Just Paint Your Face

Joker

I giggled quietly to myself, watching the rise and fall of her perfect chest. For once, she fell asleep and I stayed awake. I was too energized. I talked to her anyways. I didn't know if she could hear me or not but I didn't care. I fidgeted and stared off at the wall, licking my lip. It was a habit I'd had ever since I could remember. My lips had always been chapped then and I'd keep licking them. Then, the night after the stupid bitch died and the mob left, and I tasted the blood pouring into my mouth, I'd licked them. And I couldn't stop.

I remember nothing much. I remember being a spineless little man who married the first woman who was nice to me. I remember working 9 to 5 everyday. I remember going to the little comedy clubs each night and trying desperately to make something of my sense of humor, but failing. I remember slowly feeling trapped and shut in, picking up little twitches here and there when Jeannie would talk. I didn't enjoy sleeping with her. Not like Ivy.

"You think I don't care. That it's all a big joke or something. Geez, I have to go and stand up there... stand up there... and nobody laughs."

Jeannie got sick and I fought with her a lot. It's so hard to remember all of it. I remember feeling terrible one evening, staring at the medical bills of the wife I'd only come and visit for the baby, and nervously twitching my way into one of the bars the mobsters liked hanging out in, feeling afraid and jumping at every noise. When I told them of my plight, they made up the plan. I knew they wanted stuff to make drugs. They always did. And I could give it to them.

That night was vivid. Jeannie had just died. I remember every smell as I stood outside the back entrance, suddenly changing my mind and saying I didn't want to go through with it. I was so depressed. They'd given me a stupid plain mask to wear to disguise me. They threw me to the ground, kicking, spitting, stabbing, calling me things. I laughed now when I thought about it. Then they'd held me at gunpoint, as I led them to the place where we kept the supplies.

The alarm sounded and I jumped.

"Fuzz coming. We'd better get out."

"What about the inside guy?"

"Leave him."

I felt a sharp pain in my upper leg and toppled to the ground. Everything was hazy. Cops came and they had some kind of a shoot out. I could only watch, weak and filled with pain from the wound in my leg. I heard a louder more urgent alarm go off, one that I was familiar with in the drills.

"...Fuck. Place is gonna blow! Move out!"

They scattered like flies away from dung, cops and gangsters alike. some of them even helped each other.

Did anyone help me? No.

I was alone. A little old chemical engineer with no wife, no child, no friends, no family.

My ears filled with a roaring sound as I huddled under some cover, cursing God and all who'd ever crossed my path, twitching and screaming like a banshee. I could do nothing. I would die.

The roaring sound and white brilliant light ate me up. I was in hell.

But hell didn't want me.

It spit me right out.

When I regained consciousness, I crawled out of the rubble and dragged myself home, trailing my leg behind me and slouching. I couldn't stop thinking about the people in their comfortable little apartments, not bothering to notice a man with a wound to the head and a bullet wound in his leg. I fell into an alleyway and lost my balance. There was a clatter and a crash as I stared into reflective old tire rim that happened to be there. Broken glass lay beside me. I remember looking into the rim, my face distorted. Everyone said I'd had a very nice face.

I hated them.

I hated me.

I hated my face.

I took the piece of glass in my hands. I laughed as I stuck it in my mouth and carved.

I didn't stop laughing for the next few days. No one noticed, except for a dark-skinned drug addict and some skinny homeless bum who walked the alleys early at dawn, probably wanting to go to the dumpster I was huddled behind for a bite. When they saw me they gaped and rushed over.

"Holy shit, Samuel!" I remember the skinny one saying. I just laughed at them.

"He on crack or tripping real bad, I bet." The gruff, dark one said.

"Look at his face.... he's gonna die if we leave him like that."

"And? People die out here all the goddamn day."

The skinny one shrugged, "He ain't drugged, Sam. He got himself in real bad trouble. Real bad. Gimmee your needle and thread."

"Aw, Charlie, not my needle and thread..."

Charlie hit him. I laughed harder, shaking. I smelled terrible and I didn't care. I tasted caked blood on my lips.

"Look at the blood on his hands and shirt man, he did that himself."

They gawked. The guy named Sam handed over his needle and thread. Charlie sharpened the needle to a point with a small knife he held in his dirty fingernails.

"Awright. Hold him down."

I was hardly aware of anything after that. I'd woken up a few days later after passing out, tearing out the stitches and running around and trying to kill myself. Nobody wanted me. Not even death. I became hateful to all, sneaking around in the night and robbing places, first getting revenge on mobsters, then enjoying the blood lust I'd developed. I became fit and agile, goofy and easy to anger. I acquired some face paints and started experimenting with them. One day during my escapade, I returned to the alleyway, where the two bums who'd attempted stitch my mouth back together ate some shitty food.

"Well, if it ain't giggles!" They looked up at me standing over them. I smiled, the scars still stung on my face uncomfortably.

The dark one stared at me, "Whatchu want?"

"Nothing." I remember saying, "Just wanna shake up the world, that's all. What do you say?"

The other one guffawed, "Whoo-ee, this boy is a Joker, ain't, Samuel?"

"Joker. Joker. Joker." I repeated it aloud, like a kid who'd learned a new word.

They looked at me strangely.

"The mobsters. They did this to me. I want them to see how it feels." I suddenly proclaimed darkly.

The good old southern boy shot up, "I'm in."

The angry black man grumbled, "Charlie, you stupid? This clown can't do nothin to get your family back. 'Sides, he's just a bum like us."

I reached into my pocket, pulling out a load of cash. I'd robbed a bank all by myself. Wasn't hard. I'd kept the stupid mask I'd been given at the chemical factory, so they hadn't found me yet.

They stared, dumbfounded.

"So, who's up for some grub?"

A knock on my door and I was pulled swiftly from my little flashback. I swiftly threw some clothes on and stepped out.

It was the girl. She blinked up at me like I was a ghost. Then she cried suddenly, hugging me.

I wanted to push her off, but when I saw the bandage around her head I couldn't. I cringed.

"Kid... It's alright. Just had a few complications getting back."

She hurriedly pulled out her little yellow legal pad, scratching away in green marker.

I'm sorry.

"Hey. Hey what did I say about saying sorry...."

I didn't say it.

I sighed.

"You... you uh, want some eggs?"

She beamed up at me and we shuffled off to the kitchen. She paused for a while to stare at the green wall, covered in her little stories.

There was no way anyone would wash it off. Not if I could help it. She'd gotten everything. Understood everything. They both did.

I loved the woman and I loved the girl. There was no way anyone would wash it off.

No way in hell. I knew.

Because I'd gone there and back.