I do not own Suicide Squad.
Trailer's freakin' me out tho.
50 Shades of Mr. J.
Fare Thee Well
Harleen Frances Quinzel.
Trash. Street urchin. Abused, beaten little child.
Whore of a mother. Absent father.
Wanting to be more.
More than just trash. More than just used up and spit out by those random men her mother brought home as 'uncles'.
Smart girl. Hard and scrabble girl.
Fight and scrap and never give up girl.
Making it all the way through school, ridiculed and thin and worthless as she was.
Finding escape and talent in gymnastics.
Using it to advance herself, win competitions without a cheering sections, any support at all.
Scoring scholarships, scoring grants.
To college. Higher learning.
Education.
A place where she could reinvent herself.
Make something of herself.
Call her own shots.
And become better.
Wrapping herself up tight in her new identity.
The identity of a young woman.
Intelligent. Refined. In control.
Always in control.
And never hurt by anyone.
Not ever again.
Not until him.
Not until The Joker.
She regained consciousness slowly.
And found she was alone.
The straps were gone.
The blinding light off.
The room quiet.
She wondered if she were dead and stuck in purgatory.
Then she sat up.
Her clothes were the same.
Her sore body ached.
And she was alone.
Carefully, trying not to fall or make noise, she slid down from the metal table.
She had kicked off her shoes in the throes of her torture.
They lay at the foot of the now bare table.
She stared at them.
And found she did not care about them at all.
Barefoot, she padded gingerly into the interconnecting room.
Saw him.
Slouched in a velvet burgundy highbacked chair, draped in thin darkness.
"Mr. J.?"
He did not acknowledge her presence, continuing to stare out the window at the black night, alit by the lights of the city.
She should run.
She knew she should.
For her safety, for her freedom.
Now, while he was . . . whatever he was.
But he looked so unhappy, so despondent.
So alone.
Like her.
She approached him slowly.
"Mr. J.?"
Her voice was raspier than usual.
She supposed it was from all the screaming she had done.
At his purple gloved hands.
Still, she approached.
"Mr. J.? Are you okay?"
He shrugged.
"It's not fun anymore. All the fun is gone. And now I'm bored."
He sounded somewhat like a petulant child whose birthday party was all over.
Cake eaten, balloons deflated, riding ponies packed up.
She reached the chair.
"What fun, Mr. J.?"
He never even looked at her.
"You. You're no fun anymore. You scream and nothing. You cry and nothing. You bleed and . . ."
He gestured vaguely.
"Nothing."
His joy.
His happiness.
His fiendish glee.
Over her pain.
It was gone.
And she felt confusion.
She felt sorrow.
She felt regret.
He was unhappy and it was all her fault.
"What can I do, Mr. J.? How can I help?"
He shrugged again, as if nothing would ever make him laugh again.
"Aside from throwing yourself into a vat of acid? Nothing."
She knelt, one pale hand on his . . .
Not leathered, just cloth. Soft, inviting cloth.
. . . knee.
He continued.
"Oh, what's the point anyway? If I torture you, cut you, electrocute you, you'll just tell me you love me again. It's disgusting. It's maddening. It's ridiculous."
His previously full, maniacal voice was hollow. Empty.
Without life.
Her sorrow deepened.
"You can go," he said quietly.
She stayed still.
"Go on, Dr. Quinzel. Leave me alone. It's over."
And, for lack of a better idea, she went.
Limped home.
Down abandoned streets and past desolate parks.
When her path did cross people, she ducked her head and looked away.
She did not interact with them.
She did not want to.
And when she made it home, she realized that it wasn't hers anymore.
Drab, plain furniture.
Freezer full of frozen single meals.
Nice, clean art adorning the walls.
All very polished and polite and well-meaning.
She knew she didn't want it.
That she wanted something else.
Something she didn't have.
Something, someone, that had been taken from her.
Or worse.
She had been sent away from it.
From him.
And she sat alone in a corner in the dark.
And let it fill her up.
Hello again.
Yeah, deranged I know. And it's only going to get more so from here on out. Up for it?
Thanks to LoreenaGrGoddess, DinahRay (always so loyal, sweetie), and my mystery guests for reviewing.
Also, I absolutely do not condone or get off on this kind of disturbing behavior. But I didn't write the comic or the screenplay, did I? Nope, I'm just using what's in my head.
Okay, rant over. :)
And by the way, gentle readers, if I mess up on stuff, tell me. I don't mind. And if I mess up on stuff badly enough, write your own and make yourself happy. After all, that's what fanfic is all about, yeah? :)