Chapter Seventeen: Sometimes
Strawberry: "Understanding the Joker." If this was a one-shot (well, the beginning part), that's what I'd call it. In-depth with his wife, his thoughts, and how she, in turn, brought him to where he was in TDK. Sorry it's such a long chapter… Playing the song "Tearjerker" by Korn during this chapter is REALLY effective, I think. The link is on my profile if you want to open it in another window and press play while you read :] P.S. I watched The Shining during the beginning of this chapter, and Jack Nicholson's character is just…phew. It helped me write from a bit of an insane perspective. I wonder if it worked? Read and review so I know if it's good ^_^
Clear as the day, he could see her face in his mind, swarming there as his wife's face used to. Her marred, deformed face, better then it had been compared to the way it was right after Alec Savage had done it. He remembered how much of a pathetic case he had been, sitting by her side in the hospital, cradling her hand unsteadily. He wasn't sure if he had loved her at all, but he gathered that it might have been his lack of feeling those days. Whether or not there had been that timeless connection between them, he remembered only the truth of the day. When he had laid eyes on her after they had cleaned her and stitched her up, she was still the same, demented girl that she had been. Demented woman, classifying by the way she used him as her husband.
Sex. That was all he really remembered. That was all she had ever wanted. That was why the scars mattered.
He shut his eyes, though it made no difference in the pitch-blackness of his room. He was sprawled on the bed lazily, his hands patting at his chest. He had seen it happen to her, watched Alec tear her face apart in more places he would've ever known she had had skin. He remembered the way he stood there, chained back, horror-stricken as he wondered if her mouth would fall off on the ground below her. She was doubled over, not even screaming, no. She was too noble, too…evil. And she was loving it. She simply breathed heavier and heavier until she made a sickly gagging sound when they toyed with her ear. Alec was laughing, laughing…crying as he watched her bleed all over herself, unable to open her eyes lest they be filled with her body fluid. Still, he could only watch as he was left immobile while she was being torn to shreds in front of him.
Her name was Lorelei, and she had never been beautiful.
She had been so corrupted from the beginning. All she had ever wanted was money and beauty and sex. He wondered for a moment why she had even bothered with him at all that night—when they had first met. He swallowed hard as he thought of how pleased he had been with her, having let him have his way while his scarred face stared back at her coldly, compared to the way she grinned and laughed, gasping and breathing like she hadn't had air in a thousand years. She was the prostitute, and he was the needy. Lorelei was somewhat above average in weight terms. She was well proportioned, sure, he recalled with a smile, but she was bigger than the others. Racking his brain, he could not think of why he'd bothered with her. He could have chosen any of them, but she was the one who carried that air of…
Murder. She had almost begged him to tie her to the bedposts. That was what she wanted. Pain.
Lorelei loved pain. Besides her regular obsessions, it was the thing that was on her mind the most. She had been born without any morals or value of human lives. She just wanted to get what she wanted, and whoever stood in the way had to leave. She had plenty of money to be well off, so her prostitution had nothing to do with making ends meet. Lorelei was just… "A whore…" he breathed desperately, almost in admiration. But he liked her; the way she had begged, the way she had finally made him feel like he could control something. Then he started to care for her, because then, he was allowed to.
She gambled, too. She wanted money, money, money and all that adventure. Each night he would call her, and each day he would tell himself a long narrative of why he didn't need to have her every night of his life. Eventually, he did need to, or she would have vanished from the face of the earth. Lorelei hurt and liked it just as she liked to hurt people in return. And the way she loved to be in pain was going to end her up in the most horrific scenario she would have imagined for herself. He couldn't think of anything to do with his feelings but force her to marry him, just to keep her out of trouble. He wanted her to be safe because…maybe he did love her. Did he? "Nah," he reminded himself with a swish of the hand. "Nah, she needed me…" At first she didn't want to give up that life she was leading, but he could compromise…of course he could. She didn't ask that he gave her what she wanted; she asked for him to let her have her way with him, and that meant that he was going to have to be her victim.
She racked up enemies—fast. Alec Savage was her first and last. They were gambling partners, until she started to try conning him out of their winnings. He found her out fast, because Alec was more intelligent than she could've even hoped to be. Once she was discovered, he started raising threats until it was time he carried them out.
That was Alec Savage, scheming but with good reason. Lorelei needed to be disciplined.
He had never seen her cry in his entire life until she caught sight of her face after her visit to the hospital. Blood was caked all over the dried cuts and stitches and she looked like a complete mess of the thing she loved most: pain. He cried, too, he remembered with disgust. Having to watch her be carved dry and not have been able to help her. Then soon after she went completely off, wanting nothing more than "to be happy again, my little jokester, and I need a happiness I can't get with just pain". She would say, "I don't want the pain anymore, as much as I love it…no…no, no, I want death, because it's the only damn thing in this world that I can't have."
His breath was hot and bothered. He shifted on the bed and remembered their final conversation before she left:
"Be with me," she said, her voice tinted with longing as she pulled open her shirt. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair as her black-lined eyes stared back at him lustfully. He sipped at the wine she had poured for him; the third cup she had offered. "Be with me when I do it…let us be making love…and I'll do it right then and then I'll be happy." He tried to avert his gaze but before he knew it she was pressing herself against him back into the dresser. "Please do this for me," she begged, catching the piercing gaze he only gave unwillingly. "Don't you want me to be happy? Listen…I can't take having this face…I can't keep looking like this or I'll shoot myself anyway. Come on…"
He remembered exactly what it felt like to watch his sanity pour out from his mouth and evaporate on the floor at her words. He wanted her to die. He wanted her to kill herself, but he wanted to kill her at the same time. He wanted himself to die because she was right: death was the ultimate satisfaction and the most beautiful form of happiness when pain could no longer suffice. But he knew then what he wanted to do as she so selfishly complained of her own scars while he stood before her with his. Sure, they weren't as great.
He could make them great.
"I got something for you," he whispered to her, the idea having hatched. "I'll be right back. You stay…right here…" He kissed her forcefully and pushed her away, walking to the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. Looking around briefly, he caught sight of the razor she had kept in the cabinets. Smiling at it, gazing at himself in the mirror, he twirled it in his hands before sliding it between his lips. Oh, the feeling of the blade, the way it sent sparks down his spine when he remembered his mother and father…such good people…
Wicked, heartless bastards, those good people were.
He pulled at his face with the razor. It took a moment before it penetrated and his mouth split yet again, just where the previous scars had been as if marked in a trail. He had to stop to laugh, the blood pouring into his mouth and into the sink. And he wasn't even finished yet!
He stopped and grinned in a regretful way. There is no past, he thought drudgingly. Stemming the flow of his quickly moving memories, he thought of his wife namelessly. They were still married then, weren't they?
Unable to stand all the feelings, the reminders, that stabbing feeling in his aching heart, he wrenched himself to his feet with a growl of hatred. It was Fana's fault. Everything was Fana's fault, because if she hadn't been there…if she had never come, he would've been doing something to mess with Gotham's mind. Was it his fault that he hadn't known who she would end up being to him when he spun her around and backed into the elevator with her during Harvey's party? "I didn't do it," he snapped, angry with himself for even suspecting it. "It's Fana's fault." Her name poured from his mouth with added spite, hating the way that he was only alone when he went to his room, and even still, he could see her face in his mind whenever they were apart. He hated it and he hated her for being there to slowly poison him. "Strychnine," he muttered, considering poisons. "You should have used Strychnine, missy. Not these hellacious…" He unbolted the top lock of his door. "These demonized, nonsensical…" The second and third locks. "These sickening, disgusting…morbidly good…" He wrenched open the door of his room and stormed into the hallway, his jaw tensed. "…Those feelings," he finished, his throat clogged with some sort of discomfort.
He had left his jacket in his room. The chain hung from his belt loop made a clinking noise as he bounded down the stairs. One of his knives was poking at the palm of his hand as he squeezed it in his fist, the blade threatening to carve through the material of his gloves. Pain was unnecessary and the funny thing about it was that it defined a person's character. How they stood up to pain, how they looked at it, and what they would be willing to do to avoid it. He was the ultimate sort of person because not only could he stand up against it…
He loved it, just like Lorelei.
With a heightened sense of his awareness of her, he stared fixedly at the exit, knowing well that Fana was already staring at him. He held the knife tighter in his hands, wishing that he could calm himself with a little blood…just a little. He wiggled his fingers around the handle, trying to slice through the thick fabric of the gloves. By the time he had reached the door, he was still unsuccessful. He sharply threw it against the ground, knowing well he might not have ever gotten it back. Looking away from it, he pressed his weight against the door, and the minute the crisp air tainted his being, her voice traveled to his ears like a deathly hypnosis.
"Hey," she said, just barely loud enough to acquire his attention. He froze where he was, his eyes boring into the gray, solid door. "Where are you going?" she asked calmly. He wanted to cut her throat, perhaps because he wanted her to love it the way he did or maybe just to get her away from him—permanently.
He whirled around, stretching his mouth and glaring at her through his black eyes. "I'm getting away from you," he spat honestly, pointing to himself and then her demonstratively. Immediately, her face contorted into concern and she scrambled up from where she sat on the bench, shaking her head. "You stay there," he commanded loudly, finally ready to be as furious as he could with her. It made him feel alive and in control; what was best for him was that he get himself out of there. He could call the others later, tell them where to find him. Then Fana could find her own damn way home and he could go back to the way things were: perfect. "You make me…weak, Fana," he told her, steaming. Her mind was racing, but she could still recognize the way his voice sounded, curled around her name in complete seriousness. "And I don't like that very much. No, actually…let's be bold: I hate that, Fana Will-ana." He wanted to kick himself for even going so far as to say what he was saying. "Listen, doll face. I got—I told you to—"
"I know what you said." Fana's eyes were fiercely knowing, her tone just as firm and menacing. She was strolling toward him as though she had nothing to fear; as though she had no reason to be afraid for her life. She was wrong. When she had reached him she made a quick movement—too quick for his eyes—and she had snatched his wrist between her fingers in an instant. She pressed down, rolling his tendons but he determinedly ignored it. "You know what I can feel?" she asked him, her teeth bared. He wanted to know what reason she had to be at all angry, but he simply stared at the benches behind her. "Your heartbeat." He jerked his hand away.
"And why does that matter…hm?" he hissed.
"Because," she replied, "you look like a human being and you like to pretend you aren't one. But you know what? Your heart beats the same way that mine does, and it beats every day to keep you alive. It fills up your whole body, just like mine does for me. And I'm human; you know what that means? Means you're just like me." At that point, he had to laugh. And to think he'd thought she was learning for even a split second…
"I'm not," he told her, blinking very slowly. "No, I'm not. And everything you think is—"
"Touch my skin."
He hesitated. "Excuse me?"
"Right here." She tapped the side of her face and said, "Just feel my skin for just a second. Take off the gloves." He stayed very still, his eyebrows having seemingly risen of their own accord. Then he giggled, his shoulders rolling backwards once in finality.
"No, thanks, doll face," he said under his laughter. "I got places to be…understand?" With no other warning but the churning of his stomach, Fana's fingers were sliding carefully against his, but she hadn't looked away from his painted face. His brain told him to protest, but it didn't seem able to make his nerves move. He started to say something.
"Shh…" Her lips poked out obnoxiously as she made the sound, her fingers tugging at his. She looked down at their hands as she pulled at his gloves; he found that he had no desire to go against what she wanted. That was what he hated. That was what he had to get away from. "Why are you so afraid of being weak?" she asked him in hush. "Why do you have to leave just because you feel human—the way you were made to be?"
"I'm not afraid," he corrected her. The first of his gloves that had been taking the knife wounds in place of his hands slid off into Fana's hand. He sighed, completely resigned. Momentarily, he made to pivot the slightest bit so that he could get out the door, but he decided against it to his disgust. "I just don't like it," he finished dimly. "I prefer to…just not care at all. And if I get to do that…well, kiddo, I don't even have to prefer anymore…do I?" He grinned. The skin of her fingers rubbed against his knuckles in a wisp, as if it hadn't even happened fully. "You make me prefer things and care," he accused in a low voice. She was raising his hand to her face as easily as if she were holding onto the string of a balloon. Maybe that's all he was, what with his mind gone completely blank. "You know…that I hate that…don't you?" He hated to see his bare hands, tainted with the chalky remnants of face paint. Not only that, but his forearms, toned and…normal could be seen without the sleeves of his jacket to cover them. He felt instantaneously debased.
Fana's face was smooth and soothing against his rough fingers. She didn't wince at the jaggedness of the nicks in his fingers given to him more usually by himself than any other. Even with the progress she had made, she was still pulling off his other glove as she leaned into his touch peacefully. "Stay," she told him softly. Even breathing seemed a task to him.
"Can't you just…" He pieced his words together, not knowing where else he could look but at her face. "You don't make anything…easy…you know that?" She didn't answer or falter whatsoever. "Let's say we go back to the way things were. Hm?" He nodded, but she still showed no sign of response. "Where you and me…hah…well, let's just say I was still the authority. I like that…" She could see the easing in his face, the lack of calamity that stemmed back all emotion. "You're acting the authority now," he finalized gently. "That…I don't like."
His eyes were soft though he maintained that pained expression of what might have been guilt or regret. Gradually, his hand has slid down from her face until it was back at his side, looking unfulfilled without it's dressing. "You…have me under your control…" he admitted dejectedly. "Hah…I miss holding the cards already!" Hatching an idea, he continued to speak. "That's okay. You're a die-trying fighter, missy. And you'd think that would be the very top of it, huh? No…no, no, I'm above…even that."
She didn't speak in reply. Instead, Fana hesitantly reached up and let her hand hover just above his cheekbone in thought. He cringed before she had even grazed his skin and almost jumped out of his shoes when the she touched him. The paint was caked though evenly spread, and it felt not much different than his regular, bare skin. She could tell, however, that if she moved her hand away, there would be splotches of white on her palm.
Fana leaned into him, and he to her in turn until he realized that it couldn't happen. He had let Fana step over the line loads of times; there was always a "too far".
"No, Fana—" He slid his fingers out of her grip and shielded himself from her, holding her back. "Fana…banana, not…I have…the makeup, hm? You don't—"
"I do," she interrupted, pushing past his arms and slowly inching forward, pulling him with her. "It's okay to be liked sometimes." When their lips met, he was breathing heavily, his eyes left unclosed and his arms limp. She could tell that the red paint covering his mouth was rubbing onto hers, but it was simply all the more reason to be interested; all the more reason to care. He relaxed at last and leaned back against the door, taking her with him. The door creaked as if to ask to be opened, but he ignored it, her warmth consuming him. Lorelei had never been so welcoming; only pathetic.
"Huh…" he breathed against her mouth as she toyed with a strand of his hair. "Let's say…maybe I like being weak sometimes, too." He could feel her smile. "I said sometimes, doll face…but hey…" There was a moment where his speech was muffled as she kissed him and he wanted to break out into laughter, but controlled himself. "I don't want a lot of things." He held her back so that she was looking at him, half-wishing he could successfully push her away and knife her. "See, I'm a guy of…simple taste. I just like to make my mark. But you know what I think? I think that when I want something…I don't wait for it. I take it." His fingers danced on her hips. "So…what I'm thinking is…that if I want something…it doesn't matter what it is. I'm taking it." Squinting and sucking at the inside of his mouth, he thrust Fana's hair uncaringly over her shoulder with one hand, leaning towards her. He pressed his lips to her ear and he could feel her kissing his neck as he did so. "This is what I want," he said slyly into her ear, kissing her out of pure reaction.
Joseph looked back at Andy with a disbelieving smile. "You were right!" he exclaimed to Andy's immediate silencing. He looked back at the boss who, any other time, looked like some kind of twisted king. In that moment, there was the Joker, acting on lust with his hostage, and it was true: she wasn't trying to get away. She didn't even look like she was planning some kind of escape or mutiny. Not the way she was leaning against him. "Boss has got it for the girl," he added in a whisper.
"So…what happens now?" Andy asked.
Joseph shrugged. "You're not thinking he's gonna change course, yeah? 'Cause…ain't no girl gonna change that guy."
"Huh. We'll see what happens. Let's keep checking. Only sometimes, though…"
Well I wish there was someone
Well I wish there was someone
To love me
When I used to be someone
And I knew there was someone
That loved me
As I sit here frozen alone
Even ghosts get tired and go home
As they crawl back under the stones
And I wish there was something
Please tell me there's something better
And I wish there was something more than this
Saturated loneliness
And I wish I could feel it
And I wish I could steal it
Abduct it, corrupt it, but I never can
it's just saturated loneliness
Does the silence get lonely?
Does the silence get lonely?
Who knows?
I've been hearing it tell me
I've been hearing it tell me
Go home
Cause the freaks are playing tonight
They packed up and turned out the lights
And I wish there was something
Please tell me there's something better
And I wish there was something more than this
Saturated loneliness
And I wish I could feel it
And I wish I could steal it
Abduct it, corrupt it, but I never can
It's just saturated loneliness
And the bath waters cold
And this life's getting old
And I wish I could feel it
And I wish I could feel it
And I wish I could steal it
Abduct it, corrupt it
And I wish I could feel it
And I wish I could steal it
And I wish I could feel it
Abduct it, corrupt it
But I never can
I never can
Never Can
Never Can
Never Can