has there ever been a time where they feared for their life? why?
harleen’s seven years old, locked in a bathroom. there's a box of poptarts on the towel rack, twelve foil packages inside. eleven foil packages inside. ten foil packages inside. she read about rationing in one of her school books, and now she pretends like she's traveling the oregon trail. nine foil packages -- they’ll resupply in the morning, once the horses are fed and watered. eight foil packages -- the store’s just down the trail. seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . nick quinzel doesn’t get home until there’s just half a poptart left in the box -- he left harleen in there for four days. that’s the first time harleen quinzel thinks she’s going to die.
she’s thirteen, in her bedroom, tucked in the small gap between the bed and the wall. there’s a landline on the wall opposite her bed, but she can’t reach it without somebody seeing her. even then, there’s no guarantee it works -- nick’s so bad at remembering to pay the bills, squandering all his money on poker & alcohol instead. there are men in her apartment, yelling men, men with guns, and they’re angry with her father. she closes her eyes, counts every shaky breath, prays that they won’t hear her. prays that they’ll kill her dad. she could drop out of school, get a job, pay rent. it’s gotham -- nobody’d notice that she was only thirteen. nobody’d notice that she was alone. someone fires their gun, a warning shot, and it goes through the wall three feet to the left of harleen’s head. she doesn’t make a sound. that’s the second time harleen quinzel thinks she’s going to die.
she’s fifteen, in her bedroom again. nick is screaming at her, stepping closer and closer. her back’s to the wall; she can’t get any further away from him. he punches a hole in the drywall to the left of her head. she notices with a detached sense of curiosity that the drywall crumbles directly to the left of the bullet hole that her father’d never bothered to patch. nick’s never hit her before, but she thinks tonight might just be the night. she can smell the alcohol on his breath, shuts her eyes, and starts counting to a hundred. she’s supposed to graduate high school in three months -- she’s so close to getting out. she can’t die now -- not when she’s fought this hard to get away from him. harleen quinzel doesn’t believe in god ( not her mother’s, not her father’s ), but she sends up a prayer to the universe to get her out of this, because this is the third time harleen quinzel thinks she’s going to die.
she’s twenty-seven, walking home from a bar, not drunk enough to have forgotten the disastrous pitch she’d given on her research earlier that day. she’s so caught up in her misery that she almost doesn’t see him until it’s too late -- the joker, then a huge explosion. harleen tucks herself against a brick wall, trying to shield herself from the flames, and joker points a gun at her head. her life flashes before her life, and harleen wonders what it’s all been for. joker doesn’t pull the trigger, but it’s the fourth time harleen quinzel thinks she’s going to die.
she’s still twenty-seven, working at arkham, treating the man who tried to kill her two months ago. he won’t talk to her, so she takes a risk. she lets him out of his straitjacket, trying to prove that she’s not like the rest of his doctors -- that she actually believes that he can get better. before she knows it, the joker’s arms are wrapped around her. harleen holds her breath, terrified that he’s about to snap her neck. it’s the fifth time harleen quinzel thinks she’s going to die, but all joker does is hold her.
she’s twenty-seven and arkham asylum’s on fire. all the patients are roaming the halls, set free by harvey dent -- by two face. harleen’s former patients are out for blood, and killer croc charges at her. for once, harleen doesn’t close her eyes. if this is the end for her, she wants to watch as waylon’s teeth close around her. that’s not what she sees, though. she sees pamela isley, shrouded in light. an angel, here to save harley. “ you’re only truly saved if you leave this place, ” she says, but harleen’s not listening, because that was number six, and because she has to find joker before it’s too late.
she’s twenty-seven and she’s found joker, but harvey dent’s found her, too. he blames her in part for what happened to him -- hates her for believing that these criminals can change. he lifts his gun, prepared to shoot her in the head, when joker swoops in. he bashes in the good side of dent’s face, only stopping when harleen grabs his arm. when he looks at her, she sees something in his eyes that she’s seen only once before -- the monster. that’s seven . . . and it’s eight.
she’s twenty-seven, but she feels like she’s aged ten years in the past hour. she’s begging joker to stay, to turn himself in, to continue treatment with her. she can help him, she says. they’re interrupted by a security guard -- one harleen knows well. he points a gun at j, refuses to let the murderer leave arkham. harleen picks up dent’s gun, points it at the guard. she doesn’t mean to pull the trigger -- only means to stop him long enough to reason with him. but harley’s never held a gun before . . . doesn’t know how easy it is to accidentally pull the trigger. her hands shake, her finger slips. bam ! her friend is dead on the ground, her gun smoking. she can’t let go of the gun, because she’s just killed another human being, because the only thing left for her to do now is kill herself. that’s nine.
she’s twenty-seven, and she doesn’t remember leaving arkham. harley only remembers a fit of laughter, only remembers letting joker pull her into his arms. only remembers a bloody, desperate kiss. the days after that run together -- they hole up at amusement mile, make a bed in the abandoned tunnel of love. it’s good. harley’s happy, as long as she doesn’t think about anything that’s happened. as long as she doesn’t think about how she’s a murderer under a murderer. things crumble slowly, then all at once. she’s making him walk with her around the fairground, trying to stretch his muscles, encourage his body to heal. she talks while they walk, doesn’t realize he’s not talking back. joker comes to a stop by the old ferris wheel, baskets swinging wildly in the wind. he grabs her by the throat, lifts her up, presses her back into the rotting wood. she feels the splinters drive themselves through her shirt into her back. “ shut, ” joker growls, “ up. ” he doesn’t drop her until her vision starts to go black. that’s ten.
she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she's twenty-seven. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-eight. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine. she’s twenty-nine.
harley quinn stops counting.