder and less of a monster than the others. But it was the only bit of hope she had to cling to, even if her hope grew thinner and thinner as time crawled slowly on. The reality of the situation was beginning to take its toll—the reality that no one was out there looking for her. No one was coming to save her. No one will come to save a dead girl. She was completely and utterly alone, and with that knowledge, the dawning awareness that she did not think she would be able to take much more of this. She wondered when it would end, if the Joker was perhaps just biding his time, keeping her here, sedated and docile, until he needed her, until he was ready.
But they couldn't keep her in this delirious haze forever. She could feel herself growing weaker, and it was a struggle simply focusing her thoughts on one thing for more than a couple of minutes before it began to drift away, out of reach.
The worst thing, though, even worse than being chained to the bed, worse than the drugs that held her on the fringes of reality, halfway between awake and sleep, worse than being dragged to the bathroom and then stared at lecherously from behind clown masks, worse than all of that was the agonizing, throbbing headaches that refused to abate.
It was the worst form of torture she'd suffered at the Joker's hands yet.
She'd had migraines throughout high school and college, always stress-induced—and she did have a lot of stress, back then—but usually a couple of Tylenol and a nap if she could spare one was enough to relieve the issue. But this constant throbbing—this pulsing, excruciating pressure inside her skull was unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. She hovered constantly on the precipice of her head feeling as though it was about to burst from the pressure, like her skull was just going to give way entirely. She writhed against her restraints, sheets tangled around her legs, sweating in the oppressive heat of the room as she yelled for someone to come, only, no one ever did.
And it took her a while, but eventually she came to realize that the feeling that lit up inside her when the men in clown masks came was relief. Pure, unfettered relief, wave after wave of it. She didn't care anymore that they stared at her on the toilet, or if they purposely spilled water down the front of her shirt just to see the way the thin material clung to her chest—which somehow never got old for them. Didn't care if they manhandled her too roughly, if they shoved her down on the bed or yanked her from it in a way that made her cry out in pain. None of it mattered so long as she got her drugs that eased the pain, that put her to sleep. That was all she wanted, just for the pain to let up, even if it was only temporary, even if it put her out, put her back onto the edges of the world where she couldn't see or understand what was going on.
For now, it was enough, and that was all that mattered.
She spent a long time trying to determine if they came at some discernable time, if the men operated on some sort of fixed schedule, if they worked in shifts. Was it twice a day? Four times a day? Five? It was impossible to tell with the way time bled on and on and on, like an open wound that just wouldn't clot. She had only the outside light to depend on as a source of timekeeping, and it was unreliable at best, especially given her delirium, her inability to cling to consciousness.
Despite the unreliability of the time, there was still a facet of routine she had become accustomed to; and when it was abruptly taken away—when the drugs stopped coming—the effects were immediate.
They still came, of course. Happy and Dopey and Grumpy and Chuckles. They still came to change out her IV bags, make sure she was still getting her TPN and fluids, but there were no more syringes filled with clear liquid, and she was no longer hit with that instant wave of relief she had become so accustomed to, a temporary respite from her throbbing skull that eventually faded into drowsiness, and then a forgiving sleep.
She became jittery. Restless. She alternated between shivering in the heat, goose bumps lit up, all over her skin, and sweating so much she had soaked through the sheets. This is what it must feel like to go crazy, she thought. She couldn't think about anything but her pain—not even the hopelessness of the situation could distract her from the crushing pressure ravaging her skull. Not Austin, not Jason, not the fear toxin, not the events that had all brought her here to this moment. All she knew was that she couldn't take it any longer. Where was the Joker?
Her ears prickled at the sound of footsteps outside the door, and she sat up as much as the shackles would allow, desperate to see who it would be this time. When it opened, the familiar visage of the clown she had dubbed as Happy stepped through, carrying a new bag of fluids and TPN with him. She licked her chapped lips and swallowed to find her voice, hoarse from disuse.
"Where's my medicine?"
She stared at Happy's mask—his high, sharp cheekbones, the sunken-in eyes painted blue. His red nose, like a bullseye, and his blue lips, which were pursed as if in perpetual judgment. The top of his mask had a tuft of electric blue hair, a Mohawk.
Happy did not reply, and she watched as he continued on about his task as if she hadn't said anything at all.
"Where is my medicine?" she repeated, more forceful this time. She knew she sounded frantic, harried, like a junkie desperate and needing their next fix.
It didn't dawn on her that was exactly what she was.
The clown paused, turning to look at her. When he lifted his mask, Taylor recoiled at the familiar swastika on his cheek. Ace. He grinned at her, more a barring of his teeth, and she noticed for the first time that his canines were sharpened, long and gleaming and white. She tried not to imagine what it would feel like to have those teeth sink into her tender flesh.
"So you do remember me." He smirked. "No medicine for you today, princess."
He resumed his ministrations, ignoring her, and Taylor wanted to scream. She struggled to swallow down her growing panic, clenching her hands into fists, allowing her nails to dig sharp crescents into the lines of her palms, a pain she barely felt.
"Please," she implored. "I need it. I—I can't take this anymore. My head feels like it's going to explode." It was the most she'd said in what felt like a long time, and the sound of her voice was strange, croaky and strained, one she hardly recognized, almost as if it wasn't hers at all.
"You'll have to take that one up with the boss." As an afterthought, he stopped what he was doing to lean in close, propping his forearm against the metal railing of the bed, resting his weight against it. His face suddenly hovered right in front of hers, and she squirmed from the proximity, having nowhere to go. He lowered his voice to a growl. "If it were up to me, I wouldn't even let you up to go to the bathroom. Let you piss and shit yourself in the bed. Fucking cunt."
Taylor met his glare head-on. "Fuck you," she spat, through gritted teeth.
Ace smirked and straightened to his full height. "You'd be so lucky."
Taylor wasn't sure how much time passed after that, but she woke drenched in sweat and panting hard, knowing that something was wrong when there was a pressing pain in her bladder. No one had come to take her to the bathroom. She thought at first she'd slept through it and they simply hadn't woken her, but then she noticed that the bag of IV fluids had run dry. They'd never let that happen before. The TPN was nearing its end, too. She shifted in the bed as much as her restraints would allow. She felt wide awake for the first time in a long time, the fog lifted, and the sudden clarity was so much worse than she could have ever imagined.
Her skull pounded and throbbed, and she threw her head back against the mattress and shouted, long and hard, her back arching involuntarily from the mounting pressure in her skull. She gripped the metal railings on either side of her with a vice, knuckles shiny and white, chest heaving. The pain was excruciating. She wanted to die. She just wanted to fucking die.
The pain reached a fever pitch that made her scream.
She yelled for hours, even when it was dark and she couldn't see, she didn't stop. She screamed until there was nothing left, until her throat was tender and raw. They had to come for her eventually. The Joker had said he needed her, that she had an important "card".
Why aren't they coming?
Afterwards she lay panting and soaked in her own sweat, her body slick, damp hair matted to her face, clinging to the back of her neck. Nausea came on fast and hard, and she felt the burn of bile crawling up her throat, hurried and unwanted, and she jerked her head over the side of the railing just in time to expel something tan and watery.
She panted over the side of the bed, exhausted, fighting to catch her breath. A thin bead of sweat slid down the side of her face, curving towards her chin, and she sat up to wipe it away with her shoulder, wishing her hands were free, wishing the room would stop spinning, wishing she didn't hurt so much. She let her head fall back against the thin mattress and cried.
Finally gripped by the hands of exhaustion, she slipped into a fitful slumber, not awake, but not quite asleep, either. She was roused back into consciousness sometime later, drenched in another cold sweat, though her body felt like it was burning from the inside out. She touched her cheek to her shoulder, could feel the hot skin there. Her head, similarly, felt hot and stuffed too full and threatened to split in two. She closed her eyes against the pressure, trying to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth, count to ten, to twenty, to thirty, but nothing helped, and the pain continued to grow with an urgency she could not ignore.
It was morning now, if the shades of gray light outside were any indication, and quiet, too, in a way that was more than a little unsettling. Usually she could hear the birds in the morning, or night things, the occasional sound of gravel shifting outside, the slam of a car door, some distant thump or bang to remind her that she was not entirely alone. But now she could hear nothing but the sound of her own labored breathing. She groaned and sat up on her elbows, craning her neck to look towards the IV pole, where now two bags were empty instead of one. She shifted and crossed her legs. She really had to pee. She didn't know how much longer she could hold it.
She yelled for someone to come, but it came out more as a croak. She looked towards the closed door across the room, as if she could see beyond it. Where was everyone? Had they forgotten about her? Had they all left? Maybe they'd gotten what they wanted from someone else, and now they'd left her here to die, chained to a bed, left her to starve to death.
She looked at the IV pole again, suddenly struck with an idea. The IV tubing was still attached to her, and, after some maneuvering, the shackles allowed her enough leeway so that she could reach out and grab the tubing that was draped over the rail. She coiled a handful of it into a fist so she'd have enough slack so as not to accidentally rip out her PICC when she sent the IV pole crashing to the ground.
Which is exactly what happened next when she tugged on the remaining line and sent the pole clattering to the floor. The resulting bang was satisfying to her ears, and she allowed herself a small smile and a celebratory moment of triumph, waiting impatiently for the sound of footsteps, for someone to burst through the door, even if in anger.
So she waited, and waited, and still no one came.
"PLEASE!" she shouted.
A sharp, cruel pain in her lower abdomen, like the twisting of knife. She sobbed, open mouthed, without restraint, drooling onto her own bare thighs, snot dripping down her face.
And suddenly, the shame and humiliation of letting go, unable to control it anymore; the hot, foul stench of her urine between her thighs, soaking her shorts, the sheets, the mattress. She cried even harder, chin to her chest, wanting so badly for all of this to be over.
The relief of her unclenched bladder was too momentary—afterwards, her lower abdomen felt sore and tight, and she felt the urge to go again, only there was nothing left.
It was worse when it dried—the smell—and the tacky, sticky reminder of it between her legs.
She slept some after that, tossing and turning as much as the shackles could allow, her face pinched in pain, even in sleep, her skull composing a symphony that consisted only of war drums, hungry and cacophonous, some shrill battle cry for a war she wanted no part in.
The door surged open, then. A sound so unexpected that she shot upright in bed, making the shackles rattle against the metal railing. A second, only to orientate herself, and then the Joker, standing in the doorway, as if he had been there all this time, simply waiting for this exact moment.
There was no time or foresight to mull over the feelings of pure, unfettered relief that washed over her at the sight of him.
"Please, please," she cried, stretching herself towards him as far as her restraints would allow. "I need my medicine, please, my head hurts so much," she babbled. She was trembling in need of it, slick, drenched in her own sweat. Dried piss. It didn't even occur to her to feel embarrassed or ashamed. Her head throbbed so hard, the pressure behind her eyes so intense she could barely see straight. That was all there was, nothing else.
He stalked towards her slowly, his eyes hooded and dark, and she tried to watch him approach, but her gaze kept slipping. There was one Joker and then there was two, and one moment he was on one side of the bed and when she blinked he was on the other. She reached out to grip the railings for support, straining towards him, feeling dizzy and hot.
She noticed his eyes drift towards the fallen IV pole, and then to the yellowed sheets—her obvious accident—and he shook his head and tsked.
"What an awful mess you've made. You've been a very bad girl, haven't you?"
She shook her head as if to refute him, as if to say she didn't mean to, it was an accident.
"I'm sorry," she cried, "I'll be better. Just—please, please, help me."
Taylor cried out suddenly, struck by a sharp pain, forced to lower her head, pressing it down into the space her folded together thighs had created. The sudden wave was excruciating and intense, like her brain was trying to force itself out of her skull. She clenched her hands into fists and was panting and breathless by the time it had subsided. She weakly raised her head to find the Joker was still standing over her, staring. Riveted.
"Please help me," she whispered. She was shaking, dripping with sweat, eyes blurred with tears.
"I told you we needed each other, didn't I?" She watched his throat bob as he swallowed, and then he was he was crouching near the side of the bed, resting on his haunches so that Taylor had to lean up and over the railing to look down at him. "Didn't I?" he pressed.
She nodded vigorously, even though it made her head throb even more. She watched him with wide eyes, afraid that if she blinked, he might suddenly disappear.
"Say it then."
"I—I do, I do need you. I'm sorry." Her voice trembled as she pulled herself closer to him, as close as her restraints would allow. It was shameful, her lack of self-control, how desperately she begged for him, but her disgrace meant nothing. She would have said anything—done anything—for just a sliver of relief. A moment was all she needed, just that. She'd never felt so crazy, so manic for relief.
"Are you going to be a good girl now? Have you learned your lesson?" He tilted his head at her, and she was too drunk on pain to catch the way his eyes glimmered, or the small, satisfied upturn of the corner of his mouth.
"Yes, yes," she said, choking over the words in her haste to get them out. "Please give me the medicine. I—I promise I'll be good. Please."
"Shush, shush, shush," he cooed. He reached up to brush the sweat-slicked hair from her eyes, tuck a strand of it behind her ear. She didn't stop him. He stood to his full height. "I'll give you what you need."
She watched him, desperate and trembling, as he disconnected the IV tubing from her arm, let it fall to the floor to join the empty bags there. Then there was a syringe in his hand with clear liquid, and Taylor panted at the sight of it and moved to bring herself closer, suddenly finding him within reach and gripping his forearm. Their eyes met, and for a second Taylor feared she had overstepped her bounds, reaching out for him like this, but he didn't shake her off, and his touch was surprisingly gentle as he used both hands to connect the syringe to the port, and then gripped her lower arm to keep it steady as he administered the drug. She watched the clear liquid disappear, and he followed it with another syringe, a saline flush to drive the rest of the medicine through the line, and the relief was almost instant. She fell back against the mattress, her eyes rolling back into her head, and, oh, nothing had ever felt so good. She closed her eyes, felt her whole body uncoiling, leaving her numb and weightless. She felt as though she were on a cloud. She'd been holding so much tension inside her for so long, she hadn't even realized.
A few minutes later, her headache had been reduced to a dull throb, no longer that sharp, stabbing pain from before, and she shuddered in relief, finally feeling somewhat human again. She kept her eyes closed, felt sleep drifting near….
"You smell foul."
Taylor jerked awake, releasing his arm. She had forgotten the Joker was even there. She forced herself to swallow, her throat dry, trying to force out the words that were lodged there. It was a moment before she spoke.
"How much longer are we going to play this game?" she croaked.
He leaned in close, leveling his gaze with hers. "We haven't even started it yet."
Taylor breathed hard through her nose. She closed her eyes for a moment, where they burned with unshed tears. "I just want to go home. I'll—I'll give you whatever you want. I'll give you the cipher, please, I'm ready now, I'll—I'll tell you."
The hairs on her arms stood on end as the Joker cupped her face in his hands, searching her eyes. "You will tell me. But not yet."
"Why?!" Taylor tried not to cry, biting down hard on her bottom lip. "I don't want to do this anymore, please let me go, I won't tell anyone—"
"You won't tell anyone? Well, isn't that just sweet of you, thinking of my sparkling reputation." He let go of her and cocked his head. "Such a sweet girl."
She startled when he undid her restraints, letting the cuffs dangle against the railing. She rubbed her wrists with both hands as he lowered one of the rails.
She looked at him, confused—hopeful—but he only jerked his head towards the bathroom, and she slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed. It felt good to put her feet on the floor, and she had to allow herself a moment to gather her strength before she could stand.
Her legs shook as she walked the short distance to the bathroom. Halfway there, she stopped in her tracks to eye the open door, the carpeted hallway that lay just beyond, the tantalizing possibility of escape right there—and then she felt the Joker just behind her, his presence a heavy, solid warning, and she knew she would not make it far. Not now, not when she could hardly stand, not when she hadn't eaten in days—weeks—however long it'd been.
She stepped inside the bathroom, feeling unsure and nervous—usually they manhandled her all the way to the toilet, forcing her to sit down. But the Joker had yet to put his hands on her. When she turned around to look at him, she was startled to discover he was not there.
"Wait!" she blurted.
The word was out of her mouth before she even realized what she was saying. She rushed back to the doorway just a he slipped back into it, filling it up with his bulk, cocking his head down at her, and Taylor flushed in embarrassment. He raised his brows as if to say, what?, and she backed herself against the sink, flustered, unsure of how to respond.
"I just—I thought you were going to leave."
Of course he isn't going to leave, she thought. He has to chain you back up to the bed when you're finished.
"You need me to stay and watch? Make sure you wipe front to back?"
Taylor recoiled. "N—no," she stammered.
"Didn't think so."
He was gone again, only, she could see his shadow just outside the frame of the door, and she allowed herself to relax, even if she hated herself for wanting him to stay in the first place. This was so fucked up.
Maybe that was when it all started. She couldn't tell for sure.
All she knew was that his presence should not have been a comfort. Relief should not have washed over her so heavily the way it did, whenever he entered the room. She should not have spent so much time thinking about him, wondering when he was going to come back and give her more medicine. She became sick with need for it. The other men in clown masks still came, replaced her fluids, led her to the bathroom, like taking the dog out for its daily walk, but only the Joker took care of her headaches. There was no way to tell when he would come, or how often, and waiting for him was just as agonizing as the headaches themselves, not knowing when she was going to get her next dose. Her next hit.
She didn't even know what it was he was giving her, all she knew was that she needed it, craved it constantly, and judging by the amount in the syringe, he was giving her quite a lot of it. Was it morphine? Hydromorphone? Maybe fentanyl? That should have worried her—not knowing what exactly it was that he was feeding her day after day—and maybe somewhere in the back of her hindbrain, it did. But the more primitive part of her just craved it constantly, wanting it, sick with the need for that instant rush of relief.
Her anxiety crawled over her skin like a tangible thing, something long-legged and spindly.
Taylor woke with a gasp, something heavy falling onto her lap. She jolted into a sitting position, seeing the Joker in her peripheral, his purple suit drawing closer, and when she looked down at the offending item, she exhaled in surprise, instinctively trying to draw her hands to it, only to have them stopped by the cuffs. She looked up at the Joker with an imploring expression, but he was already undoing the right one cuff, and then leaning across the bed to do the left.
The second she was free, she tore into the wrapping and peeled off the paper layers to reveal the sandwich inside. It was thick and stuffed with different meats and cheeses, topped with pepperonis and onions and tomatoes and black olives and mustard and vinaigrette. She took a large bite and all the flavors burst onto her tongue at once. It was heavenly. It was bliss. She'd never tasted anything so good. She wolfed it down as fast as she could chew, and when the Joker handed her a plastic cup, the outside slick with condensation, she popped the plastic lid off the top and grabbed it with both hands, downing the whole thing in one go until just the ice cubes were left. God, ice cubes. She wanted to keep them, savor them. She let one slide into her mouth and the crunch as she bit into it was so satisfying. It melted on her tongue in a way that was practically orgasmic.
Only after did she pay notice to the Joker's presence, standing above her, watching her with his dark eyes, unreadable as ever. She flushed beneath the intensity of his burning gaze. She must have looked like a pig. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Licked her lips. It was tempting to ask what had inspired this sudden act of benevolence, but she kept her mouth shut instead, hopeful that, if she did, there might be a possibility this could become a reoccurring treat.
"What do we say?" he prompted, as if she were a child who'd forgotten their manners.
"Thank you," she murmured. It was revolting to have to thank him for this basic human necessity, given everything he'd done. Given everything that he was. She didn't meet his eyes, but she felt them on her, heavy and too hot, and she shifted uncomfortably. When he moved to replace her restraints, she pulled away from him at the last second.
"Wait," she said, knowing she had taken him by surprise. She did meet his gaze then. "Could you leave them off for a while? My wrists are—raw." She kept her voice small, non-threatening, barely even daring to breath after she'd spoken. She rubbed her wrists to show him where the metal had bitten into her skin, how it was raw and red and inflamed. In one spot below her left wrist, the skin had broken and there were lines of dried blood running down the length of her forearm. He traced those line with his eyes now, and for some reason it made her shiver, the look in his eyes, and it was as if he were running his fingertips down those red lines instead.
He pretended to mull over it, making a show of rolling his eyes skyward, squinting his eyes, as if he couldn't make up his mind. She bit in her lip in anticipation.
"I suppose we can give it a try," he acquiesced. "Show me what a big, grown-up girl you are." He cuffed her on the chin, and she turned her face away, disgusted.
Days wore on into weeks—she had a better sense of the time now that she was fully conscious. Whatever they had been administering before to keep her sedated was no longer a part of her routine. She was grateful for it, even if it made the days feel impossibly long, time stretching into this indefinite shape, minutes warping into what felt like hours, hours into days. Days felt like years.
They fed her every day now, some little treat; always just once a day, and always some type of takeout or fast food, something that could be wrapped in foil, thrown into a take-out box and eaten cold. Sometimes they brought cheeseburgers and fries, or a slice of pizza, maybe a chicken quesadillas, or a hot dog loaded with the works.
She was awarded more freedoms, too.
She was kept in a different room, now, one on a lower floor, but still too high up for her to consider jumping from the window. This one was boarded as well, although it allowed in slightly more light than her previous rooms.
Another freedom: she was no longer kept confined to the bed, although this was a small liberty, as the door to her room was always locked from the outside. At least now she could take herself to the bathroom. The shower was broken, and the sink let out periodic spurts of water that was brown when she turned on it. The color didn't change no longer how long she let it run.
She asked for a bucket of water and a towel, and it was granted along with a bar of generic soap. She sat on the rim of the tub and stripped off her clothes and scrubbed herself till her skin was pink and nearly raw, and it felt like Heaven, just being clean again. She used the remaining water to wash her clothes, laying them on the floor in front of the window where the sun could touch them to allow them to dry. She sat on the rim of the tub for a long time, a towel cinched beneath her armpits, feeling restless and trying not to think about how much her head throbbed.
The headaches were less frequent, now, but she still depended on the medicine, still felt her heart skip a beat with relief when the Joker came with his syringes, the medicine already having been drawn up.
When he stood over her, she obliged by extending out her arm to him without having to be asked—and he needn't ask. She needed whatever it was he was feeding to her, and they both knew it. She was well past the point of addiction.
It should have frightened her, knowing this—but the high she got from it was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She floated for an hour, sometimes two, on a soft cloud of her own design. Lying on the floor in a patch of sunlight, thinking about Austin, or her mother, before she died. The good moments only, the stuff that made her feel light, airy, like if she didn't dig her fingers into the fibers of the carpet, she just might float up and away.
The days wore further on. She wondered what was happening in the outside world. Wondered about Austin, her dad. Surely there had been a funeral by now, or some kind of memorial. She wondered if Austin's parents had come—if her own father, who hadn't stepped outside the house in years—had come. Wondered if there was a reception afterwards. She didn't think Austin would have wanted that. She imagined him going straight home, or maybe driving somewhere far away, like that park in Hammonton, where he could have just sat by the lake and been alone.
Strange, to think of your own funeral in this way while you were still very much alive.
Coming down like this—that was always the worst, when the medicine began to fade, the effects wearing thin. Some days it was better than others, but today she cried, tears sliding slowly down her cheeks, every sensation feeling strangely heightened, the scratchy carpet beneath her bare skin, the sun so warm on her face and limbs, the gentle sound of the wind pushing through the trees outside, like a caress.
She didn't notice the shadow at first, but after a moment, the lack of warmth on her skin became apparent, and she opened her eyes and startled at the two men in clown masks standing over her. She shifted back some on her elbows, looking up at them.
"What—what do you want?" she stuttered.
It was Ace—"Happy"—and another clown she had deemed Chuckles. His mask had sunken in cheekbones, red rings around black eyes, and a red mouth shaped in a frown. The mouth was slightly parted to indicate a sliver of teeth, and something metal gleamed from the inside, as if the clown's mouth had been sewn shut with metal, but only partially. His defining feature was his ears that stuck out on either side of the mask. There was a small, hoop earring on the left one.
Ace was holding a small stack of folded clothes, which he threw at her, where they landed with a thump on her abdomen.
"Time to get up. We're not running a fucking day spa."
Taylor swallowed, eyes darting between the two of them, as if she could somehow read their expressions from behind their masks.
"Where are we going?"
"Boss man has big plans for you, princess." Somehow she could hear the smirk in his voice. His boots scraped against the floor as he took a step closer. "Get the fuck up."