SCOURGE

Chapter Two: In Which the Protagonists Meet…Properly

*Note: Um. Long wait is looooooooong. Sorry, you know how it is. At least I think you do. The entire first part is Amelia thinking, then sort of dreaming... then she wakes up, and the fun begins. Fun for us, not so much for her.


You say you want to die, but you're not seriously considering killing yourself. Of course, you're saying this for someone's benefit—and whoever they are, they don't know that. You're an asshole. A fucking spineless worm, and an asshole, and you know it and I know it and the only people who haven't caught on yet are the other assholes cooing over you and offering up tepid to lukewarm protestations and crumbs of encouragement while they silently divide up your belongings in their head, because, who knows, maybe you do have the balls.

Well, I've been there. But I wasn't that asshole…nope, I was the quiet one. The one tossing the idea around in my head, visualizing it, picturing it, making a mental list of pros and cons. I surveyed the idea the way a prospective buyer scrutinizes a house; kitchen recently renovated…gunshot to the head, no open casket, but painless… original hardwood floors, nice touch…fatal overdose, quiet, but maybe not painless… nice open layout of the dining room and kitchen… and there's the possibility the paramedics will get there in time to save your life, leaving you in a vegetative state….sturdy exposed support beams in the ceiling… huh, maybe I should hang myself—one of those looks like it would support 165 pounds.

I soon found out that romanticizing my own tragic suicide was a waste of time. I wasn't going to do it. I even drove my car towards a tree once, watching the speedometer pass 30, 40, 50, 60… but it wasn't really my car to crash. It had been ours, and so I couldn't just ram it into a tree like that, and plus, I'd probably just end up with two broken legs and a shattered pelvis or something.

Then I'd have to kill myself.

No, in the end, I discovered I was simply too much of a coward to end it all in a glorious blaze of bullets and blood. Or something. So, instead, I alienated anyone who remained in the aftermath, all those brave loved ones who hung on through the worst of it. Through the surgeries, and the physical therapy, and the months where I didn't speak, didn't eat, didn't move. Anyone remaining who loved or cared for me found out fast what their reward was for sticking by me. Heartbreak. I, oh, I said such nasty things and perpetrated even nastier offenses against them, against myself, pushing everyone away. I hurt, and so I didn't care if they hurt.

I had no empathy. I had no heart.

My heart died when I allowed them to drag him away, kicking and screaming.

My family and friends truly don't know how much I spared them. The pain I had to impart to get them to leave me was only a drop in the bucket compared to the deluge that I drowned in each day upon waking. But I wasn't doing them any goddamn favors. I was being selfish. I wanted to be abandoned so I could say "There. See? The world has turned its back on me. There is no love. There is no family. There is only blood, and dust, and the vile filth writing within each of us, just begging to be let out. The world is depraved, and heartless. "

Just. Like. Me.

Oh, how I wanted to die.

But, like I said, I am a coward.

So I'm still here.


I'm cold and shaking and burning from the inside out. I'm covered in sweat and my spine is crawling, making me unable to stop stretching, tensing and clenching my muscles repeatedly in an attempt to resolve the aching, only the relief never comes .I thrash my arms to rid myself of the creeping sensation, to no avail. Noises leave me over which I have little control. My mind is abuzz with the unpleasant void of craving something—truly CRAVING it, and the place where my numbness and obsession used to be is rotting away, like ripping a dam down, and letting in all my shame and…

I shut down.

I did not ask for this. I didn't sign up for it.

STOP, PLEASE!

"Wake. Up."

"Wakeup."

"Wakey…wakey…"

Amelia fought through a layer of shower curtain to see who had woken her from the refuge of her restless daze, which she'd finally managed to lapse into after hours of trying everything, including slamming her head into the tile wall, to find unconsciousness. Apparently, she had managed to rip the plastic curtain down onto herself whilst thrashing. Her gratefulness that it hadn't suffocated her was compounded upon by the fact that it allowed her to retain some dignity in the moment, considering she hadn't redressed after her shower.

Under normal circumstances, Amelia would've rewarded her interloper with a personally crafted deluge of unimaginably acrid and vile verbal acid, but these were by no means normal circumstances. Not only did she not feel up to the task of dressing-down a stranger, but Amelia also (correctly) assumed that any attempt at thwarting her pursuer would fail miserably—considering who it was.

She peered up at the looming frame of the facepaint fan from earlier, who obviously knew how to make an entrance, hold an audience, and inspire fear.

The devil was in the details, you see.

By sheer force of habit, Amelia had been paying special attention to the nuances surrounding this all-powerful Boss; his subordinates respected and feared him, he was calculating in his use of violence but certainly not shy about busting heads (hers in particular)… he walked with purpose, stood with anticipatory tension, and spoke incredibly deliberately. In regards to her, Amelia noticed a few things. He showed his face to freak her out, let her make an escape attempt to reinforce his power (or her helplessness, she wasn't certain which), and purposefully woke her only when she had finally drifted off as another not-so-subtle hint at his control. Even the way he positioned himself over her now, knife cleverly concealed in his jacket sleeve, blocking the light source so that he was cast in deliberate shadow… it was all so… poetic. She was unsure yet if he was a purposeful man or a man with a purpose, but she was fairly confident that he had a few screws loose.

He was adept at creating and maintaining a menacing image, that much was for goddamn sure.

Her momentary dissection of tactics did nothing to quell the fear that rose within her- just because she could objectively examine the what's and how's didn't mean she had any fucking clue about the who or why.

If nothing else, Amelia had been trained to exhibit painstaking attention to detail. But psychological motives had sure as hell never been her specialty.

A sudden jerking movement stirred Amelia from the daze she had been falling back into, and she realized with a mortified start that after spending a full thirty seconds thinking about how fucking dangerous this man was, she allowed herself to be caught off guard right next to him. Her throat could be slit, for chrissake.

"A little, uh, tired are we, hm?"

The question was barely above a whisper, but it grated on Amelia's senses like a chorus of nails on a chalkboard.

She could not conjure any reply but the truth. "Yes."

The man moved closer to her now, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. This shift illuminated his face, bringing him into sharp focus. Amelia couldn't look away. The scars she could barely make out before were painfully exaggerated- all slathered in ruby red- and though the entire paint job served to deepen the appearance of lines on his face, he looked definitively younger than thirty years old beneath it all. The patient, neutral expression he wore while Amelia took full and obvious stock of his face did nothing to calm her nerves, however.

Amelia quirked an eyebrow at his stillness, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

Seeing this, he grinned, gesturing to his face. "Uh, like what you see?"

Not knowing how to answer safely, Amelia deflected. "What-"she cleared her throat to correct the roughness in her voice, "-exactly, do you expect to gain from keeping me here? I don't want to get sober. I enjoy putting needles in my arm, and I happen to love heroin."

"Now, see, darling… I'm the guy with the knife, here…" he trailed off, showing just a hint of his blade before finishing, "…and I'll be the one doing the interrogating today."

His emphasis on the word "darling" put an involuntary sneer on Amelia's face. Upon seeing her interrogator's expression transform from a slightly menacing grin into an obviously threatening deadpan, Amelia returned her look to normal. She wasn't a guru of non-verbal communication, but neither was she a goddamn idiot.

It was then that he decided to take stock of her, allowing his eyes to trail over her face and body in such a clearly intentional manner that anyone under similar scrutiny would feel violated to some degree. Taking care to linger a moment too long at Amelia's chest, he returned his eyes at last to hers- and there it was again, the deer in headlights feel that Amelia found maddeningly common during her time dealing with this man.

He chuckled to himself, breaking the silence as he made to move toward her.

Unable to suppress the gut reaction, Amelia quickly shifted to put space between them.

Her sudden movement was a rookie mistake, though Amelia doubted seriously if creeping slowly from him would have served her any better, and he sighed deeply before latching onto a handful of Amelia's hair.

He gave her a long-suffering, patronizing expression.

"Again, with the escaping! Aren't you just a little worm…" Amelia's eyes watered as he emphatically jerked her head in time with his stressed syllables, "You know, you must just… meander through life…" The fingers of the hand that wasn't fisted in her hair fluttered in front of her face. "Hm? Beneath the radar? Using other people for your own benefit-"

At this accusation, Amelia launched her body at the man, hoping to land a headbutt or be disemboweled by his ever-present knife in the attempt. Unfortunately, her ineffectual protest simply knocked him from his perch onto the bathroom floor, where he, having retained the fistful of her hair, half-dragged Amelia along with him.

Well, that fucking did it, huh? Amelia sarcastically congratulated herself.

Any remaining dignity evaporated at this point, as her genius attack landed her in a ridiculously awkward position. Amelia was hanging half-out of the tub, her torso twisted- ass up, shoulders vertical- with her head nearly touching the floor and a knife pressed to her chin.

And now, of course, she was completely nude.

It was then that the man began to laugh- if you could call it that- a high-pitched, giggle-like sound emanating from the back of his throat, as if he were reveling in a private joke (which Amelia was entirely sure he was.) Unsure of whether this made matters momentarily worse or better, Amelia remained perfectly still until finally, towards the end of his hysterics, the man released her hair.

Amelia quickly reached for her undergarments and slipped them on, not missing the unapologetic stares she received while doing so. She placed her back flat against the tile wall of the shower and gradually began to slow her breathing down. Knowing her impulse-control was absolute shit when she was in withdrawal didn't exactly seem to help her regain any fucking power over herself.

"Guess I… Hit. A. Nerve," the man taunted, correct this time.

"I do not-" she spoke softly, slowly, trying to convey calm even when she felt anything but, "-never, not once, have I preyed on anyone for my own benefit."

"OH! Oh-ho-ho, what have I got here? Hm?! A- a bleeding-heart junkie?" He clapped his hands like a trained seal from his new roost on the toilet seat. "Do ya- HA! Do you only steal from the rich?"

Amelia smiled bitterly at his taunts. He was right, of course. She was a junkie, and as such, Amelia had done bad things to get what she wanted… what she needed- but, as a rule, she only ever did bad things to bad people. Not a single undeserving person had ever received any unsolicited trouble from Amelia Carlile, of that she had exhausted great caution and discretion to ensure.

Then again, who was she kidding? She made herself judge and jury when it came to perpetrating crime as punishment to others. It would be a lie to deny that perhaps she had a few biases, against scum junkies and rapists and the like- which, on occasion, made her the fucking executioner too.

Amelia crossed her arms over her chest in what could only be described as a juvenile attempt at defending herself. Unable to come up with any good rhetoric or worthy retorts, she said only, "Fuck you."

"Fuck me?" His eyebrows shot up and he plastered on a hurt look.

"Yeah, fuck you."

To her endless confusion, this only further delighted the character before her. He smiled widely, as obscene and disturbing a gesture as Amelia thought possible, and leaned in again, making his audience of one grow tense.

"Oh, honey," he slapped both hands against his legs, making her jump, "now's not the time for that… because to answer your first question, I've got much bigger plans for you, and, uh…" his expression became almost apologetic and his voice dropped to a stage-whisper, "I wouldn't want our relationship making things awkward at the office. Y'know, keep the personal separate from the, uh, professional."

Amelia's nostrils flared, and she half-grimaced, half-smiled. "Sure. Ever the consummate professional, you must be. You even wear a…" she regarded his clothing doubtfully, "…suit."

He smacked his lips, licking them for good measure as he scrutinized Amelia, wagging his finger at her. "Y'know, I like you. You've got a good senseof humor." He laughed, and Amelia joined in nervously- though not at all convincingly.

"That is something you would know a bit about, isn't it, Amelia? Professionalism. They really harp on that while they mold you into lit-tle toy soldiers. Hm?"

Amelia could feel the blood drain from her face as he not only said her name for the first time, but suddenly announced his knowledge of her former career.

Recovering, she cleared her throat as her mind raced. Well, she asserted, it couldn't have been too difficult to find the information. Getting her full name by tracing the serial number on her pistol, or having a peek in her satchel at the inscription on her engagement ring, would have been the easy part. Past that, the internet was a wonderfully horrible and potent weapon when wielded properly.

Nonetheless, it was her name, and her past, and in knowing them both sans any consent or participation from Amelia, this complete stranger had somehow stripped her of any holdout or shred of privacy she might've hoped to retain.

Almost certain her face had already given her away, Amelia made what she knew would amount to pathetic attempt to play it off, "So. You know my name and former employer, congratulations. So, in the interest of professionalism, I believe introductions are in order."

"Me? Hmm, well, ah, I… I'm the man in charge around here."

"Oh, no name, I see. Have it your way, I've got a slew of creative nicknames. Bozo the Clown, maybe- though you're more reminiscent of Stephen King's It than anything-"

"I'd watch your tongue before you lose it," he hissed, though he appeared slightly amused despite himself. Straightening up, he slicked back his mess of lank, green-tinted curls and extended a gloved hand to Amelia.

She found herself once more off-balance and unsure of how to react, which had been the case from the moment misfortune thrust her into the path of this mercurial man.

Slowly, Amelia extended her hand to engage in his mocking attempt at social etiquette.

His grasp was firm, bordering on crushing, as he shook Amelia's hand vigorously and finally introduced himself.

"You can call me Sir. Some refer to me as Joker." He kept hold of Amelia's hand, making it necessary for her to tug quite forcefully in order to free her extremity.

Flexing her hand to regain feeling, Amelia nodded and plastered on a sugary smile. "I'm uh- pleased to meet you, really."

There was a long stretch of silence then, while the Joker stared down at Amelia and she avoided his gaze to quell the awkwardness. It was oddly timed, off beat, as they had finally dropped into a rhythm of conversation and banter - which he was purposely interrupting to make Amelia squirm.

She felt thoroughly dressed down, and it made her angry. There was an element of precariousness about the situation, though, which was preventing Amelia from pushing for her own release. Her instincts told her that this Joker character wouldn't hesitate to simply rid himself of her nuisance if she became too much trouble.

On that note, she was seriously considering becoming too much trouble.

For now, she was exhausted, dope sick, and injured… so that would have to wait.

Abruptly, the Joker stood, straightened his suit, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Amelia stared at the door, perplexed. She sighed. "Uh… yeah, you have a wonderful day as well. Fucking psycho."

A/N: Again, thanks so much for hanging in there. I can feel this gaining momentum, it's finding the time to act on that which is difficult for me. But we do what we can. And by we I mean us. You know. Us.