Preview: ...wanna know how I got my scars?
The forest quietly ruffled its leaf curls. One, vividly green leaf tore off the tree and spiraled down until fell right up to Johnathan and Winnifred's feet. They were sitting on the lonely bench in the middle of the forest. Winnifred's face was strained, looking intently into the thicket, trying to find some branch to hold on to. Johnathan took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead.
"You'll have to find work," he quietly noticed.
"Yeah, I'll manage." The wind ruffled her beige skirt, flanking it around her feet. Winnifred crackled her fingers, intertwining them into painful knot, trying to get rid of the bitter feeling in her head.
"This doesn't seem real. It's as if I woke up and can't fall asleep anymore."
"It's always like that," Johnathan tiredly replied, resting his forehead on his fist. The glasses loosely dangled in his fingers.
"But tonight, you're going to go to bed, fall asleep. The first morning will be bad, but as you pass your day, go to bed, fall asleep, wake up, the following mornings will lose their bitterness, and in about a week, you feel better."
Winnifred heavily sighed, leaning back on the bench and pressing both of her hands on her forehead. Johnathan leaned back as well, twisting the glasses in his long fingers.
"Don't worry. This is exactly what Heath wanted."
"For me to feel this way?"
"Winnifred, don't be so harsh on him."
"He killed a person," Winnifred bitterly retorted, eyes fixed on the summer leaf lying on the ground.
"How am I supposed to feel? You're a psychologist, answer me."
"Psychologists can't answer every question in the world," Johnathan wearily parried, slapping his glasses together and tucking them into his breast pocket.
"The two possible options for you is either to get over everything, or chew it until you mentally deteriorate your nerve cells. Just saying that you didn't lose everything. "
He stood up and offered his hand. Winnifred took it with a sigh. They silently walked over to the dormitory. It was as bleak as always. Johnathan turned on the lights and walked over to the kitchen. Winnifred took off her shoes and walked into the living room. The desk was heaped with papers. Winnifred looked between them with fading interest, then switched on the TV.
"As for next week's forecast, there's a ninety percent chance of violent showers and lightning."
"Watch how next week's going to be all sunny and hot," Johnathan sarcastically commented behind her. Winnifred slightly smirked and followed him into the kitchen. There was a bottle of vodka and two little glasses next to it. Johnathan was cutting the bread, cigarette in between his teeth.
"I don't think I'll drink today, Johnny," Winnifred smiled, sitting down. Johnathan shrugged, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.
"I had a surgery this morning. Not that it's a good excuse."
"How did it turn out?" Winnifred wondered, observing how Johnathan puts the bread down on a small plate and pours in himself some of the alcohol.
"The patient died."
"Oh." Winnifred took the bread and stuffed it in her mouth. It was dry, the richness gone from it a few weeks ago.
"Why did you get so drunk on the party?" Johnathan asked, taking a sip of vodka. It took a while for Winnifred to answer.
"I thought I saw Jack," she finally said, gulping down the bread. "I didn't want to remember Maine, so I did the most obvious thing to forget."
Johnathan chuckled and walked over to the window. It was just noon. Winnifred played around with the empty glass.
"When are you leaving?"
"In two and half months."
"Did your press conferences start yet?"
"Yes. I'm almost there."
"Then what are you going to do? After you get your doctorate."
Johnathan took a sip of alcohol before he answered her.
"Probably teach at Gotham university. They have a section for phobias."
"You?! A teacher?!" Winnifred laughed, shaking her head. "You hate kids!"
"Just for the beginning," Johnathan walked over to the table, putting his hand on the back of Winnifred's chair. Winnifred leaned back, the glass still rotating in her fingers.
"Do you think we'll see Heath soon?"
"Not soon," Johnathan sighed out the smoke. "But not never." Winnifred lowered the glass, then stood up and made it toward the doorway.
"Alright, I'm going to go, okay? Auntie will be worrying."
Johnathan nodded and wordlessly walked over to the window. He heard the door close behind Winnifred. His eyes traveled outside, on the barely visible road. There was a faint sound of a vehicle, most likely a van, hovering above the tips of the pine trees. Johnathan sighed and closed the window, dropping the cigarette on the ground outside.
The small truck rumbled across the uneven ground. Based on the amount of loops and turns, Heat assumed they were already in Gotham. He eyed the man sitting opposite of him, chained in the same handcuffs as him. A sly grin stretched across his face.
"It was a good joke, right Jack?"
"Fuck you," Jack grimaced in disdain. Heath raised his eyebrows.
"You wanted to put me behind the bars using Falcone. I'm not an idiot. So," Heath smirked, "I took your organized scheme and disorganized it. Pretty smart, huh?"
Jack just showed him his middle finger. Heath chuckled and looked away. Suddenly, the van jerked. The two prisoners were abruptly tossed to the side.
"What the..." Jack muttered, but he wasn't able to finish his sentence. The van crashed on the asphalt falling upside down. The lightbulb shattered into pieces, Heath was harshly thrust on his back, and everything went black.
[…]
His eyes snapped open the next second. Cold sweat laced his forehead, streaking down his temples and onto his already damp hair. Heath tried to feel something with his palms, soaked in sweat, but he couldn't tell anything. Something simmered down his mouth. Heath slightly tasted it with his tongue. It was blood. Heath cautiously raised his hand towards his face, for the first time aware that there was glass, probably from the shattered bulb, on his face. He carefully closed his eyes and mouth and began brushing the little glass shards off his face. His fingers caught on one that didn't budge. The movement only made it sink in deeper. Not opening his eyes, Heath groped around the glass surface, getting a good hold on it, and yanked it off his face. A tiny rivulet of blood streamed down from the cut. Heath warily opened his eyes and carefully turned onto his stomach. His palms landed on the brushed off shards, instantly hovering above. Heath's eyes narrowed.
"Jack?"
No one answered. Heath pressed his cut-covered lips and carefully began sliding forward on his stomach, tentative to stand up. The shards crumpled underneath his body. Heath carefully made it to the doors and slightly pushed it open. Instantly, four rough arms pulled him out. The light harshly hit into his face, making Heath shut his eyes for a brief second. Once he opened his eyes, he saw that he was surrounded by people with guns. Falcone was standing in front of him.
"Ah, Mister Heath," The Roman gave a short smile. "I thought you will never make it to Gotham."
"Yeah, the drivers weren't very fast," Heath eyed what it seemed like two dead bodies lying behind Falcone's thugs. His eyes shifted back to the mafiosi.
"I'm not sure if I can thank you for the rescue just yet."
"Keep your thanks," Falcone retorted, watching how his men helped Browning out of the truck.
"Hey there, banker. My man told me you had a bad day."
"Greetings," Jack growled, sending a loathsome glance on Heath. Something between hatred and triumph passed on his face. Falcone looked back at Heath.
"You might wonder why I saved you with all my unsentimental character."
"No, I don't," Heath quietly responded, glancing from side to side as he was fully aware of the two thugs standing behind him. His eyes shifted back at the man in front of him.
"I messed up your cards, I'm sorry. But an ace is not enough when your opponent has the joker."
Instantly, Heath harshly backwards elbowed the guy behind him, grabbing the other one's gun and incessantly firing it. Falcone dodged, averting the shots, his thugs shooting at Heath. Heath ran in the opposite direction, covering his back with the truck, garbage cans, everything that was in his way. A sudden bullet hit Heath in the leg. For a second, it blackened in Heath's eyes, but it was enough to set him stumbling on the ground. The gravel of the broken asphalt scratched his cheek as tiny, little rocks pierced into his palms. Heath scurried up, ignoring the lagging leg, and grabbed the gun. Someone fell on top of him. Heath's fingers slipped, losing his grasp on the gun as the breath was suddenly knocked out of him. The man tugged Heath on his knees. Heath heavily breathed, watching in hatred how Falcone calmly walked up to him, little silver gun cocked in his hand.
"Not so fast, Mister Heath. Allow me to mess up your cards."
Heath smirked in disdain, the thug's hold choking him.
"And that's where we always have the problem. I never allow to mess my cards."
The thug pulled his arm even more. The cracking pain raced from Heath's wrist to his shoulder blades and neck. Heath held the wince, never averting his eyes from Falcone. The mobster smiled.
"We shall see."
Pain and anger almost blinded Heath's vision, but he kept his eyes on Falcone. That one turned to glance around, calling someone. Heath didn't hear, the pain echoing in his eardrums. From the blurred outline which substituted his vision, he saw that someone handed over Falcone a little silver thing. Falcone suddenly disappeared out of sight. The moment later, Jack's breath scorched the back side of Heath's neck.
"Do you recognize this?" A bloodied knife with a black handle hovered in front of Heath's eyes.
"Nicky snatched it from our clumsy police. It's still covered in Mitchell's blood," Jack quietly hissed. Heath just tilted his bursting from agony neck and spat right into Jack's face. He then immediately turned back his neck, wary of snapping it right on the spot. Jack angrily swore, wiping the spit off of his face.
"Very well." He tossed the knife to the thug in front of Heath. "Let's make you look like your favorite card." The thug turned to Falcone. That one wordlessly nodded. Heath felt something violently convulsing inside, realizing it was the pounding of his own heart. The blurred thug increased in size every second, before something shiny glimpsed in front of Heath's eyes. Cold metal touched the corner of his mouth, instantly collecting tiny, moisture droplets from Heath's uneven breathing. The metal slightly shook. His muscles pulsed from place to place on his arms, desperate to shake off the violent trembling of his body. The cold metal paused for a second, then slowly began pressing against the corner of his lip. Sweat dripped down on to the eyelid, clogging Heath's vision. The pressing increased, meticulously heaving on the thin strings of skin. Do it. The pounding against his temples increased, threatening to burst. Do it. The cold metal was absolutely wet now, suffocated in the rapid breathing. Do it. Do it. Do it. Cut it faster. The cold metal carefully tilted, as if seeing which angle would be better. Do it. Something barraged through the ribcage, sucking his organs in, then twisting them in its grasp. Do it, fucking do it. The first stream of blood trickled down from under the knife, running across and under the chin, tracing its tiny feet down the strained, throbbing neck...Do it, Do it, Do it...the metal pushed harder, sending a second, faster rivulet down...it streaked down and caught the first stream, now together rolling down under the shirt's collar and the beating muscles...DO IT DO IT DO IT...the knife paused, as if uncertain to where to go...
"""CCCCUUUUUTTTTTTT IIIIITTTTTTT!"""
The knife jerked and ripped the skin. Blood gushed out with pain, filling Heath's mouth. The scream choked on blood, rushing down his throat and gurgled out back by convulsing muscles. The knife, able to make the first move, now roughly jagged through the cheek, snapping the muscles open, its handle gliding through blood. Through his fading back sense, Heath felt the grip loosen on his arm. He violently jerked, startling the people. The knife cut upwards, slicing the yet untouched skin, sending Heath back on his knees. The grip returned, now not only on his arm, but pushing down on his spine, making him kneel forward. The blood spilled out from his mouth, pattering against the broken asphalt. The knife returned back to its twisted trajectory, ripping apart the thin, barely noticeable strands. It was not rivulets anymore, it was currents, gusts of blood streaming down his neck, soaking the shirt, clinging it to the pulsing body. Sweat mixed with blood, until they became unrecognizable. The knife traveled upwards, to the cheekbones. Agony speared through the mind, body craning all by its own, shutting off all possible sensitive nerves left. Suddenly, the cold metal disappeared. A pained breath ripped off of the bloodied lips. His spine was harshly arched back, forcing the misty eye at the bright, hitting sky. The knife shook itself from blood, droplets splattering unto the face, before touching the opposite corner of his lips and yanking it open, starting everything over. The scream, shoved down the throat by rushing blood, found its way to the mind, stirring with the pounding heart, the bellowing echoes and convulses, the dull and acute senses, yet the blood still found its way to the heart of the mind. The scream thrashed from side to side, trying to avoid the blood, yet it was everywhere. Desperate, the scream started distorting, going on a higher and higher pitch, reaching out from the depths with its bloodied fingertips, twisting and coiling, until it was dark in the eyes and the laughter was unleashed.
The knife disappeared. So did the grip. Losing his balance, Heath fell on the ground, pebbles striking against his face. Hysterical, sobbing laughter still shook his body, but it slowly faded away as the curt, abrupt breathing slowly evened out. Something cold streamed from the corner of his eyes, blurring his vision even more. Pain ripped his face, tearing him into pieces. His muscles slightly occasionally twitched through his blood drenched body. Gradually, the pebbles smoothed out under his cheek, and the next time his muscles jerked, Heath didn't feel them.
A/N: TADAAA! Jesus, I thought we'll never reach it. So, that's how the Joker got his scars (my interpretation of course). I know, he always has a different story to tell, but I was thinking more along the lines of that if he doesn't want to tell the story of how it actually happened, he may just pull bits from his past. Now, I know I don't have any drunk fathers or gambling wives in here, but some analogies...a fiend who wants to put a smile on "that" face, a woman who the Joker cares about and whom he wants to see smiling...
I thank everyone who has been on board with me so far, you're my inspiration and motivation! Don't think we're done with this fic just yet, we still have two(ish) parts to go through. After all, the Joker's arc, as well as Freddie's, Johnathan's, and Jack's, need to be completed. Leave behind any reviews (it's getting kind of eerie without them, did I mess up?) and thank you once again.