A/N: A little bit longer, shorter than I would have liked, but longer, nonetheless. Read and review, please!
Ouch. There is no other way to describe the pounding migraine after being forcibly knocked out. It pulses, it pounds. I pressed my hand against my cheek, feeling the badly done stitches. I'm alive, but why? Fighting the waves of nausea at the action, I sat up. The room was carpeted, but that didn't say much. The generic gray carpet could have been hard wood flooring. The room was barely big enough for me to lie down scrunched up in. The starch white walls were lined with shelves and there was a gruesome bloodstain on the floor.
It was a closet … closets don't have locks … normally. I shot up and was instantly rewarded by another wave of nausea … lovely … I supported myself on the wall for a moment. Okay, deep breath in. The world returned to its proper position and I moved forward.
The lock turned with ease and my tension rose. Memories from earlier flashed through my head. The Joker … the man's ear … the shooting … I took another deep breath and pushed forward.
"Well," I cringed at the voice. The Joker was sitting on a couch, facing almost directly toward the closet. The room was by no means large, but it wasn't small either. The couch was in relative good shape and was turned to face a TV mounted in the far corner. Behind the couch was a small, plain bed and a door. I glued my eyes to it. "Dolly finally decided, ah, decided to wake up." The Joker grinned at me and patted the seat. "Pop a squat." I hesitated for a fraction more of a second, searching for a means of escape. Windows? We were in a basement apparently; the window was high and looked out to a brown grass patch. Doors? Just the one … Joker had strategically placed himself in between it and me. The Joker sat on the couch, surprisingly patient. One hand was draped lazily over the couch, seemingly lax. The other fingered the handle of his switchblade. He was lounging, but I could see the tension in his legs. I ran, he sprung. End of story.
With a sigh of resignation I sat down on the couch, as far away as possible – practically on the arm of the couch. The Joker gave me a smile and returned to the TV. He was completely enraptured in the TV, it was some news program. They were talking about a press conference with pictures of Commissioner Gordon and other police officers. With him distracted, I began judging distances. The couch wasn't too high, it would be simple to throw myself over it and bolt for the door. But my stomach still refused to let me have peace. Not only were waves of nausea beginning to overtake me, but it was now attempted to eat itself. Not. Good.
I took a breath to steady my whining stomach and launched myself over the couch. It would have been pretty cool too, if I had made it. As if he was expecting this response, the Joker reached out and snatched my ankle. My head slammed against the arm of the chair, adding more damage to what was probably already a pretty bad concussion. "Damn it …" I shouted as he dragged my flailing body closer to him.
The Joker leaned over me, pushing his knee into the lower portion of my stomach. He kept his forearm across my chest, constricting my breathing. "Listen here, dolly, I've kept you alive this long," he paused and glared down at me. His teeth were filthy and his breath reflected that. If this were any other person I would have commented on it. But the Joker was already pulling out his switchblade. "Now, ah, let's not piss me off … shall we?" The knife ran down my cheek lightly, drawing blood at some points. Pain shot through my cheek as he ran it in between my stitches.
"Why?" I croaked from underneath his arm. Keep calm … stay calm.
"'Why?'" he mimicked, flicking the knife to leave a deep cut underneath my lip. "Do you, ah, want to die? That can be arranged." He moved the knife down to my throat, dangerously poking at my jugular.
"N-no!" I cried out, my pulse quickened, pushing into the knife that he held to my neck.
"Why not?" With that he sat up, pulling me up with him in the same motion. The Joker dragged me as close to him as I could get without sitting on his lap. His arm curled around my shoulders. I tried to shift, put some space between us, but his hand curled and dug his fingers into my arm. "Watch." He pointed to the TV with the knife.
With a sigh of resignation I looked at the news program. My heart stopped.
There was my dad, in full uniform. There were golden badges gleaming on his chest, a single gold bar told me he had been promoted since last I'd seen him. He looked grim … at least grimmer than normal. There was a bit more gray in his salt and pepper hair and deep heavy bags underneath his brown eyes. Pain and worry were etched into every single wrinkle on his face. My dad began his plea, "We don't know who you are. We don't know what you want. What we do know is that we need the safe return of my daughter. I am personally putting out a five thousand dollar reward to anyone who can give the Gotham City police any information involving the kidnapping of Isabella Lowell. To the kidnapper: I have money, I have power … I will do anything for the safe return of my daughter … please." Even in the camera you could catch the faint sparkle of tears in my dad's eyes.
"Don't cry," I breathed out. My dad never cries. He just doesn't.
"Thank you, Lieutenant." I couldn't look at the TV anymore. The reality of situation hit me like a train. I was kidnapped … by the Joker … but no one knew. I could be dead … a few more days, and I might as well be.
A/N: and the plot thickens xD Any criticisms on the Joker's accent would be nice. I'm on the fence with it. Love you guys 3