Tonight, You're Gonna Break Your One Rule

My hallucinations soon reappear, three nights later, with the soft promise of an apology, the slide of a leather glove against my cheek, and a chuckle. He told me not to be so silly, whispered in my ear, and that he was here.

I let out a soft scoff, he was here, sure, in my mind. Locked within the tangled, scattered mess of my mind. I heave a sigh, look down at the tattered, bloodstained sofa with disdain. My clown giggles in my ear, messy, and I clench my eyes shut in retaliation, it wasn't my fault. I glance towards the sky, the deep dark of the night, the timid sparkle of the stars, for a fleeting, longing moment, before I look back at my hands. The blood still lingers under my broken fingernails, and there's a strange yellowing to my skin, perhaps more malnutrition than staining.

His arms wrap around me, cover my hands with his, and he chatters away about his day, Maroni, or the crashing heartbeat of an innocent he'd ended so starkly earlier. It was a strange comfort, swirling the delirium in my eyes into a fever pitch. I was crazy, absolutely crazy, to imagine the endless prattle of a murderer into my ear, to imagine his murderous hands covering my, equally murderous, bloodied hands.

Still, I breathe a shaky intake of stale air and gently shrug my shoulders from his grasp. I stand on aching legs and push my hands through my hair, hissing in pain at the knots. I dither for a second, snatch a bottle of Southern Comfort from the sofa next to me and twist the top off. I down a few measures, and throw the then empty bottle back on the sofa.

My reflection catches my eye, a dull curve of red hair and yellowing skin, and I trip towards the scratched mirror. I see the delirium twisting the irises of my eyes. I hear the giggle of my clown behind me, I see the yellow of my skin and the blood on my lips. I stand staring at my reflection for a while. Everything had changed, and yet my appearance had mirrored that perfectly. My hair was longer, darker, my skin was sallower, my shoulder were slumped, my bones so cracked and vulnerable. The one thing that stands out the most is my eyes. The once bright ice blue of my eyes would shine and fill a room with laughter, and yet now, the same ice blue is cold and hollow, empty and swirling in the gloom.

The feeling hits me like a sledge hammer in the chest, the remembrance of where I've seen that hollow look before, the swirling irises filled with hate and longing. The same hallowed look filled my brain as he carved the scars into my lips, the same hollowed and hallowed look filled my vision as he stared at me, as I ran from the gilded lobby... when I left him.

I let out a soft hiss, and a second after the polluted air escapes my lips, it's replaced by the hiss of a leather glove so real I look behind me. But again, there's nothing there. He traces the scar on the left side of my lip, and I tilt my head longingly towards his touch.

Come back to me, then Precious.

I exhale and shake my head, "I'll hurt you, Mister J,"

He slides his arms around my waist, squeezes me tight and nuzzles into my neck. Once again I tilt my head towards his touch, and make a soft noise of satisfaction. Until my eyes open again, and I remember it was simply my imagination, nothing more, and he was far away, back underground, or laughing softly in some alley as he carved out another Glasgow grin.

I breathe a soft, shaky sigh as his arm curves around me, traces the right side of my scarred mouth. I close my eyes, sink back into his arms and I almost smile. I loved him, Christ I did, I loved him and I missed him so much, and yet, even as I collapse back into his imaginary arms, stumble as I lose my own balance, and scowl, I knew I'd hurt him.

I reach up and go to tangle my hand through his hair, but he's not there, of course, and I don’t feel the grease of his hair nor the soft whisper of his skin. Instead of the tickle of his hair on my neck, I instead feel his rough, weathered, white-tipped hands caress along my stomach, slide along my hipbones and knot above my womb. It takes me a second to realise what exactly he's pointing out to me. I clench my stomach muscles beneath his imaginary hands as he whispers.

But you're mine. Mine, Precious.

I claw at the collar around the base of my neck, tear the shirt over my head and it falls to the floor as the chill of his imaginary hands slide around my ribcage. I stare at the bloodied letters adorning my abdomen, the ones that declare me property of Gotham's Number One, of my clown. I slide my hand gently across the scars, marvelling at the way they've now turned silvery white in the moonlight. How long had it really been? The length of my hair and silver of my scars were my only mark of the passage of time. Another such silver gash slinks below the waistband of my trousers, and I suddenly ache to see my body in the reality of the moon. His hands stay perfectly moulded to my ribs as I push at the trousers until they fall to my feet. I see the shadow of malnutrition staining my skin, I see the scars and ravages of crime and knives through my flesh.

The scattered patterns of scars litter their way up from my ankles, past particularly vivid slashes over my thighs, the marks over my stomach, up the scrapes of my ribs, the little teasing flicks of a blade over my shoulders, the grazes and digs of stones and metal over my arms, and at last, the anchoring, thickened twists of scar tissue curving my scowl into a wide, emotion filled grin.

I stand transfixed by the ravages love has brought on my body. Because it was love that'd done this to me, love that made my fight so hard I broke my skin, love that made me scratch at his grasp, love that made its ownership over my stomach, love that curved my lips into a grin.

A sharp knock at the door brings me from my revelry, and I gasp with the shock of it. Human company. Who was it? My clown? No, he wouldn't even knock. The police? No, neither would they.

"Hey, girlie. Rent time." I hear the man's expressionless voice, so matching to his blank face and blank eyes. I breathe a sigh of relief, it was only him, and I scramble for my clothes. I pull the shirt back over my head, tear at my trousers, and grab a scarf on my way to the door. I only pull it open a fraction, dip my head so the shadows are cast across my face.

Rent, oh shit.

I'd ran out of money, how, I don't know, maybe it was the rent back payments, the endless bottles of liquor. But right now, I didn't have the rent. Surely he'd give me a day or two until I can get out of this stale air and back to Gambol's. The man recoils at the sight of me for a second before recovering himself.

"Rent, girlie."

He spits, literally, and a fleck hits me in the face. I recoil back onto one foot, my mouth down turned in the shadows, "I haven't got it. Not right now." I avoid his gaze, turn my face away as the terror rushes through my veins like ice, would he recognise me? I feel my jaw line shaking as I clench my hands beside me.

"Well you're gonna have to get it," He spits, and I take another step back, oh lord, he would recognise me. I couldn't keep my head bowed all this time. I was stupid to think I was going to get away with this. Arkham here I come.

He takes my step back as some kind of perverted welcome into the apartment, and I take a few more steps back, shrinking my shoulders back into the shadows, "I haven't got it. Give me a day, or two."

He shakes his head, and suddenly I find the fat, balding man I found so laughable the first night I saw him, absolutely terrifying. I clench my hands tighter, since when was the Death Clown such a whimpering mess?

He advances on me, nastily, predatorily. In the same animalistic way my clown first approached me. I hear the same clown giggle in my ear, I'm nothing like him Precious! I clench my eyes shut, oh, not now Mister J, not now. The man's voice brings me back, with a little whimper of shock as my clown disappears from my mind.

"Not good enough."

I feel my back hit the dividing wall between the kitchen and everything else, and give a little squeak of surprise, trying to keep the monotone and control I craved from so long ago, "What am I meant to do?"

He looks me up and down, in a slow, predatory way that makes his little beetle eyes shine nastily. I feel the bile rise in my throat and take another step or two back into the kitchen, but again, again, he follows me, "Pay me some other way then..."

I retch, clutch at the counter behind me, and shrink back further into the shadows. I just wanted to disappear. He smiles, a nasty, grim, thin-lipped smile and makes a grab for my arm. I snatch it out of the way and let out a soft hiss.

"C'mon girlie, I'm gonna get my rent one way or another."

I reach behind me, and my hand closes, joyfully, thankfully, gratefully, around the blade of a kitchen knife I'd left there. I almost breathe a sigh of relief as the knife floods its power back into my body. I switch my grip, acutely aware yet uncaring of the slash into my palm, and hold the knife tipped towards him.

He laughs, actually laughs. I was the one who was meant to be laughing.

I swallow, try to make a step forward, but his presence pushes me back against the counter once more, "I mean it!" I almost screech, if my voice would allow it.

Suddenly, in the pounding of my heartbeat, I become totally and utterly aware of the world outside of my window. The shouting is infinitely louder than usual, much more angry, violent, filled with the emotions I so used to cherish. The rumble and rattle of cars have stopped, filled instead with the incessant, tribal poundings of fists, on metal, on concrete, on flesh.

Both the man and I pause, flit our gaze towards the grimy window, like hyenas at the scent of a fresh kill, and the radio from downstairs seems to grow louder, and crystal clear.

"Riots have started in the Narrows and downtown Gotham, it seems to be the result, our reports say, of-"

My hearing is cut off by the assault of curses spat from that disgusting mouth. I wince, shrink back, until he takes a step away, and I tentatively straighten my back.

"Riots? Fuck." He looks down, wrings his hands before taking a few steps back, his shoulders hunched in greed, "Get downstairs, lock the doors." He turns, hurries back to the door, then, as if he's suddenly remembered I'm there, turns back, and his face darkens with intimidation, "Don't think I'm done with you."

My hand tightens around the knife handle, and he simply leaves the door ajar. I stay still, as his footsteps fade and are swallowed by the radio, then, as that dims, the riots outside. Then, suddenly, it hits me.

Riots?

Oh lord, the police... What if they found me?

I exhale in one long continuous breath, and cautiously take a step forward. He wasn't coming back. A particularly loud bang makes me jolt, and then I hear a scream, or two, and it ignites something within me once more. My journey down the hallway and to the open window, is this time far more fast-paced. I tear the window open, breath raging from my lungs, the strange little kitchen knife still clutched in my hand.

Instead of going down at the fire escape, like I did seemingly forever ago, I chose up.

I tilt my head to the sky, search it wildly for the Death Clown, and she seems to swirl just out of reach, in a grey and green fog that dances through the moon.

I climb up the fire escape, trip onto the gravely asphalt of the roof. I look around desperately, as I run over to the edge, knife gripped in my right hand, and the shock whips through me quicker than the wind.

Screams erupt below me, as a fire bursts the petrol tank of an abandoned car. I look further a field; see the whirling blue two-tones of Gotham City Police Department trying in vain to control the Narrows. Then, with a sinking realisation, I recognise the grey and green fog the Death Clown was pirouetting through.

Fear gas.

I take a deep breath in before I can realise what that means. The smoke and gas whip up around me as the screams and gunshots curl into a cacophony of violence. I look around, Scarecrow, the only source of that gas and the strong smoky smell enveloping Gotham must be Scarecrow. But wasn't he in Arkham? My gaze tears to the Asylum in search of an answer. I find it in the presence of fire and flames curling around the base of the building, the two tones gathering into an epicentre at its gates.

A breakout, of course, Arkham could only contain the criminal masterminds of my sprawling metropolis for so long. A fresh release of fear gas swirls through the air, deepens the green and grey fog to opacity, whips the wind into a fever pitch.

Then, something springs into the night air, something so infinitely and intimately unsettling seems to part the fog and calm the storm for a split second. That one moment seems to imprint itself into my mind with the soft hiss of a cattle brand, it winds its iron veins deep inside me.

I hear, tinkling over the screams and whirling its way towards me, the maniacal cackle of a jester. I hear, as my heart seems to leap into my throat, the loud, leaping, horrifying laughter of my clown.

I inhale heavily, and drop the knife in shock. My eyes roll back into my head at the sheer joy of his voice, and I look around. I'd heard it so clearly I was sure he was here, but he wasn't, as always.

I was alone.

My eyes stream back to Arkham as the cackle resonates within my bones; I didn't care if it was my imagination. I knew in my skin, in my muscles and tissue and bones, I knew it.

Something big had happened.