Tonight, You're Gonna Break Your One Rule
IX
The mirror in the bathroom was my worst enemy with my Chelsea smile.
The Joker had kept it meticulously clean, since then, as if to torment me, and if I was brutally honest, it was.
I'd woken up, maybe a day later, and screamed in agony. The room was empty, thank God, and I stumbled, blind and light headed, towards the bathroom and the mirror. Tears had rolled down my cheeks as I'd seen my reflection, two dark red gouges either side of my mouth, only an inch or so long, and not very wide. Dried blood smothered the neckline of my shirt, yet my face was clean.
The Joker has also stitched up my wounds, albeit haphazardly, almost maliciously. I'd woken up halfway through it, where he'd pinned my body on the floor with a knee in my chest, and arm across my shoulders, and was cackling madly as he tugged a thick needle and black wire through my lips.
I hadn't bothered screaming, only clenching my eyes and letting unconsciousness overtake me again. Later, when I'd seen the stitches, they were naïve and messy, the wires the wrong length, ends sticking from the stubs of the wounds, the tissue pulled together in messy clumps.
I'd cried and cried for hours after that, the salt of my tears stinging the wounds so I'd cry from agony as well as the huge despair overcoming me. When the tears had slowly stopped, and I'd carefully wiped them away, I felt tired again, my body craving for sleep and repair.
I obeyed its wishes and dragged my feet back into the bedroom. A Joker card sat on a plush purple pillow and I picked it up, reading the messy scrawl carefully.
'Hello Precious. Sleep in my bed, I wont be back tonight. And smile, Precious. J.'
The card stays in my hand as I fell onto the bed. I tugged off my jeans and blood soaked top and just slept, the Joker's plum covers upto my shoulders, his scent all around me.
Three weeks later, I'm curled in a foetal position, my scars aching beyond bearable now, my so-called stitches itching horribly. I haven’t seen nor heard anybody, apart from yelling beyond the doors, and I wanted it to stay that way. I hated my new scars, and I was deeply ashamed. There was something in me, too, that wanted to be alone. I was becoming dark, and bitter, my scowl constant. My old persona was leaking from the locked door of my brain, and for some reason, I let it this time.
The only person I'd seen in the last three weeks was the shadowy figure of the Joker, when I'd been faking sleep, on the very edge of his king-size bed, and I'd feel the bed dip as he got in the other side. Our bodies never touched, we never spoke, yet, day after day, I felt my personality align to his. I'd become a little more dark and resentful, though nowhere near as crazy as him.
I roll onto my back and stretch my limbs out, feeling my skin itch under my jeans, and I tug at my top, trying to get comfortable. I prop myself against the pillow so I'm half sitting half lying, and my scowl is set concrete, my lip twitching every so often, trying to sooth the itching. My tongue carefully darts out and licks my lips lightly, barely moving so my scars don’t hurt even more.
I fold my arms across my chest and stare straight ahead. A while later the white door creaks open, and then the Joker's silhouette is illuminated. He turns up the light so I have to squint from the sudden change, and our eyes meet.
We don’t speak, our gaze meeting for just a few seconds, but in that time I feel the floodgates open in my mind, and my old persona comes flooding back out, hate and disgust flooding through my veins. My scowl becomes even more prominent and I raise my eyebrows a little.
"Hello Precious," He purrs.
I roll onto my side away from him, and hide my face with my arms, grunting a semi reply as I do so.
"Hmm," I hear him say along with careful footfalls, until I see him crouch down at the side of the bed, "In a bad mood are we?"
"Fuck you..." I murmur just so he cant hear, and he tuts at my apparent silence.
He sits down on his side of the bed and I immediately sit up and face away from him, not wanting to be near him and meet his gaze again.
"My, my we are, aren't we!" He says gleefully, cackling a little as he gets up and skips around to my side of the bed, pulling me up by my forearms, "Let's get those stitches out!"
The delight in his voice is still there as he spins me round and pins me against the wall he'd made those very scars on, and holds me there with his own body, "Hold still now!" I clench my eyes tight shut and clench my jaw too, as he lifts a bare hand and starts tugging at the wire on the left side of my face. I groan through my teeth, the bent wire snagging skin and pulling at scar tissue, pulling blood to the surface again.
I heave a sigh when he drops the first piece of wire to the floor, and the trickle of new blood stains the back of my throat with copper again. He starts on the right side now, his eyes concentrated, his tongue licking his lips every so often. I make a particular noise of pain when the wire snags, and my other hand rests across my chest, grabbing fists of my shirt collar. In a second his other hand is there, and he slips it in mine. I immediately grab his hand tighter and squeeze in pain, before I realise what I'm doing, and my eyes snap open.
I meet his gaze and hold it, neither of us blinking. He stops pulling at the wire, almost out, and we freeze, like time doesn’t matter, staring. Our tongues dart out and lick our lips at the same time, and a second later, when he's realised we're staring, the Joker averts his eyes and starts tugging at the wire again, a little less forceful than before. I breathe out and shiver. The final piece of wire comes loose, and the small trickle of blood runs down my chin this time. The Joker reaches up and wipes away the blood as careful as he can, and I find myself staring again.
"Mister J..." I say softly, as I squeeze his hand one more time. He moves away from me, and our hands slip apart. Suddenly, all the pain comes rushing back, my cheeks burning and aching, the blood turning rancid in my mouth. I make a noise of pain and the Joker turns back to me, catching me as I fall forward, dizzy from agony.
"It hurts," I wail as he leads me to the bed and I fall on it, curling into a foetal position again.
"No, it doesn't." He squats down and pulls my chin up to meet his eyes, all the emotion from moments before long gone, "It's not hurt Precious. I've told you before. You'll know when you're truly hurt."
I nod, staring at his blackened eyes, and he stays there until I've dropped off to sleep, my cheeks aching and my nightmares full of Chelsea smiles and dead teens.
The Joker had kept it meticulously clean, since then, as if to torment me, and if I was brutally honest, it was.
I'd woken up, maybe a day later, and screamed in agony. The room was empty, thank God, and I stumbled, blind and light headed, towards the bathroom and the mirror. Tears had rolled down my cheeks as I'd seen my reflection, two dark red gouges either side of my mouth, only an inch or so long, and not very wide. Dried blood smothered the neckline of my shirt, yet my face was clean.
The Joker has also stitched up my wounds, albeit haphazardly, almost maliciously. I'd woken up halfway through it, where he'd pinned my body on the floor with a knee in my chest, and arm across my shoulders, and was cackling madly as he tugged a thick needle and black wire through my lips.
I hadn't bothered screaming, only clenching my eyes and letting unconsciousness overtake me again. Later, when I'd seen the stitches, they were naïve and messy, the wires the wrong length, ends sticking from the stubs of the wounds, the tissue pulled together in messy clumps.
I'd cried and cried for hours after that, the salt of my tears stinging the wounds so I'd cry from agony as well as the huge despair overcoming me. When the tears had slowly stopped, and I'd carefully wiped them away, I felt tired again, my body craving for sleep and repair.
I obeyed its wishes and dragged my feet back into the bedroom. A Joker card sat on a plush purple pillow and I picked it up, reading the messy scrawl carefully.
'Hello Precious. Sleep in my bed, I wont be back tonight. And smile, Precious. J.'
The card stays in my hand as I fell onto the bed. I tugged off my jeans and blood soaked top and just slept, the Joker's plum covers upto my shoulders, his scent all around me.
Three weeks later, I'm curled in a foetal position, my scars aching beyond bearable now, my so-called stitches itching horribly. I haven’t seen nor heard anybody, apart from yelling beyond the doors, and I wanted it to stay that way. I hated my new scars, and I was deeply ashamed. There was something in me, too, that wanted to be alone. I was becoming dark, and bitter, my scowl constant. My old persona was leaking from the locked door of my brain, and for some reason, I let it this time.
The only person I'd seen in the last three weeks was the shadowy figure of the Joker, when I'd been faking sleep, on the very edge of his king-size bed, and I'd feel the bed dip as he got in the other side. Our bodies never touched, we never spoke, yet, day after day, I felt my personality align to his. I'd become a little more dark and resentful, though nowhere near as crazy as him.
I roll onto my back and stretch my limbs out, feeling my skin itch under my jeans, and I tug at my top, trying to get comfortable. I prop myself against the pillow so I'm half sitting half lying, and my scowl is set concrete, my lip twitching every so often, trying to sooth the itching. My tongue carefully darts out and licks my lips lightly, barely moving so my scars don’t hurt even more.
I fold my arms across my chest and stare straight ahead. A while later the white door creaks open, and then the Joker's silhouette is illuminated. He turns up the light so I have to squint from the sudden change, and our eyes meet.
We don’t speak, our gaze meeting for just a few seconds, but in that time I feel the floodgates open in my mind, and my old persona comes flooding back out, hate and disgust flooding through my veins. My scowl becomes even more prominent and I raise my eyebrows a little.
"Hello Precious," He purrs.
I roll onto my side away from him, and hide my face with my arms, grunting a semi reply as I do so.
"Hmm," I hear him say along with careful footfalls, until I see him crouch down at the side of the bed, "In a bad mood are we?"
"Fuck you..." I murmur just so he cant hear, and he tuts at my apparent silence.
He sits down on his side of the bed and I immediately sit up and face away from him, not wanting to be near him and meet his gaze again.
"My, my we are, aren't we!" He says gleefully, cackling a little as he gets up and skips around to my side of the bed, pulling me up by my forearms, "Let's get those stitches out!"
The delight in his voice is still there as he spins me round and pins me against the wall he'd made those very scars on, and holds me there with his own body, "Hold still now!" I clench my eyes tight shut and clench my jaw too, as he lifts a bare hand and starts tugging at the wire on the left side of my face. I groan through my teeth, the bent wire snagging skin and pulling at scar tissue, pulling blood to the surface again.
I heave a sigh when he drops the first piece of wire to the floor, and the trickle of new blood stains the back of my throat with copper again. He starts on the right side now, his eyes concentrated, his tongue licking his lips every so often. I make a particular noise of pain when the wire snags, and my other hand rests across my chest, grabbing fists of my shirt collar. In a second his other hand is there, and he slips it in mine. I immediately grab his hand tighter and squeeze in pain, before I realise what I'm doing, and my eyes snap open.
I meet his gaze and hold it, neither of us blinking. He stops pulling at the wire, almost out, and we freeze, like time doesn’t matter, staring. Our tongues dart out and lick our lips at the same time, and a second later, when he's realised we're staring, the Joker averts his eyes and starts tugging at the wire again, a little less forceful than before. I breathe out and shiver. The final piece of wire comes loose, and the small trickle of blood runs down my chin this time. The Joker reaches up and wipes away the blood as careful as he can, and I find myself staring again.
"Mister J..." I say softly, as I squeeze his hand one more time. He moves away from me, and our hands slip apart. Suddenly, all the pain comes rushing back, my cheeks burning and aching, the blood turning rancid in my mouth. I make a noise of pain and the Joker turns back to me, catching me as I fall forward, dizzy from agony.
"It hurts," I wail as he leads me to the bed and I fall on it, curling into a foetal position again.
"No, it doesn't." He squats down and pulls my chin up to meet his eyes, all the emotion from moments before long gone, "It's not hurt Precious. I've told you before. You'll know when you're truly hurt."
I nod, staring at his blackened eyes, and he stays there until I've dropped off to sleep, my cheeks aching and my nightmares full of Chelsea smiles and dead teens.
♠ ♠ ♠
comments my dearies?xx