Death's a Joke.

“Hiiii Bruceyyyy!” Shrieked a giggling, female voice from behind him as he stood grief-stricken, his eyes masked with a cloud of tears threatening to fall down the reddened flesh of his face for the endless time that day.

“Don’t, call me that,” Bruce hissed as choked back as the saliva from his mouth, his throat stung with each word as if poison was seeping from his lips, his body turning towards the doorframe.

“Well I’m sorry to disappoint but I just did,” Ace responded, her figure prised itself from the doorframe and she began to enter the room, her shadow casted across the wall as the sun ray’s touched the building for the last time before night would set.

Bruce shook slightly with every deep sigh followed by a roared cough. The bloodshot eyes scanned Ace’s movements as she wandered around his son’s room. He should have asked her how she got in but he couldn’t remember if he had even locked the door. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered, Alfred was dead.

“You’re…sick, twisted…how can someone turn so evil?” Bruce questioned to the serial killer in front of him, his mind barely grasping the idea of her being so casual after she had killed his lifelong friend and father-figure.

“I’m not evil…” Ace giggled back as she slouched down in a worn leather armchair, her destroyed boots resting on top of the wooden toy-box near her. Ace’s mere presence left Bruce on edge.

He felt his blood drain in disbelief; his hands fumbled around until he found the TV remote and switched on the news. The pixels flickered several clips of Ace’s work, ranging from the destruction of police cars to gunning down an entire audience at the cinema. When Bruce turned to look at her reaction she was smirking, her body moving slightly with laughter at her ‘artwork’ as she called it.

The Joker had been locked in the same room for the past two days. His body was body was compacted into one shape, his knees close to his chin as he bit the ends of his thumbs while he focused on the same spot. He was trapped in a state of desperate confusion, his life and feelings had become a twirling hurricane of an oxymoron.

“I hate her, I hate her, I hate the Ace of Diamonds…” He hissed to himself, his face stern and his breath visible as the windows were missing the glass and his jacket was flung across the room.

Simultaneously hating and being in a state of obsession was constantly haunting his thoughts, the laughter would never last long enough before being ensnared with the feeling of pity for the pathetic people of Gotham and for the feeling that was bringing sickness to him; the feeling was similar to the feeling he got when he killed yet so different. His angered sighs turned into a laughter before his body was stood upright, his hand entwined around his knife while the image of the Batman encased his thoughts, well almost all of them.

“The moon is out, so were in that Bat, hmmm? Perhaps hiding in the Belfry?” The Joker mumbled to himself with a smile from the humour of his own words.