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69. Broken-hearted Girl

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Disclaimer: I am glad that like the Joker, you all feel the story has taken an unpredictable turn!! The Joker, after all, isa villain! I think it can be easy to forget that when so in love with him—I think Giada even let herself forget what he is capable of doing. The title of this chapter and lyrics at the beginning are from a song by Beyonce—the amazing Beyonce! Take a listen—it's pretty perfect for Giada and how she is feeling. Thank you all soo sooooooo much for your support!! These are links to the beach that Giada goes to if you are interested! .?pid=32367662&id=18205417 .?id=18205417&ref=profile#?pid=32367616&id=18205417

You're everything I thought you never were
And nothing like I thought you could've been
But still you live inside of me
So tell me how is that?

You're the only one I wish I could forget
The only one I'd love to not forgive
And though you break my heart, you're the only one
And though there are times when I hate you
Cause I can't erase
The times that you hurt me
And put tears on my face
And even now while I hate you
It pains me to say
I know I'll be there at the end of the day

I don't wanna be without you babe
I don't want a broken heart
Don't wanna take a breath with out you babe
I don't wanna play that part
I know that I love you
But let me just say
I don't want to love you in no kind of way no no
I don't want a broken heart
And I don't wanna play the broken-hearted girl…No...No
No broken-hearted girl
I'm no broken-hearted girl

I sat on Bruce's private jet in silence, gazing steadily out the window. The clouds were puffy and dreamlike—mountains of whipped cream or something like that. If only life were actually made of food and things to make the pain go away.

Bruce had remained in Gotham while I made my way East. He had wanted to go with me, but I had insisted that he stay behind—it would look suspicious of he had left Gotham after being at the Penguin's shin dig the other night. Besides, I needed the time alone—completely alone. I hadn't even told my mother I was coming back to Boston for a few days. I didn't want anyone to know anything.

I leaned back in my seat and let my lids fall drowsily over my eyes. Images and flashbacks of the Penguin's party flashed before me: the Joker and I dancing; the Joker giving me the choker; Pixie and the Joker's baby, Braidon; the Joker cutting my face. It all flashed before me like some kind of horror film. As if things couldn't get worse, memories flooded through my brain, complete with images and dialogue:

Harvey Dent had his gun pointed at me and the Joker had to tell me everything was going to be just fine"It takes just a simple push to make someone cross over into madness, as you can tell from our good friend Harvey Dent—but you…you Giada, you're going to be just fine—because…well…I won't let you die—not unless I'm the one pointing that gun at you,"

The memory was vivid, as if it happened yesterday. It was the night that I helped the Joker escape from county—I had cut myself with shattered glass and then was hit with a ricocheted bullet through my shoulder. I still had the scars from that evening to haunt me.

The night he came to Boston—he showed up at the Joker's Wild. We had gone into a private room and he held his blade up to my face, much like he had done a couple nights ago, "Do it," I said finally.

"What?" he asked, taken off guard by my statement.

"I said 'do it'. If you're going to cut my face, just do it. Don't stall like this. It's killing me," I said finally as I took in a deep breath.

"Where's the fun if there's no anticipation?" he asked with a crazed grin.

"Well, maybe if you could figure out the right reasons for cutting my face, maybe it would be even more fun," I responded.

"How so?" he asked.

"Well, if you thought it would make you happy to see my face like yours, then do it. If not, then maybe there is another reason for you to cut me. Maybe there is no reason at all. Maybe you just want to cut someone and I happen to be a convenient victim for you," I stated.

"Oh Giada, you're no victim," he stated, "And besides—why let me?"

"Why should I let you cut my face? I have my reasons," I responded.

"Do share!" he giggled, adjusting his grip on the blade.

"Would it make you love me?"

"You know, I was going to say that was a poor choice of words, Giada," he said finally as he let the blade linger inside my mouth.

"But…?"

"But—where's the…fun…in this," he said as he removed the blade from my mouth and made a cutting motion with the blade on his own face, "when you…already smile all the time?"

The memory was almost as painful at the scar on my face. In that moment, I would have actually believed him that he cared for me. But then again, perhaps I had grown lax in my perspectives of the Joker. The Joker was a criminal—a mass murdering clown. He truly had no remorse for the deeds he committed—why should I be any different? Why should I have taken him at his word? I really should have known better than to take his word. He had always told me he was a man of his word, but in this instance, he went against it. I really should have expected it.

And yet, in that memory of him at the club, I had wanted him to cut my face if it would make him love me. Maybe he remembered that conversation and that was his motivation for actually cutting my face at the Penguin's ball.

I opened my eyes and watched the puff mounds float by my window, sick of grasping for the Joker's reasoning. He cut my face. End of story. He did it because he felt like it. The Joker never had a reason for doing anything—he just did things. He had told me that too. I guess as humans, we try to make meaning out of everything, and when someone does something without a purpose, it is difficult to comprehend. There was a time when I could understand this with the Joker, but for some reason, I had grown apart from it. I had grown into a Giada who truly believed he had meaning—or at least was capable of acting in life with meaning or purpose. Apparently I had been wrong all this time.

I sat back and closed my eyes. Soon, Bruce's plan would be landing in Massachusetts and his private limo would be taking me to my favorite beach. Bruce was too good to me. He knew this was what I needed, and for that, I was eternally grateful for him. I only hoped Selina's identity as Catwoman would remain a mystery to him until I returned in a couple of days. I just had the feeling that he would need me for support when her identity came out to him. It wasn't that Selina was a criminal for the worse of Gotham—I just had the feeling Bruce would be disappointed that she is capable of murder, where he is not. I was capable of murder as well, but Bruce did not feel for me the way he felt for Selina. There is just no telling how he will react when he finds out she is Catwoman. He will probably feel let down, but unable to let go of his love for her, much like the way I felt for the Joker. Once love grabbed a hold of me, it refused to let go, for better or worse. No matter how much my love for the Joker hurt me, I just couldn't let go—and I couldn't be broken-hearted. I would not let myself be broken-hearted. I had led myself into this fate—I could have turned back early in the game, but I was foolish and love-stricken. I was awed by his psychosis—his ability and willingness to know me. He was the only person in my life who truly knew me and what I was capable of, save for Bruce. But even at times, not even Bruce could understand me. Maybe with Selina, he will finally understand what it means to love someone you can't have.

Forty-five minutes later, Bruce's private jet landed at Logan International Airport in Boston. My heart rate accelerated slightly as the plane slowed to a halt. I rose from my seat, carrying my duffle bag in my left hand.

"Ms. DiMarco, your limo is here," one of Bruce's employees informed me. I smiled and nodded.

"Thank you very much," I responded and then turned, walking down the steps to the airport runway.

The limo driver emerged and opened the door for me, assisting with my one bag. I smiled at him and stepped into the backseat of the limo. Within no time, we were off, driving towards my destination. Bruce had told me he arranged for me to stay at a hotel in Boston. I was unaware of which hotel, but at this moment, I didn't care. It was nearing sunset and I had to get to my beach. I needed to clear my head. I needed to bury my feet in the sand, I needed to smell the salty sea air, and I needed to feel the cold ocean water on my skin.

"To Plum Island," I told the limo driver, "It's near Newburyport, all the way up route one,"

"Right away, Ms. DiMarco," he responded diligently. I sat back into the soft leather seat and shut my eyes for the drive ahead of me. Plum Island was the beach my friends and I would always go to during my summers in high school and when we were home from college. It was the only beach we didn't have to pay more than five dollars for parking. It was really nothing special, except that it was my place of refuge. There were countless days when I couldn't handle life, that I would just drive up there, windows down, blasting my music, feeling the wind whip through my hair. It would be near sunset and I would always get there in time to see the sun turn from orange to magenta. I always loved watching the darkness spread across the night sky as the sun set below the horizon. I always took refuge in knowing that beyond the vast ocean before me, the nest bit of land was Europe. It was an incredibly humbling experience, and I needed that humbling.

The car ride to Plum Island lulled me into a soft slumber. I didn't even know we had arrived until the limo driver stopped the vehicle and opened the backseat door for me to exit.

"Ms. DiMarco, we've arrived," he said to me, softly shaking me awake. My eyes opened slowly, but I was quick to make my exit.

"Thank you so much," I replied, somewhat drowsily, and emerged from the limo. The smell of the salty sea air hit me as a gust of wind blew in from the shore. I began my long walk down the small boardwalk to the beach. I removed my shoes and placed them in my bag as I trudged through the sand until I finally came to my section of the beach: right near the jetty of rocks.

I rested my bag gently down on the sand and took a seat beside it. The sand was slightly warm on the surface from being heated all day by the sun, but as I burrowed my feet, the grains slowly grew cooler and cooler. The sensation was refreshing and sobering. I gazed out at the vast ocean before me and drew in a deep breath. An overwhelming sense of release exhaled out of my body and was carried away by the ocean wind.

"Just let me get my head straight, please," I spoke aloud softly. I found that whenever I was at the beach, I would speak to it as though it could listen to my every word. Maybe I felt that the ocean contained an omniscient divine presence that, for one reason or another, guided me when I felt lost in life. Whatever it was, I knew it listened to me whenever I spoke. While no advice would be offered in return, it just felt good to speak aloud and get my intentions known to the universe.

I spoke my peace with the sea until the sun was no longer visible in the sky and its brilliance had turned the sky to twilight. It was my favorite time of day, but I knew I had to be getting back to the limo. I stood to my feet, grabbed my bag and shuffled through the sand back to the boardwalk which led to the parking lot.

"Do you feel refreshed, Ms. DiMarco?" the limo driver asked me once I returned. I smiled lightly and nodded.

"Yes, very much so," I responded, and then sat into the limo. As the drive drove away from the beach, I couldn't help but think about what he did all the time I was down by the ocean. I hoped to God he went somewhere and got dinner or something—if not, I felt absolutely horrible.

I was unaware of the hotel Bruce was putting me up in for my time at home, but once we were in Boston, I got a better picture of the kind of place it was. The driver pulled up in front of the Four Seasons Hotel and opened the backseat door for me. I emerged from the limo in astonishment. I had never before stayed at the Four Seasons! I always heard of various famous people who would stay at this hotel when they were visiting Boston for whatever which reason.

"This is my number—call if you need anything at all. If you find that you don't, I'll be back here the day after tomorrow to bring you back to the airport to Mr. Wayne's private jet," the limo driver offered me his card.

"I really can't thank you enough. Please, take tonight and tomorrow for yourself—enjoy the city and some time off," I replied.

"The pleasure was all mine, Miss DiMarco," he stated and then got back into the limo and drove away. I grabbed my bag and walked into the hotel and to the front desk.

"Hi, I'm here—I believe I have a reservation," I spoke, my voice shaky from the overwhelming experience of staying at the Four Seasons.

"Mmhm…and what is your name?" the woman asked, dubious that someone like me could be spending a two nights at the Four Seasons.

"My name is Giada DiMarco, but I believe my friend—"

"Yes, sorry miss, but your name is not in our computer,"

"You didn't let me finish," I interrupted her. She was being so rude! "My friend, Bruce Wayne made the booking,"

The woman's eyebrows rose as she knew exactly who Bruce Wayne was. She typed it into the computer and hesitantly handed me a room key.

"It's his room—the room he stays in whenever he comes to Boston on business I assume. It's on the 6th floor, overlooking the Public Gardens. It's called our Garden Suite," she stated flatly.

I snatched the key from her and headed towards the elevator.

Once up on the 6th floor, I searched for my Garden Suite room, slid my key in the door and walked into the most breath taking hotel room in which I had ever been. There were greenery and flowers all throughout the living room space, including a candle-lit birdcage sized chandelier. My mouth literally dropped open in astonishment, as well as my bag. Once I got over my initial shock at the beauty of the living room, I made my way towards the bedroom and bathroom. When I pushed open the bedroom door, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. I dropped my bag, and my jaw nearly met my feet.

"Well hello, beautiful," the Joker greeted me, as he sprawled across the large king sized bed.