Tonight, You're Gonna Break Your One Rule

The days drag on and on, the sun crawls across the sky, ducks below the horizon and instead the inky blackness of the night takes its place. The moon warps before me, bending in the sky, surrounded by the stars as it moulds, circled, then shrinking back in crescents to drown the city in an empty, eerie blackness. For hours on end, maybe more, I seemed to stare at the sky, watching the moon move through its lunar cycles, assigned so long ago by witches dancing in the dark.

Sometimes I toy with the idea, sat in front of my grimy window, of escaping my prison, and wandering the streets, plunged into darkness. But then the fear envelopes me, what if someone recognises me? What if I run into one of the boys? Or worse, my clown?

I did want to see him though, I needed to see him, but I couldn't. I just could not. What if I hurt him as I had hurt my mother, my boyfriend before that? I shake my head, looking out over the city. I could not hurt him. I know he could handle me, I know my Jack did handle me, did look after me, but what if I just took things a step too far one time?

I purse my lips and scrape a hand through my hair. It had been unwashed for God knows how long, what little clothing I had was scattered over the apartment, along with empty bottles of liquor, smashed or still intact. I glance over at the counter, to identify the source of the strange stench wafting through the room. I quickly find the source, a plate of half eaten food maybe a week old, that I just hadn't cleaned up. I could not find the energy to move from my seat. My muscles felt leaden, my hair was dank and greasy, my skin was sallow, pale from the eternal nighttime, my heart seemed to have left a long time ago. I was simply living on autopilot, living day by day, not thinking nor caring about the next. I did not know what to do anymore, I was so torn it was tearing my heart and soul apart.

Even breathing was a chore, something I simply had to do. I couldn't bring myself to end this laborious day after day, night after night, moon after moon, and I didn't quite know why. I just couldn't bring myself to my death, I could not do that, only one person could purposely damage my body, my clown. Only he could scar me and spite me, only he could affect me, only he could spark the emotions deep within the pit of my stomach, the butterflies in the well of my chest, only he could electrify my now pale lips, only he could bring the Death Clown in me back to life.

The Death Clown, for now, was buried deep within the mess of my apartment, my mind, and my heart. And yet, she was running free around Gotham, swirling within the deep, dark night air, dancing around the moon and leaping with the stars. Out of my grasp.

I let out a soft hiss of revulsion at the freedom I could not have. I was trapped, but where, I did not know. I didn't feel part of this apartment, part of Gotham, part of this world. I was lost.

I didn't know what to do anymore.

The hiss that escaped from my sore lips echoed far too long for my liking in that empty apartment. I take a long look around, the grey walls, the dirty carpet, the falling down furniture. I could not stand that disgusting smell, lingering in the back of my throat and blocking my nose. I knew it was the lack of clean air, the windows never opened, the door only for the off licence or the corner shop. I could barely get the energy to move from my sofa, curled into the corner and staring out into the darkness, where the Death Clown was dancing.

I shiver slightly, lifting a hand to rub my opposite arm, death cold and clammy. I sink further into my corner, ducking my head so the fading red of my hair hid me from the world. I was all too aware of the silence, the only noise the crackle of my breath seeping in and out of my lungs. The soft whirr of the traffic outside seemed distant, blocked by the all too thin glass of the window, the footsteps and tremors of downtown Gotham was almost haunting. I could hear yelps, of happiness, of terror, of joy, exclamation, emotion. Just pure emotion, and my heart seemed to swell in anticipation of any kind of emotion. A siren screamed past the window, the blue two tones flooding through the window like search lights, and I shy away from them, I did not like police. Understandably.

The sirens drone to a stop beneath my apartment and immediately, I leap up, my spine iced by fear, had I been caught? Oh God, no, what if I was caught? I'd be locked up, I'd be put in Arkham, I'd be ridiculed and I would've ruined every single little thing my clown ever did. I would've failed him, even without being near him. Every fibre in my being tells me to run, to run as fast and as far as I can, to get away from the window, from the apartment, from Gotham. And yet, the Death Clown, so soft and slow in my ear, whispers sweet nothings, she tells me to grab the knife from the kitchen drawer and fight my way out, back to life and back to my clown. I clench my fists, dig bloody crescents into my palms, and shun the Death Clown. I push her to the back of my mind, and yet, I don't run. I stumble to the window, press my palms against the glass and stare down at the whirling blue below me.

Two patrol cars are strewn along the pavement, simply breaking up a brawl, the three police officers stood steady between four or five rowdy men. I sigh, an often occurrence in this neighbourhood, and I rake a hand through my hair, pushing it over my face to try and calm my erratic heartbeat, the sirens had unnerved me more than they should. Exhaling shakily, I push my clammy palms against the windows, and myself away from the glass. I heave a sigh, emotionless, and my face falls blank despite the terror in my heart. What if, just somehow, what if, I got recognised, and before I knew it, I could have cops at my door, lifting their iron fists to knock against the thin wood, and tighten cool metal around my wrists to take me to Arkham.

Slowly, as if I were being watched, and as if any sudden movements would alert them of my presence, I move towards my door. I'm aware of the shirt, thin and dirty, waving around my shoulders and my emaciated ribcage, and I'm aware of the wind whipping around the building, but I make no move for a hoodie. Maybe the cold could numb my confusion and my fear. Inch by inch I reach my door, and slowly turn the handle away from me, crunching my wrist bones and pulling my tendons until the bar clicks from it's place. The door swings before me, creaking on its old, painted hinges, so I let a soft hiss of swear words from between my lips, and I close my eyes. I was convinced, any second now, I would hear the storm of footsteps up the stairs, the police raid, up onto my tiny landing and falling over my desperate body to drag me away.

But no sound comes, apart from the soft buzz of the television from the landlord downstairs, and I exhale a soft sign of relief. I walk with very soft, slow, quiet footsteps down the corridor towards the landing. I keep my eyes fixed on the stairs, wary of every single swell of shadows. But I needed to get out.

The wind seems to wipe through my fragile bones, as it curls through the open window at the end of the corridor. I involuntarily shiver, clenching my teeth to stop them chattering, and back towards the window, looking over my shoulder for a second at a time. Paranoia was taking me over, I was being hunted, no longer the hunter, if it wasn't my boys and the Clown Prince, it was the mob, it was the police, it was the Gotham general public for the madness I inflicted.

Suddenly, suddenly I remember everyone else, and the pain washes over me along with the wind, as my back hits the window frame. I let out a soft mewl of pain, I remember my Clown, my love, my life, my Jack. I sit back on the windowsill, how could I have left him?

First Harley Quinn, the blonde pigtails and her glittering smile, their teenage romance, the happiness, the laughter of Gotham's Clown Prince and his Harley Quinn. Then she left, tore my darling's heart out with her, but I fought for it. Fought so hard to win back my Jack, and things were so good. We laughed, we fought, we kissed, we made the very sky shatter with the electricity of our touch, we made Gotham shrink in fear, we made the Gods fear us. And then I ran. Shit. I ran and I never looked back and I left him, I left my clown, my love, my life, my Jack stood in that hall surrounded by marble and gold. A soft little moan of revulsion slips from my lips, bringing me back to reality.

But the image is stuck fast in my brain, my clown stood alone in that marble lobby, gunshots and shouts echoing behind him, and he's looking at me, and I'm staring right back. I can hear his ragged breaths, and I curse my imagination in the details it goes into. I can hear the soft squeak of his shoes on the polished floor. His tongue darts out and licks his lips, and I look away. I couldn't stand the sight of him looking so sad there, stood alone in my imagination. Was there a glimmer of a tear on his cheek?

Swinging my legs out of the window onto the fire escape, I clench my eyes tight shut. My imagination could not be that tormenting to me, it could not conjure up images of my clown crying without me. I would not accept it. Yet the paranoia winding its way through the soft, pliable tissues of my brain fights back. He is crying without me. I left him and I hurt him...

This is real hurt.

The sudden wave of realisation hits me. This is what he was preparing me for, real hurt that burrows deep inside you and stays there forever. I swore to myself, a long time ago, I would never know real hurt, I would never let Jack nor I feel the kind of hurt that fills you with ice and tears at your guts... And look what I'd done. I heave a sigh of cool night air in and out of my lungs, and walk to the edge of the fire escape, where a ladder dropped down into the night, into the shadows of the alleys I'd become so accustomed to.

The darkness envelopes me in its chilly comfort, and my arms immediately wrap around my stomach. I dodge through the pools of light, longing for the darkness and the shine of only the stars down on me. I chew at my lips, looking around at the barrage against my senses. The colours seemed to change like an oil slick on water, and the sights and sounds were as enticing as they were repulsive. The smell of anything but stale air invigorates me, yet the smell of raw sewage and firewood seeps to the back of my throat, staining so strong I thought I would taste it forever. I walk quickly, not really knowing where to, but I walk. I toy with the idea, rolling it over and over in my head, of going back. I'd hurt him even more by leaving him alone in that marble lobby. Could I go back? Would he take me back? Could I trawl through this metropolis of sprawling buildings and crime and claw my way back to my clown? I heave a sigh, and trail my fingers along the rough brickwork of the wall beside me, just as an anchor, something to keep me grounded down here, in Gotham, on Earth, instead of searching the sky for the Death Clown.

And then, as the alley narrowed, and my mind suddenly clicked into place, a small smile crossed over my lips. Of course I would go back to him, I was stupid to even entertain the idea. A soft hiss escapes my lips, slow and quiet as the darkness envelopes me, I needed my clown back.

As quick as the calm had overcome me, and my mind had started whirring again, my body slams into someone else's. I go to apologise, and move past the person, no harm done, I had places to be. But an iron grip closes around my forearms, and the terror starts to seep back into my bones. I push at the person's chest, and one of the hands on my arms move. I almost breathe a sigh of relief, until the soft slide, the caressing whisper of a knife, slips against my neck.

Something inside me kicks up a maelstrom, just at that silvery whisper of metal, and a small hiccup of a laugh closes my throat. I knew then that this boy was just a mugger, a careless, desperate shadow of a man, clawing for all the money he could.

"Your money, bitch," The man spits, and my hand finds the back of his neck, the other on his shoulder. Instead of quivering like the lost little soul he thought I was, I let him push me back against the wall, and into a pool of light, and, for the first time. I smiled. God it felt so good to smile, to stretch my scars and run my tongue along the ragged tissue on the inside of my mouth. He gasps, a rasping thing that chokes his throat, "What the fuck is wrong with your face?!" I simply laugh, a slow, low, haunting cackle that seems to fill my ribcage, and I can see the cogs whirring in the whites of his eyes, "Oh shit, you're that-"

My hand runs down his arm, I curl my fingers around his wrist, and force the knife towards his own throat. He starts squirming, and then, the resignation he was going to die. All that was in my mind now was ruby lips and a slow, soft cackle, the feeling of soft metal silk in my hand, and the beating pulse at the mans neck.

There is a satisfying way in which the knife so expertly finds its owners jugular, a tactile pleasure to the sink of flesh beneath my hands. The man doesn't shriek, thank God, he makes a quiet groan that soon turns into a gurgle of blood, that spills from his lips and stains them the most glorious ruby. The gurgle in his throat slows to silence, and all I can hear is the crunch of crisp air in and out of my lungs. I move deeper into the shadows, dragging the dead weight with me, pinning it against the wall with my arm spread across its shoulders. With a flick of my wrist, I send a scar sprouting from the corner of its lips, a flick that sends a dull ache through the tendons of my wrist, and then another at the opposing corner.

I release the body, let it fall to my feet, and look down. I expect to feel the well of pride, the sick satisfaction of the blood pooling around my feet and the Chelsea smile carved in the dark. But, my bones run black with terror, look at me! Look at what I'd become! I let out a spit of harsh swear words, and turn away. Look at me!

Monster.

I stumble away from the corpse, my legs useless beneath me for a second. This was exactly what I was trying to escape, but death and destruction followed me everywhere! No matter how hard I tried I always ended up hurting people. Every single thing I did just failed, and I tried, I tried my hardest to give up the Death Clown, and I did, for a while, until the lure of the moon and the darkness was too strong, and the whisper of silver called to me. Then all I did was hurt! The joy was still swirling around me, the sick pleasure surrounding my bloodstained hands even as I climb the fire escape back to my floor. The breath is forced in and out of my lungs in jagged, uneven breaths.

I could not go back. I could not risk hurting my clown until I had this under control. I needed to learn to quell the Death Clown, direct her anger and her laughter out towards the world, not in on those close to me.

Until then, I think desperately, as I push open the door I'd foolishly left unlocked, and shut it behind me, I will be alone. I will hide myself away in this tattered sofa and grey walls, and the Death Clown would be firmly asleep.

Only this time, as I curl onto the sofa, still bloodstained and shivering, I don’t hear the soft caress of ruby lips, murmuring their goodnights and their declarations of love. I hear nothing but my own shaking cries. I close my eyes, hoping for the drip of leather gloves down my cheek, the soft tickle of grease green hair across my temple. But it does not come.

I was truly, truly alone.