DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the Joker or any other DC characters, only Julie and other OC's I implement into this book.

Crime & Chaos

" UNWANTED GUEST "

by alwaysgeia

Stalkers aren't brooding admirers. They love the idea of reducing a human to a terrified, quivering heap of tears that would do anything they demand. They destroy the life you're trying to build for yourself until you're living for nothing but them. They're abusive to disturbing extremes. Talking to them is pointless; they see it as the beginning of a negotiation they intend to win. In other words, in every interaction, they're setting you up to lose.

Unlike an abusive relationship you think you can live with, they're making you guess whether the next thing they do will be to kill you or someone you love. A possessive admirer isn't what a stalker acts like. The possessive admirer probably has some boundaries they won't cross and a sense of self-preservation. A stalker doesn't. They'll take you down with them if they don't get what they want, and what they want is to take you down. Piece. By. Piece.

Julie dropped the card and stepped back into something solid. Brawny arms wrapped around her waist and arms before she could react and she yelled out, thrashing her legs. The person who held her hostage had let loose maniacal cackles, their grip on her figure painful. Bella had her hackles up and tail puffed, hissing profusely. Useless fucking cat, I should've got a dog.

"Let go!" She threw her head back and head-butted the man's jaw. A howl of laughter eluded him as his grip slackened, making it easier for her to escape his grip.

Shoving him off, she tried stabbing his side with the sharp-side of the key, but he dodged.

"You're lucky I didn't bring my, uh, toys, toots. It woulda' been a real party if I did."

"Stay away from me!" Julie had her key pointed at him like a handgun, arms extended to keep him at a distance, but an actual gun would've been useful right about now. Well, she knew now that he was much more terrifying in full makeup than without.

Up close to him now, she almost fainted. Like that day in the bank, his face was smothered with chalky white greasepaint, lips painted with vermilion and his eyes... his eyes were endless inky pits of darkness.

"Let's not be too hasty, Juuulie." He circled around her with his hands out in defence, gesturing towards her. She stayed silent, jerking the key to remind him. "Was your, uh, pop as feisty as you are?" A mocking giggle escaped his marred mouth.

She lunged at him and tried to stab his side again. How fucking dare he mention my dad again.

With a swift dodge of the metal once again, he grabbed her arm and twisted it, making her yell out and buckle to the floor. He used a heavy boot to kick her stomach, forcing her further into the woven floor.

Julie heard a crack and was sure one or two of her ribs were broken and she cried out in pain. Her back hit the floor and he straddled her like last time. Her head had also smacked the floor on impact, causing her to hiss through her teeth. Trying to smack him with her small hands, he struggled to keep her still enough to grab them. "Hold still."

"No!" She wouldn't stop, not even when her torso felt like it was going to rip in half. He managed to grasp her wrists in his hands; she had a little more fight in her this time.

Her chest rose and fell. The room turned deadly silent.

The only sounds audible were her own heavy breathing and his raspy panting.

"This position sure is familiar." He grinned, his breath wafting into her face. Did he ever brush his teeth?

It was barely a whisper, but she managed a "what do you want?", her voice hoarse from the screaming.

Ignoring her, he used one of his large hands to clamp it around her wrists, rummaging in a pocket. A pencil grasped tightly in his fist.

She instantly went into retaliation mode and tried thrashing around again, fearing that he'd stick a pencil through her skull, too. Cackles vibrated through the air.

"You haven't even heard the joke yet, toots! Talk about, uh, ruining the moment-ah," he looked at the pencil with mild interest, "you scared of pencils, Juuulie?"

"You stuck one through someone's head, you psycho!"

"Let's be civil here, no name-calling. It's rude," he cleared his throat, smacking his lips, "And, uh, no. I'm not a psychopath; I do feel, y' know, like, ah... I feel real, formless... and 'lotta arousal." As she looked away and cringed silently, the purple-clad man threw his head back to push his brown-tinged-green hair away from his face, "a man has needs."

This would be a fun little thing to pass time, he thought, it was divinely contrasting compared to his days of blood, torture, murder, gun, knives... After he broke his little red-head, his boredom would take over and he'd toss her over his shoulder, grab her dainty waist and watch the life drain from her sun-kissed face. Warm and serene turning to shame and ignominy. Oh, to see her pretty little face turn ugly. He'd tear her open eventually, and then, she'd be on her knees, begging.

He dropped his face down to her calibre and lowered the pencil, pressing into the sore bruise on her forehead. She hissed through gritted teeth and his voice became quiet and harsh. "And actually, I stuck it through his eye."

Unbelievable.

"You're crazy-"

He scoffed lightly, his tone comical, "you know, I've been called crazy twice this week."

Tossing the pencil aside with a snarl and an aggressive thrust of his arm, he bowed his head, the proximity between them growing smaller. Frantic and wide-eyed, her attention diverted away from his stained and scarred face to instead stare at the neutral-grey wall. He fidgeted in his pocket for a second and pulled out a pocket knife, propping it against her cheek.

"Wanna know how I got these scars?" He smacked his lips, darting his eyes around the living room, pupils glancing between hanging pictures. "My father was a drinker, see, he used to down five cans of beer every night... smoked weed, the usual for long and boring weekdays. My mother and father argued every night until one day; she got sick of it. Hey." He gripped her head of hair harshly to face him when she started to struggle and thrash her arms, "she kicked him out of the house. Three weeks later, they found his body hung on a tree..."

"Stop it!" Fresh hot tears fell down her delicately rosy cheeks. Daddy wasn't here to wipe them away anymore.

The knife pressed into her cheek more, a slither of blood stained the blade and her skin. As he spoke, he rubbed the blood around her face with gloved fingers. This simply wouldn't do, he thought.

"The grief was overwhelming for me, so I did this to myself to distract me from the intense pain I felt on the inside..." he pointed to his scars, gesturing his hand dramatically over his heart. A mockery of her pain.

After a few seconds of debating, Julie released the hold her teeth had over her witty tongue, a ghost of a murmur spilling out. "Shouldn't you be putting a bullet between someone's eyes right now instead of harassing a college student?"

Instead of the knife cutting her face identical to his, the only response she got was a quiet giggle and a smack of his lips and they made eye contact. Coffee irises met olives. Dark met light. Insane met sane. It was the first time they'd really looked at each other.

"How about between yours?" He imitated a gun with his hand, the knife clutched in his fist, "pshhh..." he lowered the knife to her mouth.

Julie flinched and tried to steer her head away, a cry escaping her trembling lips.

"Shh, sh, sh, sh, sh..." The man in purple dug the knife into her mouth as his tongue licked the inside of his cheeks in concentration. She stared at him, waited for him to look at her whilst he cut open her mouth, but he didn't. Not once. Did he ever look into the eyes of his victims as he ended their lives?

Her body jolted and squirmed as she felt the blade pierce the inside of her mouth, choked sobs erupting from her throat. The cold blade vanished from her maw and she instinctively licked the tiny dribble of blood from the corner of her mouth.

It seemed an idea popped up in his diabolical head. He tilted his head to the side slightly and made a move to grab her jaw with his iron grip, prying her mouth open. Before she could react with an uttermost disgust, he stabbed the knife into her tongue, carving into the fleshy organ. As she screamed, he let loose a moan. A sadist.

Choked screams left her throat as the blood pooled and she tried to push his shoulders back, scratched his arms, kicked her legs around. Nothing fazed him. A dozen seconds passed and he removed the knife.

A very jagged 'J' letter was carved into her tongue; blood seeped out from the deep wound. Hot, clear tears dripped down her face like waves, mixing in with the otherwise opaque blood. The pulsing of her severed tongue was loud in her ears. Blood was filling and dripping out of her mouth.

"Are ya gonna tell anyone?"

She shook her head.

"Promise?" She nodded, "atta girl."

"And if you break your promise, let's just say... Mama won't be around any more."

Her lip quivered.

"Just co-op-er-ate, Jules, and everything will run smoothly."

A car pulled into the driveway from outside the house and he peered over his shoulder to look out of the window. "Speak of the devil."

Walking over to the back door, he opened it and went to walk out, but made a short 'ooh' sound and looked over at Julie. "Don't miss me too much, toots. I'll be in touch."

And he left.

Realising the severity of the situation, she clamped her hand over her mouth to prevent more spillage of blood and ran upstairs as she heard a car door slam. As she reached the bathroom, blood spilt out into the sink from her mouth, her arms gripping the sides of it to hold herself up (and to prevent her passing out from blood loss and the possibility of a broken rib). She couldn't tell her mum (she was a nurse); she'd ask why she was harming herself or the Joker would kill her, she couldn't go to the hospital either because she'd have to go alone and if she went alone he could be scurrying around the corners like a cockroach.

That night, she had had a shower, had an ice-pack pressed into her cheek every 2-3 hours, and called her friend, Beth, to ask if she could sleepover. They lived close, about a 10-minute walk. Her home no longer felt safe.

Before she could knock her knuckles on the welcoming white door, the door swung open. She realised she never even told her mum, but she knew this was something she did frequently - sneaking out.

"Hey, Julie. I saw you at the window and-" Beth looked at the ice-pack, "Oh my god, what happened?"

Well, she couldn't say, but she could lie. With a short, forced laugh, "I fell and bit my tongue really bad."

"Ouch. What did your mom say?"

"Oh, um, I haven't told her. It's only a small cut." She forced a smile, walking into Beth's home. It had always been a scapegoat for her when times were hard, like when her dad passed and her mum turned to alcohol. That was only one instance.

"Can you come with me to the hospital tomorrow? I think my rib's broken. I hit it when I fell." (On what? A steel-capped boot?) With a concerned nod, Beth suggested they watch a movie and watch a movie they did. Though disappointed about eating soft foods for a week or so, chicken soup was always a favourite of hers.

He lingered still in her mind. A constant reminder that she was never safe. Always alone with this burden.