@samenkomen asked: “I’m scared.” harls
The door’s thrown open by a violent burst from his shoulder. First she’d see’s the back of his purple jacket, ratty and stretched to his wide shoulders as he turns toward the kitchen, shaking out the water from his hair. No one knows the sewer’s tunnel’s better than him. They’re speckled with men, women and babies who don’t cry, hanging out like warts in the dark. Happy campers. Fires burned in metal drums here and there, pathetically small, warming the souls of Gotham so…slowly. You had a dream? It was Gotham that made the promise. It was men like Garcia who stood on pedestals reducing figures into… incorrect, vague pictures, leaving the details of the desperate and homeless out. But the real people, they were nuuumerous.
He ignores her as he’s comin’ in. Lifts a heavy bag of large goldfish an’ his three lil’ rottweilers come waggin’, crashin’ into each other. The side of the Joker’s lips pull—not a smile or a grimace. He shakes the bag violently over their big, wide mouthys. Bursts of orange, red and white bounce around inside like a tiny carousell. His plaything.
Ya hungry? He kicks a small shallow pail out from under the couch, faded red from years in the sun and then crackled from winters. The Joker empties the bag. Makes a splash on the floor, leaves them floppin’ around to breathe while his pooches dive in.
It’s not until he’s in the bathroom, cleaning the chalk off his face that he hears her. The cloth’s slid down his cheek from the forehead, still pulled round his pointed fingers. Dim light peaks at the warmth of his skin, just under chips and layers of dulled grey, a mix of white and smeared kohl from several days past. He stares at her from the mirror, sat on a stool.
Oh you’re… you’re scared?
The Joker turns. Rises up to come close, towering over her. Darts his face near to scare her senseless--. . . .
You see ahhh-. . . ya see him?? Makeup, no makeup, it was uh – the same. Familiar-rr. No magic, just him. And Harley.. . . Harley has nowhere to run. She knows. Run an’ he’s…. like a dog. Run an’ he chases. And he’ll do the things to her that he’s always done before. He’ll make her scream and cry, he wants to hear it. Not too much, but he’d rather hear that than what she has to say. She’ll find her hair caught in his glove, and her head swung back on her neck while he yanks the bunch close to the root and shakes her head on that stick again and again until she hurts with no one to see her. No one to pity her.
Rurr – rrrr --- run, Harleeeeey. . .
‘ y’knowww------- I knew you, when you were a little girl.
Most people grow up, y’see. But in some ways, you remind me of her.
---Small . . . fragile, and easily controlled. It’s veeery ---
