No Place in My Heart for a Criminal Like You

“Take off your shirt,” I ordered The Joker as we entered the no longer forbidden room. The Joker insisted that he explained a few things, seeing as I had already partially uncovered some of his secrets.

The Joker looked at me quizzically for a moment before asking, “And, uh, why would I want to do that?” Not only was he soaked head to toe, but also I wanted to heal the fresh battle wounds on his body. I’m not a pervert, trust me.

“I need to take care of those wounds,” I replied simply as I picked up a chair from off the floor, which he had previously knocked over when flipping the table. “Sit,” I said pointing to the wooden chair. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yes. Wounds like this tend to happen all the time. And normally I deal with them myself, I don’t need your help,” he said spitefully as he sat down in the chair.

“I’m only trying to help,” I said somewhat downhearted. “You don’t need to be so mean about it. I don’t see why you can’t just let me help you. If anything, I should just let you bleed after the way you’ve treated me.” The Joker simply turned his head and sighed heavily and grumpily, almost emitting a growl. “Where’s the kit then?”

“Bathroom. Behind the mirror,” he muttered barely comprehensible. Without another word, I left the room in search for the kit. Thankfully, I found it where he had told me it was.

When I had returned to The Joker, he was sat in the exact same position except his torso was now bare, showing various sized scars, grazes and cuts. Some looked more severe than others. I casually walked over to him, first aid kit in hand and then placed it on the table in front of him.

“I don’t know why you’re helping me,” he started as I began pulling equipment out of the kit. “I can easily do this myself.”

“But you can’t stitch the ones on your back. You’re not that magic.” I began dabbing alcohol on his back, expecting him to flinch or show some sign of pain, but he did neither. He didn’t move a muscle.

“You wanna see a magic trick?”

“No, thank you,” I mumbled, knowing exactly what he’s capable of. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m helping you. Maybe I’m a little crazy, huh?”

He laugh snorted and shook his head in disagreement. “You don’t know what crazy is yet, puddin’.” Yet? What did he mean by that? I would have thought I already was crazy, if I must say so myself. There must be something wrong with me, if I fell in love with a psychotic clown. That can’t be normal. The fascination and obsession with him no longer lingered and had now advanced to being in love with him. No matter how much I try to deny it, I can’t fool myself into thinking that I don’t need him. There’s just no denying it anymore. Besides, he’d taken everything else away from me, leaving me with nothing at all. There wasn’t much I could do without him.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how did you get all of these cuts?”

“Hmm, nothing. Just a little, uh, run in with the cops. Long story short, I had to climb over barbed wire to get rid of them. Lost a few men with the cops. No big deal,” he explained simply, as if it was nothing. And that’s where all his men were; taken away by the cops and The Joker couldn’t care less. After dabbing the alcohol over his torso, I then started for the needle and thin thread to sew the open wounds up. Secretly, I wanted to ask about this room, but I didn’t want to set him off again. So I tried hinting towards the idea of telling me instead. Maybe he’d get the picture.

I cleared my throat before talking, trying to find the right words to say. “So, I am really sorry about earlier.”

“You should be sorry,” he interrupted rudely, quite angry already. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. “I told you not to come in here but you still didn’t listen. Just like you always do. You never listen to word I say, do you? You’re probably not even listening to me now. I wish you’d listen sometimes. Just...a little bit, hmm? Can you do that for me?”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry...again,” I sighed. I felt like a little kid being told off by an elder. He always seemed to patronise me. In fact, he patronised everyone. For some reason, he saw himself above everyone else. What that reason is, I don’t know. But no-one seems to want to confront him about it, but I think anyone can see why. Besides, I believe that he knows exactly what he’s doing and what effect he has on people, so he doesn’t need to be reminded. He probably enjoys what he does and how he does it, there’s no denying that. “So, why did you want to come back in here? What were you going to tell me?” I questioned, attempting to hide my eagerness.

“Well after your little intrusion of my privacy, I suppose I should let you in on a few things.”

“I feel another lie coming on. Is this going to be like your other stories?” I asked as I made my way to his front, so I could sew up any wounds there.

“No. No. Don’t underestimate me, Harley. Where should I begin? Uh. I was a young boy. Around 18, when I first met Evie.” I automatically assumed that the girl in the photo and the portrait on the wall was Evie. “She was just as young and naive as I was at the time. We both fell in love quickly. I liked Evie. She understood me. With my abusive father, she’d always help me through the tough times. She was there for me. One day, around the age of 20, we decided it’d be fun to run away from home, just for a laugh as you do. She never did tell me how she got the money to afford a cheap, trashy apartment. I imagined, whatever it was, it wasn’t pretty. Anyway, we got married. I earned little money as a failed comedian while she worked a dead end job at a small, rundown restaurant. With hardly any money at all she began to slip into a depression, now seeing that running away was a very bad idea. I couldn’t cheer her up. I just wanted to make her smile. Seeing how upset she was made feel even more upset. For a little extra money, I get involved with the mob. I did some of their dirty deeds for very little cash. The extra cash was fine to begin with. But I get greedy. I start asking for money from them, promising to pay them back with money that I didn’t have. They’d always be on my back, asking me when I’d be able to pay them back. And when I didn’t pay them back, they get mad. They start giving me deadlines.

“One night, after many failures to meet the deadline, me and Evie are walking through The Narrows back to our apartment. Something bad happened. Out of nowhere, we’re pulled into a dark alley. Evie’s muffled screams echoing off the walls as she’s tackled to the ground with a knife to her throat. Unfortunately for her, I still hadn’t repaid the mob’s loan. For the final time of telling them that I still didn’t have the money, they slice her up. Me watching. I’d try to turn my head away but I was forced back to look at my dying wife, screaming, crying and whimpering for my help. ‘Jack!’ she would cry out and I couldn’t do anything to help her. The cries slowly died down. And then it was my turn. He comes at me with the knife and places it to my face. There he carves an everlasting smile across my face, forever reminding me of that one beautiful night.”

I had stopped sewing long ago, halfway through his story, in complete awe with him. Yet, I still didn’t know whether or not to believe him. He’s had so many stories; I don’t know which one to believe. I do believe, however, that that girl in the picture was his wife and that he loved her. That’s when I realised why The Joker was the way he was. When a heart breaks, it may grow back crooked, obscured and even cracked still. Metaphorically speaking, it’s possible that the heart may never grow back at all and that person, whose heart has been broken, can never love again. I think The Joker had a heart, but it was twisted. That’s why he has this sick and twisted relationship with me. He’d never be the same again after being mentally and physically scarred for the rest of his life and now he expressed his feelings, emotions and opinions differently. He now didn’t know any better. For this, I felt sorry for him. But I didn’t want to express my sympathy for him, because I knew he didn’t want it.

“You remind me of her,” he stated quietly after a few minutes of silence. He grabbed my face roughly, before saying, “Sometimes, I feel like I could kill you. But I see your face and it makes me think of her.” After his hands slipped away from my face, I continued with the stitching.

“So is Jack your real name?” I asked, hesitantly.

“Jack Napier. But he died long ago.”

Another awkward silence passed over the room as I reached for the alcohol again. I started dabbing over the now sewn wounds again. “You know, I think you should go take a bath,” I suggested, continuing to dab.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked angrily, jumping to conclusions.

“Nothing personal! I just think you should clean these wounds out properly.”

“You just want to see me naked,” he mumbled more to himself than anyone. I deliberately pressed harder on the wounds with the alcohol for his cockiness. His back arched slightly when I did it and then exclaimed, “Hey!”

Without thinking about what I was saying, I blurted out, “I’ve already seen you naked!”