Author's Note (READ DAMMIT): Yes, I know, it has been nearly a week since I last posted, I'm sorry! But I had to be social and not shut myself up in my house with my computer like a recluse, and now you have the first part in the gratuitous disintegration of Harriet Vince's mind. Have fun!
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I don't think you're happy enough!
That's right–– I'm gonna teach you to be happy!
I'll teach your grandmother to suck eggs!
Now boys and girls
Let's try it––
AGAIN!
-- Stinky Wizzle-teats, "Happy Happy Joy Joy"
Everything is hollow nowadays.
Without pausing to even breathe, I turn and attempt to run to Harvey's side, screaming his name. Almost instantly, a man the size and appearance of a mountain armed with a gun much like a hand cannon impedes my passage. I gulp. I always overestimate my height and strength in these situations. I can hear Harvey whimper in the distance, calling my name in anguished tones, and my heart lurches. "I'll be right there, Harvey, you'll be fine! Okay? Just–– stay calm!" I turn around to look at the few rich partygoers who have not managed to escape, realizing with horror that unless something is done quickly, we'll probably all be massacred. And with that in mind, I spin back around using what little knowledge I have of fighting plus all of my pathetic body weight to shove the thug's nose into his skull. His head snaps back, and I try to ignore the sickening warm liquid I feel upon my palm. I grab his weapon, lift it with both arms, and instantly stagger. Holy fuck is this thing made of lead? Again, note to self, overestimating my strength to weight ratio puts person into a compromising position. But, I think, as I blow a hole in the wall just above another henchman's head, stumbling backwards with the force and knocking him unconscious, sometimes the weapon is compensation all by itself.
The room is blown apart as the "guards" are knocked out either with falling plaster or, if they get close enough, the hefty body of my hand cannon. Still shooting over my shoulder, I kneel beside Harvey, heart pounding in my throat. "Harvey? Harvey, we have to go!" He looks wan, skin sallow and eyes dim, and although he's been pressing his palms to his bullet wound, I can see that at least a liter of his blood has pooled around his weak body. I reel, guilt for my negligence inflaming every nerve ending, making every movement bring tears to my eyes. "Oh god, Harvey. Oh god, please––" I spin around and, blood boiling within my veins, point the barrel of my hand cannon at the nearest clown, vision partially obscured with hot tears. "Put your fucking weapons down!" I shriek, shooting just above the poor guy's head. "Look you bastards, I just shot your boss in the kneecap! You think I'm going to save my best behavior for the scum toting the guns? Put down the fucking weapons, or my requests will become much less polite."
To my shock and rapture, I hear the clatter of weapons upon tile. I look around, eyes drying as I see that of the six clowns that had accompanied the Joker, only half were standing, and every one of them had surrendered. I nod firmly, and then glance to the group of richly dressed couples that stand quivering in a dark corner of the train station. I gasp and begin grinning––a seventh clown lays unconscious at their feet, apparently having been bludgeoned with the crockery they are clenching. "Well done," I laugh, and then instantly become solemn as I point behind myself. "Will you carry our friend out? Our original companions thought fit to abandon him." I shake off the horrible cold weight of betrayal settling in the pit of my stomach, choosing to smile at my gang of patrons, businessmen, and lawyers as they rush to lift Harvey's feeble frame. He stirs a little as they move him, eyes shifting slowly to meet mine. In their warm dark depths, I see a tiny spark of hope, closely followed by an anxious desperation–– the same desperation that makes him remove a fist from his wound and clutch for my hand.
"Come." I feel water fill my eyes, and I blink furiously, pressing Harvey's bloodied fingers to my lips.
"I'll be right behind you, Harvey–– I'll be watching your back." I lift my giant weapon to my shoulder, smiling a little. "I will never abandon you. Ever." With that, I run back through the terminal, old wounds reopening on the soles of my bare feet, leaving bloody footprints. I force myself to be calm as I approach the wounded monster on the stage, an odd sensation of guilt surging through my body. Sure, I had shot him to end his torment, but passion was no excuse for the cruelty I had demonstrated. I flinch, wondering if perhaps I was not, as the Joker said, entirely irreprehensible. Trembling with dread and self-loathing, I quietly climb the stairs, wincing as the sounds of soft moaning, combined with breathy giggles, emanate somewhere above his jackknifed body. "Joker?" I call softly, willing myself not to panic. The moaning stops, and the laughter redoubles, sounding crazed, excited even. Ignoring this, I crouch besides his body and pry his hands away from the gaping wound in his knee.
"Do you really want to know why I keep on smiling?" My mind is numb again, suddenly and inexplicably blank as I smell the blood and gunpowder. The Joker lifts his head, and his scarred face is twisted with sick joy and sheer agony. Hesitating, I delicately touch the edge of the wound like a curious child. He moans, but it almost sounds sensual, and his grin stretches even wider. Honestly? I roll my eyes, settling back on my haunches and tearing the hem of my dress into glittery strips. "I read a story–– a memoir––by a man who survived the Vietnam War." I tie the pieces of cloth around his bloody knee securely, fashioning what I hope will serve as a makeshift bandage. "One of his friends, Curt Lemon, stepped upon a booby-trapped artillery round and was blown to pieces. They were sent to collect his body parts, which had been strewn about, and as they threw chunks from a tree, they began singing 'lemon tree very pretty,' just so that they could keep themselves laughing." I pause, looking deep into the Joker's black irises. "Do you understand, Joker? I'm different from you. I–– I don't want to be like you."
"Harriet!" I hear Harvey scream, and even as I turn to look him, I feel twenty tons of excruciating pain explode in my right side. I stare down at my body––it's like an entire half has burst open, fast-motion blossoming into a beautiful crimson tropical flower. It's wide, warm petals taper and trickle down my body. I gently graze their fluid surface with my fingertips, breathing a sigh of awed astonishment, before spiraling to the floor like a cut mannequin, darkness engulfing me.
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The nightmares are back.
The nightmares that I denied during the daylight, hid during the night. The gruesome dreams that I deliberately forgot, consciously forced to the back of my mind, where they enhanced every click, hiss, and hum, every backfiring car and every chiming clock. And at night, they would return, more dreadful than before. I would start awake, biting my wrist to stop myself from crying out–– Alfred and Bruce couldn't know. They couldn't.
Thick cold fogs of terrible memories and the heavy weight of fear deep within me, weighing me down even as I try to run from it. Running from a train made of shadows, now driven by two charred clowns, their smiles welded to their flesh, and the hum of the track becomes the hiss of the fuse. And the shadows become flame, which boils into blood, pouring out of the gaping hole in Harvey's chest. I am swept away by the black-red tide, screaming as–– I am falling backwards, burning with rage, tears flowing out of me like inverted tap water, watching the faces of dying policemen as they plummet past me, hands clawing at the air, at their chests, trying to return their blood to their bodies. And the person I clutch with bloodstained paws is faceless, and cold, too cold––
I jolt awake, sitting straight up and biting down on my wrist to stop myself from screaming. Instantly, a blinding light disorients me. I blink, twisting away from it, trying to block the sounds of my nightmare train from overtaking my sense of sound. My entire body feels numb, and my midriff is tightly wrapped in gauze. Morphine. Fun. I shield my eyes, definitely woozy. "Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est?" The light twists a little away from me, and again I see a faint red light.
It's that damn camera again. Honestly, how can you teach a creep not to make voyeuristic home videos? Other than beating him to a pulp. And that obnoxious, petrifying voice ringing in the empty room. "Hello, Har-ri-et–– do you know where you are?" I glare at the camera.
"How about you turn on the lights and let me find out?" He laughs hysterically, and I hear a horrible note of triumph in his cackling.
"No no no, girly, I can't do that! Because every time I turn on the lights, you manage to get a-way, and I have to start this whole–– this whole process over again. It's not that I wouldn't be able to find you–– I've been watching you from the very beginning." My eyes widen. "How else would I know that you had left that fort of a penthouse last Sunday? It wasn't sweet co-incidence that I met you at the restaurant." I would facepalm if my hands weren't tied behind my back. Honestly, a stalker clown? Am I still dreaming? All my phobias have converged upon me in one month. It's like someone blew off the door on my anxiety closet–– and I think I know who. My glaring redoubles in fury and intensity, and the Joker cackles even more wildly. "I traced you from the moment you sat down to dinner with Wayne!" I gasp.
"Wait, were you that guy who got out of the car and laughed at me when I walked into the pole?" Facepalm. I want to facepalm so badly. "Jerk."
"You're so eloquent when you're angry, Har-ri-et," the Joker calls out in a singsong voice. "Shall I give you a gun and let it do the talking, hmmm?" I lurch guiltily, and then scowl into the camera.
"You hurt my friends." He giggles, and the lights come on. Someone unties one of my hands, and I feel a cool fingertip lightly run along my spine.
"Oh, Harriet, your ideas of nobility, decency, loyalty–– they're so old-fashioned. You and your little, ah, com-patriots are playing games of chess, complete with bishops, knights–– queens." I roll my eyes as he lopes into my line of vision, standing besides the camera.
"And you're more of a poker player. I know all that!" I'm tired of this game–– tired of the Joker's stupid mind tricks. I feel a slow epiphany flood my brain with beautiful white light, and I grin. "Look, Joker, I know I'm a freak! I know that I'm a weird mix of species that should never ever work, that I've got electricity in my head and poison up my sleeve. But you know what? That's just who I am. Just like you're––uh, whoever you actually are. Someone who's gonna end up in Arkham."
"I'm not crazy." He pauses, shifting his weight and licking his lips. I stare at him. "I'm no-t." His scars twitch with indignation. There's a long silence, in which I am dumbfounded. And then––I can't help it–– I start cracking up. This is a total non sequitur, even for wacky old me. The Joker is startled. "What's so funny?"
"W-what's so funny? Is this the Joker I hear? Gotham's flipped topsy-turvy! The Batman is laughing and the Joker's scowling! And me? Oh, you hypocrite!" I throw back my head dramatically and wham it against the wall. "Ow!" I yell, and then start laughing even harder, wheezing even. "Wow! I never thought I'd hear the guy trying to drive me insane would be in such denial about his own imbalanced mental health! No, don't take offense!" I clamp a hand to my mouth, giggling even harder at his bewilderment. "I have this theory–– wait, wait for it–– that you're not–– crazy, no! No, your world just has a lot more blood and gunpowder in it!" I wave my hand at his face, still chortling. "And make-up. Has anyone told you that you look like a drag queen on crack? I won't!"
I lean back in my chair, still cracking up. "Jesus," I giggle, "at this rate, I'll end up in Arkham! Maybe I'm bipolar. Maybe you're making me bipolar. Good job!" I can't stop smiling. "Yes sir, you and I and Battyman are all going to be rooming together at the Arkham School for deranged boys and girls, where the uniform is a pretty white suit that lets you hug yourself forever!"
Man, when I start, I just can't stop, I think, wheezing, hands waving like paddles in front of my face. The Joker finally bursts out laughing, bemused, and I waggle my finger at him admonishingly. "See, Joker, you cheated and picked an easy target–– I'm already half-unhinged and flighty, and never take anything seriously. That, coupled with extreme phobias and recent trauma, sets me up as candidate number uno for Miss Paranoid Schizophrenia all on my lonesome!" I strike a pose––covering my face with my free hand and pretending to scream. His cackling redoubles, and I relax, letting my hands drop and furrowing my brow. "Though paranoia doesn't really suit me. How about sardonic schizophrenia? Bizarre? Psychedelic?"
"You see, Harriet, this is why you representing the, ah, 'ordinary' people of Gotham is complete-ly absurd," the Joker says, sniggering at my babblings. "Do you understand now? –– We're two of a kind, you and I." I waggle my finger, standing up and dragging the chair behind me.
"No, see, unless I'm, ah, provoked," I say, mocking his mannerisms, "I don't act on my twisted thoughts. I'll give you that I have a lot of 'em, but I'm not the sick fuck that pulls them off!" I finish airily, wiping my eyes. "Now––" I say, becoming serious, "–– tell me what's running through that twisted mind of yours." He grins, and pretends to simper.
"Oh, Harriet, you know I, ah, care for you, yes?" I roll my eyes, shrugging at the obvious falsehood. "Wel-l, your mental health has been under a lot of strain lately, and I wouldn't want you running away from the results. So I'll be playing therapist for you, while you use your investigative talents to track down the elusive Bat." I stare at him. He twirls his harpy between his fingers, whistling a circus tune. "Yesss, it's Asylum Safari with the Joker, where we hunt down the most monstrous and frightening animals in the Gotham jungle!" I snort.
"And the tour guide is a ravenous lion? Why do I get the feeling that the tourists will be paying with flesh?"
"Well, I always loved open-face sandwiches!" I snicker, swaying a little and letting the chair fall on its side with a clang.
"Open-face? That's pretty good, Joker–– or was that the pun?" His demented smile disappears. "Oop! I guess that's what normal therapists would call a Freudian slip!" I giggle wildly, suddenly indifferent about whether I live or die. "You see, Mister Joker, I really have lost all sense of self-preservation! You can't play on my cowardice anymore, although I'm sure I still have it in spades. But––" I stare at the camera "–– I can't run away again, can I?"
My breath catches in my throat and my eyes burn, remembering the gunshots echoing from the hallway and the voices of the henchmen––"Got the parents, boss, but the kid's quicker than a gunshot." How long does Jon have to live? What have I done by getting involved in any of this? I swallow, hard. "If I run away again," I continue quietly, "more people will die." I stare at the hunched figure before me, dressed in his customary purple, pants leg now decorated with a large bandage wrapped tightly around his knee. It is white gauze, but a large crimson stain pools in the center, making all the guilt and self-loathing come back with a rush. He sees me staring, and a large, yellow-toothed grin splits his face. "But I can't betray Batman. He is my savior, my protector–– and it would be a mark of highest ingratitude for me to condemn him to your hands." The Joker licks his lips and closes his eyes slowly, as if savoring my words.
"You won't change your mind?"
"No."
"Then," he says, giggling menacingly, "I'll have to do it for you."