My Version of Hell Was Much Funnier

The roads look nice. Freshly cleaned just the other day, removing all evidence of a New Year celebration. There’s no snow on the ground, just ice, sticking to the side of the road in thick clumps of gray, clogging the gutter beautifully. The heater in Biggy’s Mustang is on full blast, aiming at both Squid and I. My nails drum over the steering wheel once, and I spread my fingers to look at them, my thumb still latched around the leather to hold us steady.

I painted them the other day, my nails. They’re a dark and luscious color of purple. I don’t even know why I did it, I have never painted my nails before, but they looked professional, even strokes down to the tips. They felt irritatingly long, but in reality they barely went passed my actual fingers in length.

I suppose I just needed a change; The Joker obviously needed one.

Squid exhaled loudly, scratching his arm under the cuff of his blazer. He looked nice today. I made him change his clothing as we drove; the trunk was stuffed with outfits. I was serious about needing to leave. If push came to shove, I could easily climb in this car and drive until I’m out of gas.

I’d never do that, though. His iced over fingers were wrapped securly around my throat, and I accepted every moment of it longingly.

“What are we doing here?” Squid asks, craning his neck to look around.

We were in West Gotham, surrounded in houses costing more than half a million easily. Houses where the entire front half was made of tinted glass, the yards were picturesque with shrubs full of greenery even in January, and the closest neighbor was fifty feet away instead of five, as it would be in suburbia.

“And was it really necessary for us to wear this?” he asks, signaling his clothes.

“Well, I think you look nice, Squid.”

He snorted.

“Oh, c’mon. That suit looks nice on you, Squid. The black really accentuates your hair, and your freckles. And I like your shoes to. Do they fit?”

“Hey watch the road,” I nodded, “and yeah they fit, but still. Is there a reason for this or anything? I mean you’re in a fitted skirt and a button up shirt and vest, what’s the deal?”

I tap my heeled foot against the brake and we slow. The wheel turns, the engine stops. “Well, Sam, some things have come up in my life suddenly-”

“You mean with Harley?” he groans.

I smile at him. “Yes, with her. Anyway, it’s been a while since I’ve seen my psychiatrist. Would you like to meet him? I believe he lives here.” The door opens and I get out, Squid doing the same. My heels click against the pavement; a wonderful sound.

“Can they do at home visits?”

“Nope,” my lips pop. “It’s a surprise.”