A/N: Hey folks! Did you see the new Joker trailer? To be honest, I'm not too excited about it. The plot seems predictable enough, you know, a failed comedian gets pressured by society and goes mad and all that stuff...it's a pretty reused theme, you know, man versus society...whatever, I won't make predictions, it'll be easy to compare my fanfic to the movie! Anyways, this is the final chapter for Part 2! (And still only one review. Guys, I'm actually unnerved by this silence!)
The rocks scathed underneath his cheek. His eyelids slightly lifted onto the blurred mess instead of his vision. The muscles inside his eyes painfully convulsed, forcing his iris to focus. Slowly, the distorted vertical line cleared into a sewage pipe, the grey blur settling down in bricks. There was a heavy pounding on the back of his head. Everything below his nose was hurting. Heath abruptly pushed his arm into the ground, before harshly lifting himself up. It was a horrible idea. The barely connected thoughts crashed from their beams, collapsing into a burning abyss. It blackened in Heath's eyes, and he unwittingly grabbed some old crate to keep himself from falling. After a while, the black dots cleared from his vision. Heavily breathing, Heath slowly slid back on the ground, careful not to move his upper body, until his body safely touched the wall. Heath closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort, and for a few moments, he just sat there, trying to dull the pain twisting his nerve cells inside his head. His damp, crimson shirt clung to his body, uncomfortably swayed by the barely noticeable breeze. Heath tiredly opened his eyes. They slowly grazed the bloody asphalt, pebbles rolling around in scarlet dust, until his eyes hit his knife, covered in his blood, lying a meter away from him. Instantly, the sore muscles at the corners of his lips violently twitched. Heath slowly raised his hand to his face. His fingers tentatively hovered above his mouth. The soft balls of his fingers slightly touched the crackled, bottom lip. They slowly traveled to the right, lip tracing back as they moved, until they hit something rough. A slightly crease formed between Heath's eyebrows. Carefully, his fingers felt around the rough skin. The nails dug under it, before slowly peeling it off. Heath wordlessly grimaced. His eyes traveled down at the small piece of skin in his hand. It wasn't skin. It was dry, clotted blood. His hand darted back. A deep, uneven cut, layered in dry blood, scratched against Heath's fingers, as they moved upwards, almost as far as his cheekbones. They frantically moved to the other corner, but it was the same, uneven, half of the bloody smile. Heath slowly lowered his hand, emptiness in his head. He carefully tried to sigh, but the breath sliced against the wounded lips. The corners of his lips slightly twitched. Pain immediately flared up. Heath pulled back his lips into the original position. Pain reluctantly crawled away back into the mind, created and destroyed only by the mind. The corners twitched slightly more, pulling into a grin. Pain flashed, tearing through his ripped muscles. A small stream of blood riveted from his right gash, spiraling down his chin, but Heath didn't care. Pain was mind's fancy; thus, can be controlled by the mind. His lips pulled wider and wider, until they formed into a smile, his smile. Blood was now spilling out from both gashes, agony throbbing back and forth through the muscles, but it hurts only how you imagine it would hurt.
"Winnifred," a coarse whisper almost rolled from his lips, not able to make it past the wound.
"Winnifred, Winnifred, Winnifred..." Pain, furious at his stubbornness, sharply stabbed right into his stretched, agonized grin. His lips reverted back into a pained frown, blood seeping from the tense muscles. Heath heavily breathed, eyes darting back and forth.
"Winnifred," His voice was slightly higher. The pain wasn't there as much.
"Winnifred, Winnifred, Winnifred," Heath hoarsely whispered, voice slowly gaining volume as he adjusted the pitch to become higher. What if he screamed?
"WINNIFRED!"
His maniacal, piercing echo rumbled in the above sewage pipes. Blood streamed down his chin, but Heath didn't care. He could speak. He was satisfied.
Heath carefully stood up, feet still slightly shaking above him. For a second, his thoughts scattered again, before quickly being recollected into an iron knot. Heath kneeled down, grabbing the knife and tucking it back into his pocket.
An old, homeless man huddled next to a tiny bonfire inside the can, trying to warm his numb, crispy palms. His tired, dull eyes lifted upwards. The night have long stopped tiptoeing around the corners, now engulfing the alleys with deep, long strides. The old man sighed and lowered his gaze back on the fire. It sparked and crackled with its piercing bright flames, making the old man's eyes water. He lifted them up, rubbing their corners with the back of his hand. The man suddenly blinked out the tears, trying to clear his vision. A tall, dark figure walked down the alley. The shifting illuminations of red flame crossed the figure's face, and the old man's feet froze to the ground from horror. It was a young man, but half of his face was covered in dry blood. A few ambers toppled from the top, releasing the bursting flame up into the night, illuminating a distorted, hellish grin carved on the young man's face. The old palms trembled. The young man wordlessly sat down at the nearby lying crates, broken glass and bottles scattered all around, just a few feet away from the old man. He kneeled down, shadows for a moment swallowing his smile, picking up a broken shard. The young man looked into it, examining his cut lips. The shadows were too dark to tell apart his expression. However, the old man saw how he lifted his hand up to his face. Slowly, he began peeling off the dry blood, digging his nails under the clots, scathing his skin, yanking it with such force as if he wanted to jerk the smile off with it. Tiny blood droplets appeared from the exposed, raw flesh. The dry blood clots crumpled to the ground, one by one. The young man then stood up and walked across towards the old, leaking pipe. A small puddle formed underneath it, caused by rains and liquid waste tossed by the inhabitants of the upper apartments. The young man crouched down and began washing something off. The water loudly clinked against the metal in the surrounding silence. The young man stood up and, tucking his hands into his pockets, returned back to the opposite wall. The flames played on his indifferent, even handsome face. It was his horrid smile. In the uneven lighting, it seemed even more ghastly. Suddenly, the young man turned his head and looked right at the old one. The latter felt something uncomfortably turn inside him. In the darkness, the young man's eyes seemed black, bordering hollow. For a moment, the young man simply stared at the frightened bum across him, burning him with his intent gaze. Then, his lips slightly curled, wrinkles distorting his rough grin. However, he didn't say anything. The grin still on his face, the man leaned off the wall and walked into the night.
The Gotham Hospital was much different from the Local Hospital. Mainly because it was larger, more organized, and less apathetic towards the patients. Dr. Collins decided to test his intern in a new surrounding, and Johnathan obviously didn't oppose.
Pulling on the surgical gloves, Johnathan quickly walked down the bright lit hallway, another difference between the hospitals. Turning down the corner, the intern knocked open the emergency room's wide doors, quickly pulling on the mask. His breath instantly ricocheted back on him. The patient was already lying on the table, surrounded by doctors and their pure white coats. Johnathan walked up to Doctor Collins, glancing at the patient. His eyebrows slightly traveled upwards. The man on the table was Jack Browning.
"Browning?" Johnathan quietly inquired, not taking his eyes off the instruments he was preparing. He lifted a syringe up to his eyes, diligently filling it with fentanyl.
"How did he get in here?"
"It seems like some mobsters attacked the jail truck halfway to the point," Collins impatiently answered, hovering over the surgeon table.
"The drivers were killed. Browning was found lying...well, like this, severely wounded, inside the truck. Someone found him and called the police."
Johnathan frowned, as he tried to focus on the opioids, reaching the fifteen milliliter mark.
"And Heath? Where was he?"
"Gone. There was a lot of blood a few feet away from the truck, but no sight of the body."
The neck of the fentanyl bottle tipped from the round curve of the syringe. Johnathan's gaze, lowered down, becoming unreadable. Then, he looked up again, roughly taking the bottle away from the syringe.
"Is Browning conscious?" He asked instead, walking over to the table.
"Somewhat," Collins answered, placing on his mask. He quickly rubbed the jointed area between the forearm and lower arm with an alcohol drenched web.
"But we're still going to sedate him. He's young and strong. He'll manage."
Johnathan slightly smirked into his paper mask and, tilting the syringe at an angle, inserted the needle into the vein. Browning's eyes became murky. Johnathan took the knife and walked over to the other side of the table. Browning's entire chest was gashed, wounds reaching to the core. There were a few lumps bulging the skin, indicating an open rupture in the ribs. Collins calmly cut the skin above the rupture, inspecting the broken bones.
"Apply the casts here, Johnny," he quietly instructed, moving the light closer down. Johnathan wordlessly obeyed. His gloves became stained in blood as he carefully fasted the broken bones. He wasn't thinking about the broken bones. He was thinking about the casts. He knew the trust rewarded by Collins. He also knew that if he, just slightly, shifts the casts, Browning, after some period of time, will feel pain, depending on how tightly Johnathan outs the cast. It will wear away, shift, whatever, yet the bones would slip out, back into their fracture. Was he worth it?
Johnathan put on another cast, as Collins stitched the skin above. There was certainly no reason to save Browning, after all what's been done. Johnathan glanced up on Collins. He was focused on stitching up the upper wounds. Johnathan lowered his gaze back down. His warm breath softly landed on his cheeks as sweat. The white, pearly bones glistened at him, anticipating his next move. The same, white, pearly cast gently wrapped around them, right on the break. However, one crack remained, waiting for the right moment to collapse.
Johnathan was tiredly wiping the instruments when Collins called him over.
"Johnny?" His voice was concerned, bordering extremely worried.
"Yes?"
"Call the drug recovery sector, now!"
Johnathan dropped his syringe in surprise and grabbed the phone hanging one the wall, quickly calling the group. His eyes traveled towards Browning. His skin and nails contained a blueish hue, the heart beat lines on the computer steadily decreasing with rapid speed. Overdose.
The drug recovery arrived a minute after Johnathan called them. Being an intern and a psychologist, consequently classified useless, he was put outside the doors. Johnathan didn't mind, being more concerned with the overdose. He perfectly remembered that he did not pour more than fifteen millimeters into that syringe. Yet all the symptoms clearly pointed on opioid overdose. Tucking his hands into his surgical coat's pockets, Johnathan thoughtfully walked down the deserted hallway. Suddenly, he abruptly turned around and quickly walked the opposite direction, grabbing Jack Browning's papers as he passed the emergency room doors. Hurriedly running down the stairs, Johnathan knocked and jerked open a small door implanted in the wall. He entered a dark room, illuminated by the light of computers.
"Hello, is the blood testing conducted here?"
"Yes," a medium height man with blonde hair walked over to him. "What do you want?"
"Do you have the blood test for Jack Browning, arrived around five hours ago?"
"Katie," the man turned his head towards a woman sitting in front of a computer.
"Check for Jack Browning, please."
"Yes, Timmy," the woman nimbly moved her mouse, scanning the list of records.
"He's a type O."
"Check his blood for any opioids," Johnathan impatiently ordered.
"The sooner the better."
The blond man turned back to Johnathan.
"We will inform you as soon as we get it."
"Thank you," Johnathan shortly nodded and exited the room.
"There you are," Collins grumbled once Johnathan appeared in his eyesight.
"Where the hell were you?"
"Checking the blood analysis. I swear, I did not overpour the opioid," Johnathan added, seeing Collins's skeptical eyebrow lift.
"So you think he was drugged before he got here?"
"I do. Besides, it was an emergency. No one had time checking Browning's blood content, considering he was abundantly losing it when he was brought here. Is he alive by the way?"
"Oh yeah. We were lucky, managed to get some drugs out of him."
Johnathan nodded, thinking something to himself. Collins sighed, looking at his watch.
"Alright, Browning was moved to the third ward. You're watching him, okay?"
"Yes, Doctor." Collins, curtly clapping the intern on the shoulder, walked past him. Johnathan rubbed his forehead, thinking how in the world he would spend his evening, before retreating to the third ward. It was empty, apart from Browning. Johnathan quickly took the measurements, then sat down on a table across the bed. He started charting out different brain diagrams and fear analysis, eyes occasionally darting upwards at the patient.
Night was always the loudest in the hospitals. It was counterintuitive, one would think that the staff is quiet at night. However, one forgets that there were drunk driving during the night, broken motorcycles with their gangster bikers, alcoholic intoxications from a crazy party, and various assaulted by freaks with knives.
Johnathan listened to the hurried scurrying of the nurses outside, similar to frightened, furry mice scurrying across the feline-inhabited living room. Undisturbed, he wrote out the formulas for the possible sublimation of a solid chemical into gas. There was a soft knock on the door. Johnathan startled and quickly stood up, opening the door. The young woman from the blood analysis was waiting outside with a folder of documents in her hand.
"Good evening, miss," Johnathan greeted her in a hushed voice.
"Do you have the documents for me?"
"Yes," she moved in the documents towards him, allowing him to look.
"You were correct. His blood did contain an opioid, heroin precisely."
"Heroin?" Johnathan lifted his eyebrows. "Alright, I'll inspect it. Thank you very much." He politely nodded to her, quietly closing the door. His eyes feverishly traveled across the paper. Then, they looked at Browning, peacefully sleeping. Laying down the document on the table, Johnathan looked through Browning's folder, fingers flipping through various forms and doctor recommendations. He stopped at X-ray photos of the wounds, slowly taking them out. At the first look, they looked like any normal wound made by a knife. Johnathan frowned. They were abnormal. They were deep enough to cause some blood loss, yet not deep enough to leak him out completely. Also, the ribs seemed too perfectly broken to look like an approximated, rage-sponsored smash. Johnathan glanced at Browning. That one stirred and mumbled something. Johnathan lowered the papers down on the table and walked up to the bed. Browning's eyes were slightly open, point pupils feverishly scanning the room.
"Where am I?" He coarsely asked. Johnathan cracked his knuckles inside of his coat pockets, examining Jack's face in the dark.
"In the hospitals. You were attacked by thugs apparently on your way to jail. They sliced you around, as well as breaking the ribs."
"They went that far? I thought they just cut the skin," Browning said in loss, looking down at his wounded body. Johnathan quietly smirked, wondering how much Jack would reveal tomorrow morning, clear of the drugs' influence.
"Rest, Mister Browning," Johnathan advised. "You'll be questioned as soon as you're better. Don't forget that you are, still, under those charges."
Johnathan couldn't' see Jack's face in the dark, but by the way the sheets ruffled, he understood that Browning uneasily shifted. Johnathan walked back to the desk, trying to seem uninterested and picked up his diagrams of the medulla.
Johnathan was replaced by Richard, still shaking from the train ride and grumbling about the stupidity of intern training outside the local hospital. The psychologist tiredly placed the keys down at the front desk, slightly nodding to the receptionist in adieu. The cold, four o'clock Gotham air slightly revived him. Tucking his numbing hands into his pockets, Johnathan randomly walked down the sleepy street. His eyes loosely traveled across the buildings, taking in the creative titles and forgetting them the instant after. He turned around the corner. Gotham Police Department stared back at him. Johnathan absently passed it. A sudden thought crossed him. Johnathan hesitantly slowed down, before abruptly turning around and quickly walking back to the department.
The police was even more sleepy than the street. Warily eyeing the officers passing by, Johnathan walked up to the reception desk.
"Excuse me, I need the location of the accident where convicted Jack Browning was attacked by mobsters."
The obese police officer raised his piglike eyes on the restless young man.
"What did you say again?"
"Where was convicted banker Jack Browning attacked by mobsters yesterday while traveling to Blackgate," Johnathan impatiently repeated.
"Propose your reasons," the police man lazily stretched. Johnathan pressed his lips, fingers clutching inside his pockets. He wordlessly took out his wallet and placed out one-fifty dollars. The pig eyes slightly widened, before quickly darting back and forth the room and sliding the dollars down the counter.
"Very well, sir. Follow me."
Jonathan obediently followed the guy to a small office. The cop opened the door and stuck his head inside.
"Jerry?! Where did yesterday's case happen?!"
"Yesterday's?! The one with the dead banker?!
"Yeah, that one!"
"Hold on a sec...In that shitty alley between Warren Street and Hailey Avenue."
The cop pulled his head out of the doorway and turned to Johnathan.
"Did you get your answer, sir?"
"Yes, thank you," Johnathan shortly answered, quickly turning around and walking out. He hurriedly crossed the street, mentally already having the plan out where the alley was supposed to be located. Between Warren Street and Hailey Avenue...that was extremely close to the hospital. A perfect escape route. Johnathan felt twisted adrenaline turn inside his stomach. His eyes darted upwards on the road sign. Hailey Avenue. Johnathan glanced on the sign across it. Warren Street. The eyes traveled to the left of both of them. A narrow, little alley stretched in a thin line, a small passageway between the file of buildings. Johnathan, sensing the suspense trapping his other feelings in its heavy deadfalls, walked towards the alley. Even the air seemed different inside. Not the fresh, morning flavor which bites and melts on the tip of the tongue, but the oppressive, acidic taste of the rust under the gild. Johnathan slowly walked down the alley, eyes carefully traveling along the graffitied, brick walls, the cheap clothing hanging down the wires from the windows of the above apartments, the tiny, green shards stuck in between the cracks of the uneven asphalt. Nothing seemed to change as he walked in these alleys when he was in high school. His feet slightly tripped over a damp skirt lying in the dust, fallen from the clothesline. A vibration inside his pocket let him know of this phone. Johnathan, not stopping, took out his small cellphone, raising it up to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Johnny, this is Doctor Collins. Where are you right now?"
"Here, meaning Gotham. Why?"
"I need you in the local hospital at seven. Clear?"
"Yes, Doctor," Johnathan lit up a cigarette, eyes brushing the ground. It was darker, reflecting a reddish color. The paper wrapper of the cigarette felt dry against the lips.
"Did Browning wake up?" Johnathan inquired, walking around what it seemed to be the evaporated version of a puddle of blood.
"Yes he did. He even told us what happened."
"Really?" Johnathan frowned, letting out the cooed smoke out of his mouth. It hung in the air, before fading away.
"And what did he say?"
"Not much. He said that the van was suddenly overturned, knocking him out. He said he never really came back to his senses, except once. He heard muffled voices and a slight sting in his forearm, as well as gradually losing his connection with his limbs and feelings, eventually knocking him out."
What a well planned recital. Johnathan held himself from smirking by inhaling another portion of smoke.
"Did he say anything else?"
"No, just questioned about Heath. He was kind of quiet after he heard that he was gone." Too add dramatic of course. Johnathan shook his head. His eyes fell back at the blood stain on the ground.
"Alright. I'll be home at seven. Will you stay here?"
"We'll see. See you later."
"Goodbye." Johnathan hung up, sliding his phone into his pocket. There were no more bloodstains after that one, but Johnathan still continued down the alley, which became more and more desolate with each step, bums adorning it at the walls. Johnathan's eyebrows knitted together as one bum caught his attention. Not the old man himself, but something a few feet away from him. Johnathan slowly walked up, tilting his head, before crouching down and picking it up. Dry blood. Johnathan's eyes traveled upwards. The alley stretched farther in front of him. Johnathan stood up and hurriedly continued walking, pace increasing with each step. The old, dirty houses grew closer together, broken glass increasing with each step, asphalt literally carpeted in cigarette stubs. Johnathan turned the corner, running into a dead end. Johnathan dumbly stared at the brick wall.
"Damn it!"
The stray kitten, rubbing its little muzzle with its already hardened paw, flightendly jumped off the crate and ran away into the building behind it. Johnathan angrily passed his hand through his hair, before glancing at his watch. 6:45. Johnathan crossly bit into his short cigarette, burning his tongue on the flame, before tossing it on the ground in irritation. Looking around one last time, Johnathan sighed and, tucking his hands into his pockets, turned away and slowly trudged into the opposite direction.
The small kitten hopped, front paws pulling up the lower ones, up the filthy staircase to the second floor, before gently scratching the third door and loudly meowing in its quiet, high voice. After three minutes, the door opened, and the kitten happily ran in.
Winnifred slowly treaded down the dusty roads, the plains ruffling on her right and her left. Her hands were in the pockets of her beige trench coat, sweat tricking down her line of health. Billy was wordlessly walked next to her, hand likewise folded inside the wide pockets of his pants.
"What else did you hear?" Winnifred quietly asked, eyes passing over the dusty rocks on the road. Billy sighed and looked into the clear, cloudless sky.
"Jacky is granted a compassionate release due to his severe conditions."
"Nonsense," Winnifred's shook her head, not looking up from the ground.
"I'm just telling what I heard, dear," Billy shrugged. Winnifred pressed her lips together in mild irritation, finally lifting her gaze upwards.
"And Heath?"
"Gone." Winnifred lowered her eyes, trying to ignore the instant shudder in her mind. Gone...where?
"Hey," Billy wrapped his arm around her shoulders, trying to catch her gaze.
"It's gonna be sweet. Heathie's okay, he always is. He's probably roaming around Gotham trying to figure out how the hell he's gonna return here without being dragged to jail."
Winnifred smirked, finally cracking a smile. Tilting her head back, she finally allowed herself to relax in Billy's reassuring grip.
"You sure have a way of comforting women," she sarcastically joked. Billy quietly laughed, bringing a cigarette up to his mouth.
"Maybe. We'll see if that date with Lottie works out."
"She's going with Sammy, genius."
"Fuck. Well, guess I'm going with you then."
"Keep wishing."
"Howdy, youngsters!"
Billy and Winnifred looked to their right. Old Herbert was gesturing them over into the field. A stick and some rags was in his hands.
"Have some time to spare, would you? Have a'old scarecrow to hang up, why I ain't minding some extra hands!"
"C'mon," Winnifred tugged Billy by his hand, who obediently ventured with her into the field.
"Yes, Mister Herbert?"
"William, you place the stick into that patchy soil, while you Freddie can decorate the crow."
Billy obediently sank the stick firmly into the soil, propping it up with wires held down by spikes, while Herbert roped another long branch across, forming a cross. Winnifred quickly tossed the black fabric over the scarecrow, finalizing it with Herbert's straw hat. The three of them stepped aside, admiring their work.
"Scares the shit even out of me," Billy quietly noticed. The wind tossed the black fabric, thrashing over the rugged stick, its branches wavering like fragile fingers.