Bleak December – Thanks! I tried to connect the timeline of the movie with my fanfiction to make it more natural.

miss coconuts – Oh believe me, Rachel's suffering truly starts this chapter (just to warn you in advance).

TheAngryPrincess13 – Damn right he does (I think I'll cry if he doesn't at least get the nomination for Best Supporting Actor)! Thank you!

Anon. – Thank you. This is the first fanfic I've done that switches POVs so I wasn't really sure how it would turn out.

quicksilver2402004 – Thank you for liking this fanfic so far. :)

CompleteSolitude, PhantasmBunny, Amaruk Wolfheart of the Wraith, Rachel, M.B. Jones, moonservant, O. Rose, vibra, DisturbedBeauty – Thank you so much for liking the Joker haiku/portrayal! :D

WARNING! From here, the story gets very dark and freaky! Enjoy...

IV

Ah, my head…why does it hurt so much? I blink my eyes rapidly in equal attempts to concentrate and to dull the ache; after achieving just the first, I give up on the latter. Hey, my limbs ache too. What's going on?

I try to remember but remembering is hard when you're dizzy enough to slip into unconsciousness like - oh! Memories stampede over any drowsiness I have left: the party, the gun, the van, the rag on my face...the Joker! It was him! He kidnapped me and brought me...where?

Funny how my eyes are open and their pitchy surroundings haven't changed after being closed. How troublesome that my senses are so muddled even though I am getting them back, starting with my sight. Well, no wonder I can't see a thing; the Joker was "kind" enough to blindfold me. I can't believe I couldn't feel the cloth there several seconds ago. I must've really been out of it. No time to worry about that, though. If the Joker kidnapped me, it's logical to deduce that he's lurking somewhere nearby.

"Where are you?" I demand to the darkness. "Where am I?"

Silence echoes back. Then I hear his voice.

"Everywhere...and nowhere..."

I gnash my teeth. His impudent retorts are grating what exists of my patience. "I said 'where are you?'"

The response is a noise now: footsteps. The Joker couldn't have been exceptionally far in distance for they soon come to a halt. Familiar leather gloves flutter around my neck to meet at the tie of the blindfold. Carefully undoing it, the hands tug the blindfold away, allowing me to confront the object of my torment, the "Death's Head," again. The lack of illumination makes him ghostlier than ever.

My own hand goes to slap the Joker to repeat history but I'm unable to move it. Confused, I visually follow up my arm and discover...it's handcuffed to the ceiling, pair joining it. The chain is nailed through three of its links. Ripples of panic sweep over me; my gaze grows huge and darts to my feet. They aren't spared either for a long bar simultaneously holds them in place and spreads them apart.

A choked gasp emerges from my throat. I thrash against my newly found bonds despite knowing it's useless. Figures the Joker would think of something creatively sick. I never meant it more.

Meanwhile, the Joker watches and waits for me to tire and slump which I inevitably do. He brings his head close; I twist mine away, not wanting to witness what he'll accomplish after orchestrating me in this dreadful position. My futile actions don't hinder him. Rather, they "aid his genius" and lay out new options for him to improvise. He lazily exhales on the half of my face exposed to him and I receive an overwhelming smell of his breath: musky, decaying, and pungent as wilted flowers.

"You're more pathetic than I would've thought."

I turn my head forward, stunned.

The Joker puts a gloved hand dramatically to his temple. "How disappointing. I was hoping you'd put up a fight but," he sighs so heavily, it's more like a cough, "you're a scared girl."

That does it. That's the final straw. My temper, churning and frothing during this roller coaster ride of misfortune, boils over like molten lava. How dare he continue underestimating me, the bastard!

"You're wrong!" I shake my head, barely keeping my tone in check. Hot tears build from my eyes and threaten to leak. "I'm not scared of you! You'll never get me to talk! I'd rather die!"

Finishing, I pant, angrily regarding the Joker to see if any impression had been made on him. Seems the Joker's mostly unaltered in that department though there could be what amounts to a twitch of curiosity in his features. "Big words for a little lady. Death...fear..." He savors the sound of the last with a smirk. Quickly as the smirk is etched, it's erased and the Joker's face turns solemn. "Tell me, do you have any idea what those words mean?"

I hold my tongue for caution's sake. What kind of answer could he possibly want me to deliver anyway? He can't be serious...oh yeah, he never is. Forget it.

Mistaking my choice to not reply for ignorance, the Joker declares, "Thought so! Good decent person like yourself, what would you know of that?

A fond smile creeps onto the Joker's face, reminiscent of a child's innocent crush. "Silly," he murmurs almost patronizingly, "I don't care whether or not you talk."

I stare at him. "What?" Did I hear him right? Why would he then -

"Piece is in place, no worries." The Joker, still smiling, ruffles my hair, interrupting my train of thought. "I promise you'll live a while longer."

"What?" I shrilly repeat, mental alarm bells ringing. "You mean you're going to torture me?"

The hand ruffling my hair startlingly tightens its hold. "Haven't you noticed we're the only ones in this room?" the Joker quietly asks.

Naturally provoked by the information, I scan the room for the first time. The Joker's right; it's totally empty. It doesn't even have windows and there's a dank stench that's but recently reaching my nostrils. The more aware I am of how dark and filthy the room is, the more an onslaught of claustrophobia spreads my brain.

"I told them to go away." The Joker draws his mouth to my ear. "I wanted us to be alone, sweetie pie."

I shudder. Cutesy endearments sound terrible coming from him, like parodies of themselves. Is that what he's seeking to instill? What's really troubling is the fact that he didn't tell his own gang where he hid me. He was extra careful, for some unfathomable reason, against anyone interfering with whatever he wants to do. I still don't know what specifically he has in mind to use me for other than bait.

"And I wouldn't call it torture," adds the Joker to what I said previously, "more like...artistic expression," he hisses, soft yet intense, in a way I've never encountered with him until this moment. His scratchy breath isn't what's giving me these chills. It's the finality of his message.

When the Joker adjusts himself from me, I find myself in an emotional tailspin. This is too much to bear. No one knows where I am besides you-know-who. I have absolutely no control over my life now; it's truly in the palm of his hand. One swipe of his deft fingers and a glimmer of steel and that'll be the end of me.

The uninvited vision of it haunts me to the extent that I faintly register what the Joker is saying next. "Aw, what's the matter?" he coos like I'm an infant, happily content I'm distressed. "Upset the Batman hasn't flown by to save you?

Then, faster than traffic lights, the Joker's demeanor switches to thoughtfully intrusive. "Do you think he will?"

I make no effort to humor him. As far as I'm concerned, I'm good as dead already. And when last it was reported, the dead don't talk.

"Now honey," the Joker's coaxing is soured by an undercurrent of irritation as he squishes my cheeks and forcibly tilts my head to align it with his, "don't act that way." Satisfied that I'm upholding his existence, he lets go but not before tracing a lingering line along my jaw. "We can't play if you act that way," he sings the rhyme mockingly. "Therefore," still talking, the Joker starts to walk backwards towards the door like it's perfectly normal, "I'm leaving an itty bit to...let you enjoy yourself here...alone." He "walks," in the orthodox method of the term, when he reaches halfway to his destination; in other words, when he's done speaking to me.

Alone…something about "alone" causes my stomach to flip-flop. Alone in a space akin to a vortex, draining the energy out of me and itself…hard as it is to accept, the Joker staying with me is not a vice. It helps me temporarily forget the cuffs cutting my wrists and the weight stretching my legs, ignoring that this is his doing…but to be alone…

I decide to amplify my worries from my vocal cords. "When will you come back?"

The Joker stops in his tracks. "Oh," he raises his wrist to look at an imaginary watch, "in a few hours, days, weeks, months, years."

My mouth drops in utter horror at the connotations of my predicament revealed in his comment. I can't move...I can't get any food or drink...I can't go to the bathroom...all the daily necessities I take for granted. The Joker will have me dependent on him for that and he'll care on a whim since his attention span is zero...especially if he forgets he has me here. God, a snowball's chance in hell is better than my chance of surviving this.

His focus briefly returning to me, the Joker notices the state I'm in and grins broadly, showcasing yellowed teeth that could convincingly be double rows of corn kernels. "Bye!" he chirps while frantically waving. The door slams shut behind him, blocking the light beyond it.