Half. Only half of my face was slashed, forming a half grin, giving the appearance of a smirk. And as I bled profusely, the Joker threw a needle and a few thick strands of leather onto the floor next to me. He cut me loose from the chair I had been bound to, and, no longer smiling, said, "Clean yourself up and meet me by the car."

Then, he left, closing the door behind him. I stared at the needle, at the leather threads, and suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

"Clean yourself up…"

I felt sick, but I had no time for hatred, or bitterness, or anything. I was bleeding.

Threading the rough leather into the sewing needle, I pinched what was left of my cheek and closed my eyes…

--

Thirty minutes later, I'm all stitched up and ready to go. Without a mirror to work from, my efforts had been mostly guesswork. As such, I knew, before I saw my reflection in the roughed up limousine waiting for me on the corner, that I looked much more gruesome than the Joker. The tough, leather straps holding the left side of my face together, covered in dried blood, makes it look like I'm baring a set of rawhide fangs.

I sit in the backseat with the Joker, some henchman in a clown mask is driving. The Joker laughs when he sees my new look.

He presses his hand to my other, still-intact cheek, and says, "No tears, hmm? Got right down to business, it seems…I like it, Mr. Grey."

At that, he gestures to the driver, and we're off. To where, I don't know…or care…

--

We're in the car for a while. Wherever we're going, apparently it's far away.

"So…how did you know him?" asks the Joker.

"Who?" I ask, surprised that I am still able to speak.

"You know who." I do, of course. I do know who.

"I met him through a mutual friend," I say.

The Joker looks at me, skepticism ripe in his evil eyes.

"A mutual…drug-dealing…friend," I confess.

The Joker laughs. "Careful with that stuff, Mr. Grey…too much of it'll make you…,"

Dramatic pause. "Crazy."

He laughs, slapping his knees at his own joke.

Long car ride. Laughter fades. Silence sets in.

"Did you know his…father?" asks the Joker, his tone eerily sincere.

"Eric Harvey didn't have a father," I spit.

"Oh really?" crooned the Joker mockingly. "Born out of thin air? Or has the holiday season got you thinking he was a manger-bound, immaculate conception?"

I don't know what he's talking about.

"Eric Harvey had a father…friend of mine, as a matter of fact…," the Joker smirks. By the look on his face, I can tell he's thinking back, remembering something.

Strange. In our short time together, he had never stricken me as the nostalgic type.