"I've got a tight grip on reality
But I can't let go of what's in front of me here
I know you're leaving in the morning when you wake up
Leave me of some kind of proof it's not a dream."

I begged him to answer my questions, why I was here, why he chose me to kidnap and slightly mutilate. He dismissed my questions with smart and mean remarks, and would often hit me or abuse me in some way, whether mentally or physically. He never let his gang members or thugs anywhere close to me; the most I heard was their voices behind the door. That was another thing; I never saw anything beyond that room where I spent multiple hours in seclusion. He did not allow or want me to see the outside world anymore, I gathered. Fortunately, my job at the MCUdid not start for quite a while; but I imagined that my voice-mail at home was getting full, whether the messages were from Bruce Wayne or Jim Gordon. My cell phone had been crushed, courtesy of the Joker.

He absolutely restricted me from anything besides himself. He would avoid eye contact with me when I begged to be let free or ask him questions. This puzzled and disturbed me a great deal that he refused to answer my many questions, as though he did not care or want to answer them. I was starting to lose my sanity, being locked in this strange room in this strange house with many strange men. I grew angry, irritable, and mad; I would sob at any moment I thought about the outside world. Bruce must have already given up on me, seeing as I hadn't called him back. I was becoming way too thin; I had lost at least ten to fifteen pounds throughout my stay. It wasn't healthy, as my slim figure was now starting to emaciate. It had been at least the two week mark I was staying at the unidentified residence of the Joker's, the day I got the scars.

"Let me go." I shouted at him when the Joker strode into the room, acting as if having a young female hostage for two weeks was completely sane and normal. He bit his inner cheek nervously.

He was wearing the same apparel as always; purple pants, shirt, green vest. He didn't seem to care about his makeup much when he was around me, however. It was never perfectly applied like he wore out in public. It was smeared and some of it was faded, showing he did not care if it was applied when he saw me.

"You're testing my patience, Evan." He growled, then licked his lips, bit his inner cheek, and his eyes stared coldly down at me, seeing as he was way taller than me. His eyes were cloudy and dark, mean. I couldn't help but me intimidated by them, yet I said what I had been meaning to say for the longest time.

"So? Do you believe I care about your patience? I've been stranded in this fuckingroom for two weeks now. I'm practically emaciated. I haven't changed my clothes or showered. I have no contact with the outside world. I haven't been to my apartment in weeks. And I don't even know why I'm here!" I snapped at him. Immidetatley, I regreted yelling at my captor.

His face changed from slightly irritated to enraged at an estimate of point five seconds. His eyes became even darker than before, if that was even possible. He gripped me by the neck roughly, and sent me to the ground with a thud. I fearfully gazed up at this man who was clearly dominant and overpowered me by many levels. I winced as he yelled at me, rage obviously showing in his face.

"You are. so. ungrateful." He managed to threaten through clenched teeth. "I let you live, let you linger. You are so fucking lucky I don't kill you right here, right now." I stared up at him pleadingly, but no words escaped my lips. I trembled in his firm and masculine grasp. I was sure his knuckles would choke me by themselves; the tentants beneaths his rough skin threatened to pierce my throat. I gasped as I saw the shining blade of his knife come out of his pocket.

"Such a beautiful face." He smirked, his mood changing almost instantly. "But..." He cupped my face in his hands, studying it. I practically begged with my eyes, as I searched his face for some kind of compassion. I found none. My lip quivered in an effort to not burst out in tears due to fear and depression. He pulled the knife completely out of his pocket, leaning it up against my already-bruised cheek. I let out a whimper, but the Joker ignored it. His rough hand controlled my face as he decided what to do. He slightly pressed it against my lower cheek, and it drew blood. I whimpered again.

As quickly as he had shoved me to the ground, he gave me the exact permanant smile he had.
I blacked out, the last thing I heard was his cackling.

Reviews would be amazing! :}