Tonight, You're Gonna Break Your One Rule

The mirror in my room would've been a pretty one on prom night, if it weren't for my scowl.

A powder blue dress hung from my shoulders in a halter neck, and flowed to stop near my knees, a thick, white band clenching it in at the waist. My auburn hair hung in loose, voluminous curls past my shoulders, almost reaching the white belt.

My powder blue eyes lay surrounded by a soft grey, and my eyelashes coated in thick black. A soft sheen lay on my downward lips and my elegantly plucked eyebrows furrowed.

I perched myself, after scrutinising my reflection for what seemed like hours, on the edge of my neatly made bed, and slipped on my new shoes. The powder blue heeled shoes matched my dress perfectly. The white button attaching the strap to the shoe slips into place easily, and when I stand up I'm immediately grateful for the height they lent me, and the way they made my legs seem a little thinner.

All this would've been just perfect for a normal schoolgirl on their prom night. They would've waited for their date to pick them up, and taken their arm, danced the night away and probably end the perfect evening with a perfect kiss or more.

But for me, it's far from perfect, as I regard my scowling face in the mirror, and grab the clutch bag from my bed. I snap open the silver clasp and peer inside, feeling bile rise in my throat at what I see. A black revolver sits so quiet and innocent inside the folds of lining. I reach in and run my fingers across its casing, and withdraw them quickly, snapping shut the clasp and holding the bag so tight my knuckles turned white.

My same knuckles turn white nearly eight years later, as I stare into an altogether different mirror. This one is metal edged, and serves as a door to the medicine cabinet, whereas mine so long ago was nearly full length and surrounded by ornate wooden decoration.

Lashing of pain whip through my knuckles as I grip the edge of the basin even tighter, staring at my reflection. I'd woken up with the image of my prom night mirror burned into my eyelids, and, the Joker nowhere to be found to lift my spirit, I sunk into a memory induced despair.

My euphoria from my scars and my clowns' kiss had worn off, and I was left a poor lonely girl staring into a dirty mirror. I have to dig deep into my memory to remember myself, and the next few hours after my prom night mirror.

I remember the next morning, shearing off my hair with Gambols kitchen scissors and dying it cherry red. I remember crying for what seemed like months straight.

I frown at my scars in the mirror, and stare them out, taking in every lump and curve of the scarred tissue, every clump of blood vessels and still open scabs. Tears start gathering beneath my ice blue eyes, and I don’t wipe them away, a few trickling down my cheeks.

Suddenly, I feel sick at my scars, sick at everything that's happened ever since I'd met eyes with the Joker. If I think back, I remember him vaguely from years ago, tarnishing Gotham with his laughter, but I wasn’t concerned he was killing people, no, I was well protected by Gambol.

I rip open the medicine cabinet and rifle through it, finding a normal foundation, near enough my skin colour, and tear the top off. The case was covered in dust, hadn't been used for eons, and I get a sickly feeling it might’ve been Harleys. Nevertheless, I dig my fingers into it and slam the cabinet door shut, slathering the foundation all over my scars in a vain, disgusting attempt to hide them.

It doesn't work, and I start crying a little more, pushing more and more foundation onto my scars. I stop, foundation covering my fingers and staining the ceramic, the wet pulling it into skin coloured rivers down the side of the basin. I stare at my reflection for what seems like hours, until I can't stand the sight of me.

I scream and lash out, smashing the side of my fist into the mirror. Cracks explode like jagged spider webs, and when I pull my hand away, blood stains the epicentre, and I feel it run down my hand a little. I sob, and with my bloodied hand I wipe away the foundation on the right side of my mouth, the mousse covering the side of my hand and wrist. Blood smears up my scars from my hand and I sob a little more, realising how much I was like him.

Not that I didn’t want to be.

I run the tap and watch as the skin colour washes down the sink. The door opens just as I reach up to wipe off the left side of my face, and I spin towards him.

"Mister J..."

His fists clench and his mouth shrinks to a thin line, "Never, ever, hide what to do to you Precious..." He inhales and turns away, and panic grips me. I'd disappointed him, never wanted to hide my scars. I wipe off the left side of my face and hurry after him.

I tug on his arm and he yanks it away, growling under his breath, "Get off."

"Mister J," I say, my voice barely a whisper, and he makes for his mystery room. I'm sick of him disappearing in there. I tug on his shoulder once more, this time he turns round, and words fall from my lips I'd vowed to keep secret ever since I'd found their truth.

"I love you, Mister J, don’t you get that?"

He stops, and I'm aware there's less than two feet between us, and his blackened eyes are burning holes in the carpet between us.

"Jack..."

He raises his hand as a shuddering breath enters his lungs, and he drags a hand down his face, rubbing off half his makeup.

"I loved. Once," He whispers. I move forward and take his sleeve, gently rubbing the makeup from the purple fabric as I listen intently.

"Her name wasn't Harley Quinn, but I called her that... She called me Puddin'," He takes another huge breath, and it rasps in his throat as if he's barely stopping himself from crying, "She stuck with me through the scars. We ravaged this city. Happy destruction, laughter and smiles." He hangs his head, and a few green locks grace the top of my head as I carefully remove all the makeup from his sleeve, tears sliding silently down my face.

"She wasn't like me. Not that twisted, but she loved me and I loved her."

"Jack." I whisper, my throat raw from tears, but he carries on like he never heard me.

"She got sick of Gotham. She left a note – 'I can't stand this place you can't stand to leave. You know we deserve more than Gotham. I'm sorry Puddin', Love, your Harley,' And left."

"Jack," I'm crying now, evident in my voice, wavering beyond control. He looks up sharply and I can't help but do the same, our eyes locked. My spine seems to collapse into jelly, and I'm grateful for his sleeve to hold onto.

"Remember four years ago, that one summer?" I nod slightly, "I released half of Arkham, blew up Gotham General, the police station, and a few bridges," He sighs, and I become acutely aware his hands are shaking, "She left then, and I took my anger out on the very thing that made her leave," Tears covered his eyes and extinguished the fire in them, "That day I lost my laughter. Before it was a joke, terrorising Gotham. But since then, it's become revenge. I can't love. I can't get hurt again."

He takes a step back, and I find myself falling forward to touch him, but he turns away and into his mystery room. Instead of shutting the door behind him he leaves it ajar, and I take it as a signal to follow him, apprehension sickening me to the bone.

Did I really want to know what was in this God forsaken room?

I gasp, and my bones seem to fail me. I clutch at the door as I take in the sight, wide eyed.

The two walls either side of me were covered ceiling to floor with seemingly random people, placed with a disturbing precision, red running through them all. The words 'Body Count' were scrawled across the left wall, and I feel sick when I realise what the pictures are. A passport shot of every single life the Joker has ever taken.

If I were crying so hard I would've smiled.

The wall directly in front of me shot daggers through every inch of my body, however.

Harley Quinn.

Pictures covered every inch, ones of her, in and out of makeup. Ones of her and her Puddin' smiling at the camera, his scarred face filled with happiness. The one picture that jumped out however, was a huge one, nearly ceiling to floor and the same width. Harley was lying on her front, smiling up at the camera with her feet in the air. Her blonde hair was in pretty schoolgirl bunches, and her red lipstick extended slightly, her eyes covered by a mask that reminded me a little of Zorro's.

The Joker falls into the chair in the middle of the room as I move forward, my bones solid again. A dresser lay in the corner, and somehow I know it's full of her clothes. I sigh – he just couldn't let her go.

"She's beautiful," I whisper, my hand touching her perfect complexion on the largest picture, and I watch her eyes shine even in a four-year-old picture.

"She was the most perfect thing I'd ever seen," His voice has lost its entire spark, now dry and hollow, filled with tears.

Suddenly I feel sorry for him, sad he can't let go of his past, and is stuck with living with the loss of his love, "She's gone, Mister J..."

"No..." He breathes, his voice shaking even when I can barely hear it.

"She's gone Mister J... You need to get rid of everything, you can't move on," I feel a little selfish, wondering if I'm doing this just so he can direct his affection at me.

"No..." His voice is a little stronger as I move forward and my hands move to the corners of a small picture about shoulder height.

I gently move my fingers under it, and find it's only held on by blue tack. I pull the picture off and hold it in my hands, the paper shaking so violently I cant focus on it.

"No!" He's on his feet, and he throws the chair away so hard the back breaks. His whole body shakes, hair falling into his tear filled eyes.

"No!" He staggers forward to his wall and pushes me away. I stumble back as he presses his body against the wall, sobbing.

"Harley... No," I pull on his arm, and he turns towards me, tears streaming down his face. I gasp at the shock of seeing such a raw emotion portrayed in his usually sarcastic face. I let go of his arm and sobs rack him so hard he can barely stand.

"Harley, don’t leave, please, don't leave me," He looks up right in my eyes and cries out, falling forward and latching onto my shoulders, "No, no, she's here, she's here."

His legs give way under him and I cant keep his weight up, our bodies falling to their knees. I tangle my hands in his hair and hold him close, comforting him the best I can when I'm in floods of tears myself.

Our bodies shake as he sobs and mumbles mindlessly into my shoulder. He giggles, full of self-deprecation, and I know, right now, he hates himself, "Harley..."

He stops, as a sob hiccups through his throat, and he looks right at me, makeup streaming down his face so I can see Jack beneath.

"Precious."