Just Paint Your Face

I awoke slowly, hissing at the pain in my head. My vision didn’t even unfuzz before I registered the ropes tying my wrists, my ankles together in a small metal chair.

A hand--that same gloved hand--reached out from behind and slapped my face playfully. I immediately flinched back as much as I could, disgusted.

His voice was even more disgusting. Nerdy, whiny with a psychotic roughness to it that sent chills up the spine:

“I usually don’t start with the head--the victim gets all fuzzy--but this little meeting, un-for-tu-nately, isn’t for play.”

I stared into a lone ugly yellow light bulb hanging above my head, trying to make myself more alert. I tried to stop thinking about what the word “play” meant.

I could hear him--smell him (dear god what a smell)--shuffling around as I stayed focused on the light. I tried to concentrate, remember. My clothes were a little dirty but untouched. My hand flexed. My keys. Where were my---

The gloved hand waved and rattled them in front of my face. Then it came up with my white-yellow snakeskin purse, turning it upside down and dumping all of its contents at my feet. I stared as my red lipstick clattered by one leg of the chair, rolled off into darkness. The voice, hiding from my halo of yellow washed out light, giggled strangely as the tampons fell out. Then followed my lighter, my cigarettes.

“These uh, these are bad for you.” An ugly bowling shoe kicked them violently away, off with the lipstick. “You really should know better.”

My throat tightened when I heard a switchblade click open. One gloved hand settled itself naturally around my jaw. The other suddenly yanked at my hair, jerked my head violently. Forced my eyes to stare into that bulb:

“You look Christmas!” He cackled.

He could have snapped my neck easily then. Half of me thought he would, until he nestled that blade of his in the crook of my mouth.

There was a sharp intake of breath on my part, nothing more. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of screaming or begging or making a move to struggle.

“Y’know, they say you redheads are so angry.” He growled the word ‘angry’, “My mother was a redhead…. Do you wanna know… how I got these scars?”

And suddenly he stooped over, into the light, revealing his horrifying face, in full, for the first time.

I didn’t notice the scars first. I noticed the eyes, the eyes surrounded by black make up. Two tar pit traps, two screaming openings to the gates of hell. The skin was painted bone white and the lips--even the awful, jagged scars extending like a sick smile up to his cheekbones--were painted up sloppily with red.

His face was dirty with rage.

“My mother… was… a drinker. And she liked to smoke.” He clicked his teeth, “She had red hair and was beautiful… like you. Hey hey. Look at me. She couldn’t stand the sight of me. I reminded her of my father. And one night, she went off crazier than usual. She poures alcohol all over the house, drops a cigarette in, laughing while she does it. And I just stood there, watching her. She sticks a knife in my mouth. Why so serious? Why so serious?”

He snarled the last syllable like an enraged animal. I could feel the blade tug, could swear I tasted blood in my mouth and that it was all over.

I was going to die in the hands of a clown. And I’d always hated them as a child.

“…Let’s put a smile on that face.”

And just like that, the blade left my lips.

I dared sigh in relief. It was met with a hard slap to the face. I didn’t cry out, didn’t even flinch. I could only remember my father in that moment, he’d done it so many times.

I glowered at him then, had the right mind to spit in his face. Call him a bastard, a stupid freak.

He ignored me, moved back, waving dust from a shoulder of his cheap purple coat,

“I’m looking for The Batman.” His nasally voice now held a business-like quality, “And I have a nagging feeling it just might be this Dent guy. Now, you work for him, don‘t you? Give him your “services”, hm?”

“It’s not like that.” I spit out the words like that notion left a bad taste in my mouth. It wasn’t like that at all. Harvey was deeply in love with my best friend. And I would never. He would never.

Then again, all men had a pig side to them in my eyes.

And here this man was before me, showing that side completely as he pulled a fistful of my hair violently.

“Like blood.” He was still for a few seconds then force my face to meet his again. I shuddered, “Ivy. Hey c’mere. You look like that, an Ivy. Sound like an Ivy. Listen. Sh sh.”

He half slapped-stroked my face in a strange, affectionate way, “You’re going to help me get to Dent. You’ve got access I don’t. You understand.”

I nodded. He nodded back, mocking me.

“You do a good job, you stay alive. If not, well, you can be part of my next magic trick. And it doesn’t involve bunnies.”

He pulled out the knife again. My eyes widened.

“Wonderful.” He flashed a smile again. That awful, mad, haunting smile. A smile that could bring disease.

I almost felt “safe”. Then, everything went black.

“Lady? Lady. Hey Lady.”

I flinched my eyes open. A tall, skinny man stood over me. He had a heavy southern accent and sunken green eyes.

“You alright, Lady?”

“What?” My head ached dully.

“You was just plum passed out.”

I whispered, “It was a dream.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Thanks. I-I have to go.” I’d never stuttered before in my life. And now I was thanking this mugger. Jesus. I got up as quickly as my body would allow, beginning to walk off.

“Lady your purse.” I turned and the man was holding it out to me. I grabbed it quickly without saying a word.

It was just a dream, just a stupid stupid dream.

(why do your wrists hurt why does your lip sting)

Harvey’s damn fault, showing me those stupid newspapers. And I’d been prone to passing out as a little girl. Yeah. The guy in the alley was just some mugger. Probably took my money and faked giving back the purse when I fainted. Right.

I walked shakily up uneven stairs to my apartment. My keys rattled uneasily. I dizzily entered my apartment.

(you were so scared you’ve never been that scared your keys you dropped them when he came)

I’d dropped them. That’s right, and there they were in my pocket, where they always were.

“It had to have been a dream.” I whispered to myself. It was just a dream.

Just a dream. I repeated this mantra as I watered my plants perched on the windowsill. Calming myself, smiling even, telling them about how crazy this whole Batman thing had gone to my head. Whistling down the tiny hall, all the way to my one small bathroom.

I started the shower, undressed.

I stared down at the bind marks around my ankles. In an attempt to deny them, my head swung up to the mirror and met my face.

I screamed.

It was everywhere, written all over my face, in bright red:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I rushed over to my purse and opened it. Everything was intact, excluding three things:

My cigarettes were gone.

My lipstick was ruined, down to the last smudge.

A card was sticking out in the front pocket.

A playing card. A joker card.

Don't forget, Ivy.

I threw the card down in horror, walking back to the bathroom as if in a trance, my long legs were weak and shaking. I remained in a numb shock in the shower, scrubbing my face and body, watching as the water around the drain turned pink from the markings all over my face.

When dried, I walked over to my dining room window, staring at my plants, still unfeeling.

I'd always liked them. They were easier to deal with than pets, quieter than children, more reliable than men. I told them my secrets and they didn't pass judgement, they were the only things that filled the voids in my mundane life. Most of them, anyway.

Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. You look like an Ivy.

"Ivy." I tried the word out on my tongue. I liked it. I smiled.

Okay. This clown wanted to know about Dent. He could have what he wanted. And boy, would he get a whole lot more.