Lost, but now I am found

I can see that, once, I was blind

I was so confused as a little child

Tried to take what I could get, scared that I couldn't find

All the answers, honey

Born To Die / Lana Del Rey

The pain in my body was intense, and heavy, dragging me down like exhaustion. My ribs creaked with every breath, and my legs swayed under me.

I spit blood into the sink, breathing heavily, as I slid my tongue over my teeth obsessively, forever vain. Looking into the mirror, I examined the broken blood vessels in my right eye, the blue surrounded nearly entirely by bright red. The skin of the eye was nearly blackening from the force of the punch. I was nearly certain my orbital bone was fractured. My nose had already been reset, but the swelling was intensifying by the minute.

What did you expect? What more did you expect? He slapped the shit out of you before you were even official. That cruel voice that I hated to recognize whispered.

"Shut up," I muttered.

"How do you do that?" He asked from the door of the bathroom. "I didn't make a noise."

I forced a smile but didn't turn towards him. Looking at his bruised face would only make the voice louder. "Just because you're un-observant doesn't mean I am."

He snorted, "Fair enough."

"Anyway, I need to take a shower, do you mind?"

"Yeah," He said, and I rolled my eyes.

"Funny, but please, can you give me a few minutes of privacy?"

"No," He said simply, forcing me to jerk my eyes in annoyance toward him, only to jerk them back to the mirror with a grimace. His face was a mottled mess of bruises, and the vicious bites around his chest and neck leaked blood. "And that is why. I know that look Harls, and I'm not gonna give you an opening."

"I don't know what you mean," I sighed. "I'm just tired, J, please."

"Whatever," He said, stepping closer, and playing with the end of my shirt. "But if you want a shower, I can wash your back?"

I snorted. "I'm not in the mood."

"Me neither, I'm pretty sure that kick you gave me put me out of commission for the next week. So you can blame yourself for that."

I smirked. "You started it,"

"True," He chuckled, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and offering me one, that I took without question, and let him light before he lit his own. "Sorry about the eye."

"No, you aren't."

"Don't tell me what I'm not," He cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not sorry for the punch, but I didn't mean to make it so hard."

"I'm sorry for your head," I said.

"Oh? You didn't mean to hit me that hard?"

"No, I did." I nodded, "But I'm still sorry. God knows the Bat batters you enough. You've probably had more concussions than a seasoned NFL player. I shouldn't be adding to your early onset dementia."

He laughed in earnest now. "Bitch,"

"Asshole."

"Yeah, that's why you looove me, remember?"

"Shut up," I smacked his chest playfully, and he caught my hand, squeezing it.

"So, let's get cleaned up, you're still all bloody."

He was sleeping. Soundly. He always looked so different like this. Relaxed… almost… soft. It felt wrong to call him that. He would be pissed if he knew I even thought it, but it's true.

So much younger, even younger than he was.

My chest ached as I watched him. Keeping up the act until he was asleep was hard, but I needed to get out. To think.

I needed space, and when I was with him it was impossible to get. He didn't seem to like when I thought about much of anything.

That isn't fair… A weak voice whispered in my ear. He wants you to talk to him, and you won't. The voice had a point but the second, meaner, louder voice spoke up.

Why the hell should she listen to him? It hissed. He's a fucking monster. Look what he did to her. All because of a squabble over a fucking cigarette.

I glared at him, righteous anger filling me again.

He said he was sorry… The whispery voice begged.

I stood, lifting the backpack I had packed, only taking a small handful of my clothing, and my cut of our cash. I took less than was actually mine, not wanting him to have a single excuse to follow me. I knew his pride would for him to stay away, at least for a while.

A part of me wanted to reach out, to kiss him- to touch him.

But I didn't. I was sure it would wake him, and ruin my chance. If he caught me now, by the morning he would have talked me into staying.

I scribbled a note before I left the room, he would see it in the morning. It would have to be good enough.

In the hall, I moved quickly, quietly, through the abandoned office building. I almost made to the door unnoticed. Almost.

By the window in the dark, Johnny Frost stood, he had begun growing his hair out again, the brown at the ends contrasting with his shining blonde roots. His brown leather jacket was open over his Hawaiian shirt in shades of yellow, covered in cornflower blue flowers. He smoked impassively, cocking an eyebrow at my silent entrance. I didn't respond, only glaring at him, lip curling, nearly daring him to call for his boss.

"Again?" He sighed.

"Stop," I growled lowly, and he nodded.

"I didn't see you." He promised, putting out his cigarette under his shoe, and turning towards his bedroom. "I'll see you around Miss Quinn."

The night was warm, and as I walked down the abandoned street, coat pulled tightly around my clothes, soft summer rain began to fall. I couldn't help but think it was an omen, though of what I couldn't say.

Was the warmth of it a promise of the softness of tomorrow, of rest, and renewal in a city of pain and fear?

Or was it a reflection of the hot tears I could feel gathering in my eyes, again and again, with every step I took further away from the hideout?

J groaned, his head throbbing in the morning light. He threw his pillow over his eyes, before cursing the cause for his pain.

"Jesus Christ, Harley, take it easy with the baton next time."

When no response came he rolled his eyes. Of course, she was pissy. She's always fucking pissy. Tossing the pillow aside, he was unsurprised to find himself alone in bed. More mopey than the fuckin' Bat. He growled mentally standing. He slipped on a pair of pants over his boxers but settled on just his white tank on top.

Stepping into the hall, he raised his voice. "Harley?" Nothing. Ugh.

He rolled his eyes, making his way toward his office, or rather- the assassination- the torture room. He preferred to keep his mess all in one room. No matter how much bleach Johnny used, it would always smell like rotting blood. As if it soaked into the very soul of the land.

Harley had taken to smoking in there since the building had started warming up. She seemed to like how much colder it was than the rest of the building, remaining in shade at all times, it stayed a good ten degrees colder than the rest of the building. Cold-blooded little thing, he had thought affectionately, more than once.

But the room was empty, minus leftover blood from their kills the night before- he supposed Johnny hadn't gotten around to cleaning up after dumping the bodies. Getting rid of the meat was his first and highest priority. The organs began to stink alarmingly fast. Fresh blood smelled like metal. Old organs smelled like rot. Like death. Like before.

Where was she? He knew of course, but his mind hadn't caught up to what his body was already processing the tension and rage from.

He went into the living room next, to see Johnny, reading the paper with a cup of coffee. "Where's Harley?"

"Haven't seen her, I thought she was still in bed." Johnny looked up at him innocently- too innocently, but Joker was too lost in his own thoughts to notice.

His mouth worked, frustrated, and he nodded tersely, spinning on his heel, returning to the makeshift bedroom. This time, his eyes swept the room, taking in the lack of her clothing, and her shoes. He felt his lip curling, his teeth creaked in protest from the pressure of how he ground them.

Fucking bitch. Fucking… He didn't realize how his breathing had sped until he began forcing it to slow. I'll fucking kill her. I swear to god, I'll fucking rip her eyes out and feed them to her. Pull her tongue out and feed parts of it through her fucking sinuses.

Of course, he wouldn't actually be able to follow through once he was faced with her, but he told himself again that this time would be different. Regardless, the violent fantasies worked to calm him, and he began searching the room in earnest now. It didn't take long to find her note, tucked beneath his cigarettes on a stolen coffee table at the foot of the bed. The paper was bright white, with black ink- smudged only slightly by the small dried waving indents in the paper that he knew were from her tears. When he finished reading, he called for Johnny. They had work to do.

J,

I'm sorry. I know it's a cowardly move, leaving while you sleep. But, if I stayed until you were awake, I would be here forever. I would never get away, because you're right. I do love you when you're an asshole. And that's all the time, except when you're sleeping.

We aren't healthy. J. You know it as well as I do. We'll kill each other. Or more likely, you'll kill me. Maybe you won't even mean to. Maybe it'll be just another fight, and this time when my head hits the floor, I don't stand back up.

Even writing that out leaves the taste of bile in my mouth. It makes me feel like a coward. Like I'm running away. But, J, I'm starting to think that the coward's way is the only way either of us survives this intact.

Please don't come after me. I need to think. To really decide if this life is worth it. I love you, but I don't want to die.

More selfishly, I want to live for myself. I came to you to live for myself, but I find myself questioning if that's what I've done at all. Or if I traded in my dead mother's approval for yours.

I understand you'll hate me. I get it. I would too, in your shoes. But please, just let me go.

I do love you.