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45. A History Lesson

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Disclaimer: I love all of your reviews/input/ideas—everything!!!! As for the story, I am using a Dark Knight quote as a part of the therapy session, but we'll see how that ends up for Giada! I also use the Joker's joke from the Killing Joke in the Joker's story—the Killing Joke is not mine, I do not own it.(wow that's a lot of the word 'joke' in there! Hahaha!)

His eyes widened a bit at the question, and then a grin spread across his lips. He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.

I felt like I had seen him react this way to things I'd asked him in our first session—it felt like déjà vu.

"Well, my father was a drinker, and a fiend and this one night, he goes off crazier than usual—so, mommy takes the kitchen knife to defend her self and he doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit."

I sat there and rolled my eyes. I knew this story—I knew it was one of his multiple choice questions as to how he got his scars.

"What?" he asked suddenly, taken back by my reaction. I shook my head in disgust.

"I don't want to know about how you allegedly got your scars—I know you're lying. I asked about your childhood—where you grew up, who your parents were, or, are, what was it like being a kid for you? What was your adolescence like? Talk to me about those things—I know they're not as fun to talk about, but I need some insights, okay?"

He shifted uneasily in his chair and cleared his throat. Licking his lips, I could tell he was perturbed that I had so quickly seen through his story. The Joker took in a deep breath before he spoke.

"I grew up in…a normal home," he began, looking slightly irritated by that fact, "I had a mother, a father, a brother and a sister. I was the youngest. I went to school in the town where we lived. My….father," he cleared his throat, "was a strict…Cath-o-lic. He forced us all to go to church every…single…Sunday. It wasn't until right before my sister's confirmation that I told my…father that…when the time came for me, I didn't want to be confirmed. He didn't like that. He didn't like that one bit. Now, my mother was into…letting us make our own…decisions, but my father…my father…told us what was right…and wrong. When any of us did something wrong…or bad, you regretted it the instant daddy found out,"

He paused for a moment and cleared his throat again. I nodded my head as I continued writing. I lifted my head and locked eyes with him. I had never seen him so serious. I held onto the belief he was telling me the truth.

A smirk curved on his lips before he spoke, "when I skipped my own confirmation when I was in high school…my father…was…enraged. You don't know…madness…until you've seen this man…angry. Needless to say, I didn't help the matter when I was…smiling back at him as he…reprimanded me,"

"How did he reprimand you?" I asked, wondering if the story he had told me about Iraq was no longer the truth about his scars.

"My father used only his words—he never touched any of us, which I suppose most people you believe to be the better of two circumstances—but I would argue verbal abuse is just as…menacing,"

"I would agree with that assessment," I stated, trying to make sure he wasn't going to get all depressed on me. "So tell me about how that may or may not have tainted your high school experience,"

"I went through high school like any other teen-ager. I had friends—not nearly as many as my older brother or my sister, but enough to keep me occupied. We would stay out late at night on weekends…sometimes we'd so looking for things to throw off of buildings—entertaining things, like that. Once we found a broken and dilapidated industrial size shredder. We hauled it to the top of the highest building in the town next to ours and threw it off the roof,"

I nodded as I took notes, furiously writing as fast as I could.

"I had no plans on college, though I graduated salutatorian in my class,"

I looked up at him. I had no idea he had graduated second in his high school class. I always knew he was a brilliant guy, but it never occurred to me that he was just as brilliant back in high school.

"Naturally, my…father…wanted me to go to…college—ivy league. That…that wasn't for me, no, not at all. Well, daddy…wouldn't have it any other way, so…he did the next best thing for me—or so he thought. He enlisted me into the…services. If I wasn't going to college, then I was going to do something else…respectable. I would fight for my country as a soldier. There was no going back. There was no discussion. It was either college or the military. I…reluctantly chose the option I felt would give me the most…useful…education," he licked his lips before speaking again, "I went to boot camp and found that I had a knack for electrical engineering. They trained me to be an electrical engineer for military equipment and weaponry. It wasn't until I was shipped off to…Iraq…that I hastily learned at-war medicine,"

I nodded. I felt like I couldn't say anything out of fear he would stop giving me the history of his life. I felt so privileged to have this opportunity—a unique look into the Joker's own personal life before he became "The Joker".

"This is where I get to the bit about the scars," he said as he raised his eyebrows and pointed to the scars on his face,"

I nodded again, still writing.

"A few of us had been captured by the opposing…side. I was the one in charge of the platoon—the one with the plan. Well, when the…opposing side…asked us for…the plan, I declined such information—of course that was the most logical thing to do. When in war, one does not break the rules of war—one does not give away secret information that could allegedly lose the war for the side you are on—well, my negligence did not please them. It did not please them one bit. They took to torture—as many do in times of war—there are no rules to torture—just the torture in hopes that the plan would be revealed. They took their time. I didn't know what they were going to do. They started to laugh and smile—I thought this was…strange. They told me a joke about two men who escaped from a lunatic asylum," he smirked at the irony of the situation that he was in such an asylum telling me his story, and even worse, he was telling me the joke—I think it was, sadly, his favorite joke,

"The two men get up on to the roof, and there, just across the narrow gap, they see the rooftops of the town, stretching away in moon light... stretching away to freedom. Now the first guy…he jumps right across with no problem. But his friend, his friend didn't make the leap. See…he was afraid of falling...So then the first guy has an idea. He says "Hey! I have my flash light with me. I'll shine it across the gap between the buildings. You can walk across the beam and join me." But…the second guy…just shakes his head. He says... he says "What do you think I am, crazy? You would turn it off when I was half way across,"

He finished the joke and a small grin formed on his lips. He licked his lips and continued his own story, "So after telling me that joke, they were all laughing. I was laughing too, thinking I should. Well…they see me laughing and they take a knife. They ask me if I thought the joke was funny—if I enjoyed laughing…smiling. I immediately stopped laughing. Seeing my severe expression, they asked me, "why so serious? Let's put a smile on that face," and then…they put the blade in my mouth…aaaaand…well, you know what happened," he gestured to the scars again.

I was in awe. His story was just as it had been before—except full of much more detail. I hadn't known about the joke they told him. I didn't know what to say. He had been complete honest with me. Luckily, he spared me from having to speak.

"Well, when I get home to my fiancée, she can't stand me—she can't take the sight of my scars. She calls off the wedding—"

"Wait, when did you get engaged? You didn't say you were engaged—was it before you left for war?" I asked.

"Yes—it was with a girl I had dated…in high school. Well, needless to say, she called off the wedding. I was…further…distraught with…emotion. And…funny thing—when she told me she couldn't be with me anymore, all I could think of was that joke—the joke they told me right before they cut my face," He started to laugh, "so…my life had become a joke…because I was told a joke," he was really laughing now. It made me uncomfortable, but I could see his pain. He was the most exposed I'd ever seen him.

"I became the Joker—because my life had been made a joke, I felt that maybe others' lives should be made into jokes too—cruel jokes. All it really takes is one bad day…one bad day to really get someone to jump into a never ending pool of madness,"

I was stunned. I think he knew I was stunned by the expression on my face. My mouth was wide open. I couldn't close my mouth. The truth—all of it—had been revealed to me. The Joker's past was no longer a mystery, hidden behind a painted face and scars. It was real—real pain, real loss, real world cruelty. I wanted to hold him—so show him I loved him.

"I understand it all, now," I said softly, lowering my eyes from him. The hurt his eyes bore nearly killed me.

"Yes, so you see…you…and me…and everyone else, is just as close to insanity—to falling into the madness. I took what happened to me and changed the way I saw things—the way I treated others—the plans, the rules that govern society. They are what cause anxiety, trouble, pain, in so many people. I was the result of that madness. I am an agent of chaos—and now you know why,"