Your Frown Is My Umbrella

That night at ten o’clock they were watching the news on their ratty old loveseat. Damian only wanted the two of them to watch the news every night because he intended to scare her into staying with him. His logic stated that if she saw how terrible the city was, she wouldn’t be so eager to run away when their relationship got a little rough. Reign only knew this because he had told her so during one of his drunken speeches.

Damian took a swig of his beer and swung an arm around her shoulder, sighing loudly. Reign tried to block him out by expertly braiding bits of her hair with gloved fingers as she stared at the television.

“I’m standing at the gates outside Arkham Asylum,” rambled a red haired male reporter. “There have been several reports from Arkham staff as well as local civilians, who claim to have seen a gang of men in clown masks lurking around the area. Some seem to believe that these men have the intention of breaking The Joker free from his padded cell in the high security sector.”

The angle shifted to show a security camera that hung above the gate. “Now it would seem the appropriate approach would be to check all security tapes in order to determine their objective. As it turns out, that is no longer an option. The men miraculously managed to slip past each and every camera on the premises, leaving no physical evidence to back up the claims of the witnesses.”

The reporter stared into the camera and became more serious than ever. “If anyone has any information concerning this suspicious activity, it is strongly advised that they come forward to ensure that The Joker stays locked up in his cell where he belongs. I’m sure I’m not the only Gotham civilian who understands the serious threat that madman poses to our city. Let’s all do our part to ensure the safety of our friends, coworkers, and family. Phillip Seymour, Gotham Tonight. Back to you, Bill.”

The camera now showed a middle aged man sitting behind a large grey desk and shuffling a stack of papers that resembled an oversized deck of blank playing cards. A photo of The Joker hovered in the top right hand corner of the screen, capturing Reign’s full attention.

She examined the blood red smile that curved upwards past his lips, and she absentmindedly ran a gloved finger over the frown scar that curved downwards towards her chin.

“Thank you, Phil. I couldn’t agree more. Anyone with any information should come forward as soon as possible and do their civic duty to make this city a safer place for everyone. Now, Grace Winchester is in Farmington Place with the –”

Even after The Joker’s picture disappeared from the screen, her eyes stayed glued to the exact place where his face had been leering back at her. Now that was a reason to stay here instead of running around in the open; chasing nonexistent dreams of a better life, a better place, and a better man. Her eyes glazed over as she recalled something Damian had told her one night not too long ago.

“I heard his latest victim was a runaway woman,” he said. “I heard he strapped her to a table and shone a spotlight on her, and even propped up her head with a pillow just so she could watch him tear apart her insides.” He smiled. “But first, he carved a pretty little smile on her face so she could die happy. Is that what you want, Rainy? To die happy? Do you want him to carve your face so you could smile for the first time in your life? No, I didn’t think so...”

Suddenly she had the feeling she was falling, and then she realized her body was now sprawled out on the crusty orange living room carpet.

He had pushed her off the couch.

“Quit your daydreaming,” Damian grumbled, crumpling his beer can against his forehead.

He whipped the discarded wad of aluminum across the room, and Reign cringed at the unenthused thunk sound it made when it ricocheted onto the floor.

She felt a sharp prick in the palm of her left hand, which sent an electrical jolt of déjà vu through her train of thought. She slowly pulled off her mitten and found a sliver of glass embedded in her skin. It was a piece of the beer bottle Damian had thrown at her last night for forgetting to say ‘I love you’ back.

Funny; she thought she had cleaned it all up.

“What’s with you?” Damian asked when he saw her staring at her hand.

“It’s a sliver,” she said simply, unsure of how he would react.

Damian wasn’t the most predictable of men either, especially when he was drunk. Unfortunately for Reign, his state of alcohol and drug induced euphoria was more common than his state of sobriety.

“Come here,” he demanded, grabbing hold of her wrists and pulling her up on the couch.

Her posture was rigid as she sat next to him with her hand in his. She watched his glassy eyes squint into her palm, and hoped he would just tell her he couldn’t see anything. That way, she could go off to the bathroom and get it out herself.

She wasn’t in the mood to have him add more scars to her collection.

“Ugh, I don’t see anything. Crazy freak,” he muttered drunkenly.

Her eyes smiled and she nodded hurriedly. “I guess I was just imagining it. I’ll be right back.” She picked her mitten up off the ground. “I need to use the washroom.”

Once by the sink, she held her bare hand up to the single light bulb that hung from the ceiling on a twisted wire.

The ember-colored shard of glass sparkled in her palm like an impossibly small diamond. A tiny speck of blood seeped from the punctured skin, and a familiar dull ache crept across her lungs like a caressing flame.

She swallowed hard. No, I’m not mad, she thought as her fingers began to tremble. I’m not angry. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

The anger monster was back again to try and fill her with its ugly madness.

He did this to you. That’s his splinter in your palm. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time he shoved something inside you.

“Shut up,” she demanded under her breath. “He can’t help it.”

Her fingers folded into fists, but her left hand quickly snapped open again when the shard of glass pinched itself deeper beneath her skin.

She gasped wordlessly and grabbed her wrist to steady her wounded hand.

Don’t you wanna’ make him see how it feels?

“Shut up,” she repeated sternly. “I’ll be fine.”

What are ya’ gonna’ do? I’ll tell ya’ what you're gonna’ do. You're gonna’ march right in there and smash his head through the television. Give him a whole head-full of pretty little splinters.

“No, no, no,” she chanted.

She glared resentfully at the bloody speck in her hand.

The splinter was to blame. It woke up the monster, and once the anger monster awoke, it intended to stay awake until she did as it said.

You gave up your freedom the day you handed him the reigns. Take them back and choke him with them.

Her mouth hung open as she tried to cope with the anger that was pecking away at her heart and lungs like a hungry chicken. She strained to clap a muzzle over the voice, not wanting to hear the monster any more.

It growled angrily, catching the air in her lungs and holding it in.

No, you have to let it out. Just let it out. Let me out.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away the tears of frustration that were trickling down her face. She coughed out a single strangled sob before pulling off her other mitten and opening her left palm so it was entirely flat. Holding her breath, she pinched the shard between the nails of her thumb and forefinger and gently eased the piece of glass from her skin.

You hate him, you hate him!

The monster belted out one final desperate cry as the shard left her palm.

“I’m fine,” she said softly, her voice breaking only slightly. “I’m fine.”

She turned on the sink faucet and splashed some of the cool water on her face to wash away the tears’ salty residue. After drying away the droplets, she took a deep breath, smoothed out her black long-sleeved shirt, and pulled on her mittens again before heading out the doorway.

She was all prepared to sit through the rest of the newscast with Damian, but when she entered the living room she discovered he had already fallen asleep.

She stood by the sofa for a moment or two and stared at his resting form. His chest rose and fell with each gentle breath, and his brow flinched as if dreams were already tickling his unconscious mind. She debated on whether or not to kiss his cheek goodnight, but then thought better of it.

Instead, she simply turned off the television before dimming the lights and heading to the bedroom. It wouldn’t be a good idea to risk waking him. Reign padded softly down the short unlit hallway, heading for the first door on her right.

Running her fingers along the peeling yellow walls, she fixed her eyes on the door of her bedroom. Once inside, she stepped towards a lamp that sat on the table beside the bed, and with a flick of her thumb the light bulb illuminated the discolored lampshade in a lazy white glow.

Reign tugged off her grey jogging pants and left them folded on an old green chair. With a discontented sigh, she sprawled out on the mattress’ striped olive-colored comforter and reached back to the headboard. Her gloved fingers tapped at the varnished wood, reminding her that she needed to take off her mittens before going to sleep.

Soon afterwards, she was beneath the covers with nothing but the howling wind to lull her to sleep.

She hadn’t been laying there for more than five minutes when she groaned irritably and opened her eyes to stare at the dark ceiling. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get the image of the glass shard to leave her head. It had been a long while since she had felt that nasty anger picking away at her, and she hadn’t missed it at all. The brief attack had been so unexpected, and now it was all she could think about.

Reign was not looking forward to the bloody nightmares that the prickling image was sure to stimulate.

Now, she was one of those people who considered blood, gore and darkness to be the generic makeup of nightmares.

A lot of people feel that way.

A few people don’t.

Locked in a padded cell on the other side of town slept a homicidal clown who was contentedly dreaming of things that would have made her worst nightmares look like sugary fairy tales.