I do not own Suicide Squad.
Trailer's freakin' me out tho.
50 Shades of Mr. J.
A Desire for Color
She sat alone in her bland apartment.
On her colorless sofa.
Listening to the endless, ceaseless quiet.
Thinking of him.
And the way he used to talk. To her.
"You're so pale, Dr. Quinzel. So drawn and pale. And your clothes, all black and white. They don't seem to suit you all. Is that what they make you wear here?"
She should be offended, incensed.
He was the patient and she the physician here.
Not the other way around.
She should be offended.
Except he seemed to honestly, really care.
He seemed to notice.
And not just her breasts or her ass like all the other male doctors here.
He just noticed her.
And cared.
"If you don't mind my saying so, Doctor, you could do with a little color."
And she started to smile.
Then stifled it professionally because the camera above them was watching, watching, always watching.
And redirected the subject matter.
"Well, thank you for your consideration, Mr. J. I shall take it under advisement."
And now it was the Joker, all straightjacketed up, who smiled.
Just a little.
Because he cared.
She could tell.
She thought of him.
Him and all his colors.
His gruesome smile.
His rollicking laughter.
When she was strapped to that metal table with the light blinding her eyes.
Bright red blood. Running down her milk white flesh.
Adding color.
Color to his dancing, writhing harlequin.
And she moved into the kitchen
Picked up a knife from the cutlery block and sat down on the floor, ankles . . .
Criss-cross applesauce, children . . .
. . . crossed.
Stared fixedly at her left forearm.
Grasped the the knife in her right hand a little tighter.
And drew the sharp blade across her tender flesh.
Without a flinch.
Without a blink.
Without a sound.
And lifted it just as slowly.
Set it down on the linoleum.
And stared at her previously flawless arm, now thinly dripping crimson.
Hair loose, hanging down around her face.
Her expressionless face.
And frowned.
It didn't feel the same.
Pain, yes.
Sting, yes. Burn, yes.
Blood, yes. Bright red.
But not the same.
The pain, the fear, the confusion, the helplessness.
With his eyes.
Those glinting, flashing eyes above her.
Wild laughter ringing in her ears.
Here it was quiet.
Still.
Bland.
Colorless.
There with him.
Green, red, blue.
Manic, taunting, full of glee.
It wasn't the same.
She sighed.
Maybe another spot.
Leg. Stomach. Face.
So she tried them all.
One at a slow time.
And in the end, bathed in a warm bath swirled with pink ribbons of her own blood.
And a dissatisfied heart.
Nope, not a fan of self-injury either. Just laying some groundwork here.
Anyway, thanks to DinahRay and DocQuinn for the reviews.
Thanks also to asantos11300, jennamichelle85, Jade the Wizard, hawkgirlAFT for adding your support here.