I do not own Suicide Squad.
Trailer's freakin' me out tho.
50 Shades of Mr. J.
Echoes of Whisperings
Twisting, twisting, twisting. Twisting and turning. Turning and twisting.
She had been a celebrated gymnast.
Competitions, awards, complete devotion to her craft.
It was how she had finally broken away from the strangulations of her poverty-striken, abuse-frequented childhood.
No support, no help.
Just her, her focus, and her determination.
Plus, it put her in a zone of sorts.
A zone where she could forget the miseries of her life.
The indecencies and shames done to her.
A zone where there was nothing but the twistings and turnings and bendings of her lithe, superbly trained and practiced body.
It lent her a calm she had not felt before or after.
It lent her . . . peace.
Even now in times of extreme duress and anxiety, she wrapped and knotted her sheets up.
Hung them from industrial hooks drilled into her ceiling.
Turned out all the lights.
And twisted, twisted, turned within the comfort and safety of their accomodating loops.
In the dead of night.
Until peace and calm sought her out.
Stroking her mind with soothing tendrils of sanity.
And clarity.
"Most people are just so worried about what others think of them, they live their whole lives trapped in a box."
So wise to the ways of humanity. So wise. And so truthful, was Mr. J..
"Take you for instance, Dr. Quinzel. What do you do for fun? For entertainment? For . . . release?"
The suggestiveness of that comment caused her pale skin to blush against her wishes.
She smiled and spoke lightly to cover her rising blood.
"Oh, I don't know, Mr. J.. A cup of tea and a good book, perhaps?"
What she didn't say was that the thing that really made her feel satisfied was her twice weekly Krav Maga lessons.
And her time at the gun range.
She plastered the face of every bully, every intimidator, every abusive boyfriend of her mother's on the target, on her sparring partner.
And felt exhilaration and justification when she emerged victorious.
And when they beat her, she resolved to win next time. Make them pay.
Of course, that wasn't professional talk.
So she left that part out.
And her twistings and turnings, encased in looped sheets, suspended in thin air, of course.
And stuck with the book.
Which was true.
And the tea.
Which was also true.
Her patient smiled knowingly nevertheless.
"And what about you, Mr. J.? What are your preferred pasttimes?"
His gentle smile became a shark's grin.
"Oh, the usual. Death. Dismemberment. Anarchy."
And so fast she almost missed it, he winked.
At her.
Slyly. Coyly. Flirtatiously.
Her blood raced. And chilled.
And before she could give herself away, she set her face professionally.
And redirected herself to her writing pad.
"That's interesting."
Indeed.
Another sleepless, lonely, deep night.
She was shuffling her solitare deck.
Aimlessly thinking of him.
That smile, that body, that face.
And found herself face to face with the joker card.
Capering, whimsical, wild joker.
Joker.
It didn't look like him at all.
Black and red patterned costume.
Split doubled belled hat.
Impossibly curled and pointed shoes.
But through the shoddily printed artwork, she caught a glimpse of his face.
His true face.
Manical smile.
That sly wink of his.
And she heard his laugh. Felt those rubber gloved hands stroking her face again.
Felt the surge of electricity coarsing through her body.
Suddenly she threw down the rest of the cards and tore viciously into the mocking card.
Ripping it, shredding it.
Til it lay in tatters upon the table.
And she put her head in her hands.
And sobbed.
When she was once again all emptied out, she gathered up all the little pieces of the Joker card.
And went in search of the scotch tape.
And when all the little pieces had been painstakingly put back together, she stared fixedly at it anew.
With her red, bloodshot eyes.
The color patterns filled her mind. His voice filled her mind.
My dancing harlequin.
It caught in her brain. Clung there, burrowed deep. And took control.
She dug desperately in a drawer for the colors she needed. Found them. And slowly, exactingly, began her work.
Dancing.
She could have scratched it out in minutes, but she wanted to get the lines just right, the colors perfectly saturated.
Harlequin.
So it took a bit longer. Even deeper into the dark night. But for once she didn't mind.
Harlequin.
She was focused. She was content. She was happy.
Harleyquinn.
She was becoming something else.
Harley Quinn.
Someone else.
The next day, she found a tattoo parlor.
And showed them her right forearm.
And made it permanent.
Forever.
Instead of cutting, some people choose to color themselves. And they make these beautiful pieces of art on themeslves. I really respect them for their efforts to heal instead of harm.
Anyway, thanks to asantos11300, DinahRay, and loreenagrgoddess for your excellent reviews. I really appreciate you guys! :D
Thanks also analuciapech for adding your support to this tale.