Under the Red Sky
Under the Red Sky (Joker) Part 9
I awoke feeling like a part of me had died. As if that part of me, that something, had vanished whilst I slept.
It was not something I would miss.
I sat up, groggy and slightly dazed, and immediately lay my head back down on the chilly hardwood, as a wave of pain came crashing down.
It felt as if someone had kicked my head in.
“Fuck,” I hissed, surprising myself with my vulgarity. I didn’t think that word was in my vocabulary.
I decided to try getting up again. Slower this time.
I rolled over onto my back, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window. I raised an eyebrow, considering the position of the sun in the sky. It must’ve been late afternoon. Nearly four or five.
I sniffed dismissively, unable to find a reason to care. Taking a deep breath, I slowly hoisted myself into sitting position. So far so good. I tucked my legs under me and stood.
My knees wobbled violently, but I stayed upright. I straightened up with a smile but winced, as my head throbbed angrily. The light probably wasn’t helping any.
I was moving to draw the curtains, when I caught sight of the bloody smudges on the window. Two red hand prints. I frowned, looking down at my own hands.
Several long gashes ran across my palms. The blood had dried but my hands were stained with red. And the cuts were no where close to healed.
But I couldn’t feel a thing. Even when I clenched my fists, clapped my hands, ran a few fingers along the slash. Nothing.
I tugged at the lacy drapes and cast the room into darkness as I turned away from the window, engrossed by my wounds. The sign on the other end of the room glowed balefully.
Hell Here.
I smiled at it cheerfully, as I rounded the corner for the bathroom. I switched on the lights, paying no mind to the broken mirror or the shards of glass beneath my feet. I tried my best to rinse the crimson of my hands. When I finally pulled my hands out from under the lukewarm water, the skin was merely pink. Good enough for me.
I opted to bandage my hands. I didn’t feel anything, now. But if the gashes got infected, I would.
I peeked in the cabinet under the sink and rummaged around, throwing the useless stuff out into the hall. Q-tips. Extra towels. An outrageous surplus of toilette paper. Hair dryer. Curlers. And then finally: the first aid kit.
“Aha,” I murmured, plucking the gauze out of the small plastic case. I tossed the rest of it into the sink. Worthless.
I began to work, winding the roll of gauze around my hands as I wandered out into the hall. I knotted the dressing, tying a tight knot on each hand, just as I reached the living area. I had used up all the bandages. I hoped I wouldn’t need more.
I looked around at the mess.
The chipping plaster around the holes in the walls. The milk and its empty carton on the floor. The dismantled answering machine. The busted telephone. The glass on the floor.
I plopped down on the punctured couch, laughing as the stuffing spilled out onto the floor like guts.
My stomach churned at the twisted thought. Or maybe I was just hungry.
I placed my feet on the coffee table, knocking the clutter to the floor. I noticed then that my foot was bleeding. No doubt from the broken glass.
I lowered it from the table and dabbed the tender skin on the front of a discarded newspaper.
“What’s black and white and red all over?” I asked aloud, chuckling at my own joke, as I set my foot back on the table.
But my eyes lingered on the newspaper, its bold headline clearly visible through the shattered glass and blinding sunlight.
My feet slid back onto the floor with a thump and I bent low, grabbing up the paper.
AUTHORITIES DRAW BLANKS IN SHREK INVESTIGATION.
Beneath the banner was a blurry picture of the man himself, exiting his work place, briefcase in hand. The black and white steps below his feet were smeared with my blood.
The curious grin left my face. A low guttural growl irrupted from my throat, as jagged nails and pink fingers ripped the inky page to shreds. I rose from the couch, fuming, as the little bits of tattered pieces fluttered to the floor like snow.
The growl faded away as I paced the vicinity of living area, making sure to avoid the destruction I had caused. A dark snarl broke the quiet that had settled over flat nine.
“What is wrong with this city that they can’t convict an evidently guilty man? Idiots!”
It’s not their fault. They weren’t the ones to discover his dirty secret.
I ignored the soothing voice in my head, as I kicked the dismantled answering machine out of my path.
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” I countered, that sinister voice rumbling from my throat, “If they won’t bring him to justice…”
I paused suddenly, a idea striking me like lightening and pinning me to the spot. Of course…
“If they won’t bring him to justice,” I repeated, gazing out at the setting sun, “I will.”
Now be reasonable.
“Oh shutup,” I snapped, “Was he reasonable? No. He knocked me out a fucking window.”
More of that language.
I shook off that well-known feeling of disapproval, heavy and thick on my skin.
“It’s simple,” I explained to myself, to whoever was listening, to that voice in my head, “I just have to...uh…”
Kill him.
“Yeah. Thanks for that.”
You’re welcome.
I sighed, turning toward the kitchen, the ache in my stomach almost unbearable. The silverware clattered under my feet, as I headed for the fridge. I stuck my head into the chill to find nothing but an apple or two, bottled water, some butter, and a carton of eggs.
Eggs would have to do.
I set the half empty yellow carton and the butter on the messy counter and went to retrieve the frying pan. It was lying near the mouth of the hallway, covered in specks of pink paint, which I rinsed off in the sink.
I crouched to grab up a knife from the cluttered floor and soon there were two miniature slabs of butter in the clean pan. I switched on the stove and the blue flames danced. The butter sizzled.
My eyes settled on the windowsill above the sink, where the potted plants once sat, and the grimy window. It was open just a crack and a chilly breeze wafted in, carrying the city smells with it.
Exhaust, icy cement, garbage, metal, fried food.
I wrinkled my nose in disgust and moved to close the window, but my ears picked up on a quiet far off sound.
Crunching snow, the rustle of fur in the wind, the creak of ancient metal and then…
The black cat sat on the other side of glass, searching me with those yellow eyes.
I opened the window instantly, almost mechanically, and she leapt down onto the counter. She sniffed at the eggs, confused, and chirped at me, demanding an explanation.
I smiled at her, leaning against the stove. “Humans need to eat too, Ms. Kitty.”
She meowed, unconcerned, and jumped off the counter, having spotted the spilled milk on the floor.
I turned back to the stove frowning, as the sudden yet overwhelming odor of burning fat filled my nostrils. I pulled away horror struck on discovering my right hand had been resting in the frying pan the entire time.
“Shit,” I cried as I hurried to turn off the stove and sidestepped toward the sink, switching on the water with my left hand. But there was really no need. I felt nothing.
No burn. No searing pain.
I was worried now.
I ran my hand under the faucet, instantly regretting it as I remembered the bandage. I sighed, washing away the greasy residue of the butter.
I could feel the chill of the water and the slight tingle as the droplets ran off my palm, but none of the pain that I should.
I cut off the running water, turning away from the sink. I shuffled away from the kitchen, both my hunger and my meal forgotten. I fell onto the couch, exhausted with the questions and unease spilling into my mind like sewage.
Until now, I had approached the topic of my.…accident with casual apathy. The facts were pretty simple: Shrek had attempted to kill me and I had inexplicably survived, coming away with only a concussion.
“And I went fucking crazy,” I murmured, casting a few sideways glances at the mess on the floor and the holes in the walls.
But now everything wasn’t so simple. It was complicated. Things were different.
“Very different,” I observed, running my fingers over the palm of my right hands and pressing down on the dampened bandage.
I could....hear things, far off noises. A simple lick of wind could fill my nose with smells from all over the city. I felt no pain in the some of the most sensitive areas of my body.
I was no doctor, but none of these things sounded like the side effects of bad blow to the head. Actually, none of these things sounded like the side effects of anything.
I frowned, looking over at Ms. Kitty, as if she might have the answer.
She was still picking around the mess on the floor, scavenging for food no doubt. She stepped lightly over the shards of broken glass, as if they were sweet blades of grass. She sniffed at the empty carton of milk, interested. She raised her head, suddenly, golden eyes fixed on the broken window, her ears twitching.
I looked over at the window, as the city outside darkened with nightfall.
And then I heard it.
Off in the distance, the quiet rumble of an engine coming to life and then the spray of gravel as the tires spun in a direction unknown.
It died away. The cat returned to her work. And I was overwhelmed.
My head spun and thoughts ran through my mind at bullet speed, as I began to comprehend what I must do: I needed to explore this strange new me.
I set to work immediately, searching the house like a burglar. I rummaged through the drawers in the kitchen I had not already emptied and groped around in the black, cluttered closet until I found what I needed: five or six white taper candles.
I grabbed a pack of matches from the windowsill above the sink and moved back to the living area, clutching the candles in my bandaged hands.
I positioned each of them about an inch apart, making sure each was perfectly balanced on the surface of the coffee table. I lit them slowly, savoring the quiet roaring of the wick as it caught the flame. I tossed the blackened match over my shoulder.
The room had darkened considerably and the only light in the room came from the candles, which cast a sinister glow on the devastation around me. I took a deep breath and held my hand to the flames.
The outcome was expected: I experienced no pain, no burning.
But as my fingers lingered over the fire, at last, something happened. I watched with interest as my fingertips turned black, though the lick of flames did not sear my skin.
I brought my hand away, studying it by the light of the candles. I heard that familiar purr as Ms. Kitty nuzzled her soft head against my side. I tucked her under my arm and she curled up into my lap.
“What’s happening, Ms. Kitty?” I asked aloud, a panic cracking my voice.
I gazed down at her, worry etched on my face. She licked at my blackened fingers like a mother treating her child’s wounds and looked up at me, concern in her yellow eyes. If that was at all possible.
I sighed, frustrated and confused. But somehow….content.
I had survived the impossible. I would like to believe I survived death even. Or something close to it.
And I knew there was a reason, however vague and ambiguous. But as of now…
“I just can’t say.”
I swallowed back the worried bile in my throat and blew out the candles, plunging the room into darkness.
~~~
I awoke some time later, uncurling from my position on the couch, to the sound of continuous racket.
To be precise, it was a dog. A loud, obnoxious dog.
I sat up blearily, hissing obscenities under my breath. I leapt to my feet and rushed over to the broken window, my lip curling in pure disgust.
I wrenched open the window, a low growl erupting from my throat. I stuck my face out and then my torso, leaning half way out the window frame. I ignored the cold wind biting at my face, as I glared out at the gloomy city.
The light beam was missing in action, not that that made this miserable town any better. The clouds choked the moon, which sat full and happy and fat in the black sky.
Gotham did that to most beautiful things.
The barking continued, filling my head with that raucous noise. My fury seethed.
“SHUT UP, YOU STUPID MUT!” I screamed, that dark voice ringing out of over the rooftops and apartments that crowded my own. It danced along the street below and spun in the chilly air, until it was only a ghost.
And then silence.
I smiled. Sweet silence.
I was about to return to the comfort of the couch, numb thoughts of sleep on my mind, when something below my window caught my eye.
There was someone there, standing on the sidewalk, beneath the streetlight. Just standing there. Waiting it seemed.
I squinted through the night at the statuesque figure bathing in the orange light of the lamppost. I tried to make out a face, or at least the silvery gleam of watchful eyes. But they seemed to be more of a shadow than an actual person.
I faintly remembered seeing them out here last night. But then again, I was delirious last night. I could’ve merely imagined again. Hell, I could be imagining it now.
But as I peered through the darkness at the obscure, yet oddly familiar form below my window, I could’ve sworn they were staring back.
A chill ran over my skin that wasn’t from the cold. I eyed the figure warily, retreating into flat nine, as if they might fade along with the day.
But they remained, even as I shut the window and settled back onto the couch, a little less at ease than before. Even as I closed my eyes and tried to forget, they lingered.
Waiting. Watching.
It was not something I would miss.
I sat up, groggy and slightly dazed, and immediately lay my head back down on the chilly hardwood, as a wave of pain came crashing down.
It felt as if someone had kicked my head in.
“Fuck,” I hissed, surprising myself with my vulgarity. I didn’t think that word was in my vocabulary.
I decided to try getting up again. Slower this time.
I rolled over onto my back, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window. I raised an eyebrow, considering the position of the sun in the sky. It must’ve been late afternoon. Nearly four or five.
I sniffed dismissively, unable to find a reason to care. Taking a deep breath, I slowly hoisted myself into sitting position. So far so good. I tucked my legs under me and stood.
My knees wobbled violently, but I stayed upright. I straightened up with a smile but winced, as my head throbbed angrily. The light probably wasn’t helping any.
I was moving to draw the curtains, when I caught sight of the bloody smudges on the window. Two red hand prints. I frowned, looking down at my own hands.
Several long gashes ran across my palms. The blood had dried but my hands were stained with red. And the cuts were no where close to healed.
But I couldn’t feel a thing. Even when I clenched my fists, clapped my hands, ran a few fingers along the slash. Nothing.
I tugged at the lacy drapes and cast the room into darkness as I turned away from the window, engrossed by my wounds. The sign on the other end of the room glowed balefully.
Hell Here.
I smiled at it cheerfully, as I rounded the corner for the bathroom. I switched on the lights, paying no mind to the broken mirror or the shards of glass beneath my feet. I tried my best to rinse the crimson of my hands. When I finally pulled my hands out from under the lukewarm water, the skin was merely pink. Good enough for me.
I opted to bandage my hands. I didn’t feel anything, now. But if the gashes got infected, I would.
I peeked in the cabinet under the sink and rummaged around, throwing the useless stuff out into the hall. Q-tips. Extra towels. An outrageous surplus of toilette paper. Hair dryer. Curlers. And then finally: the first aid kit.
“Aha,” I murmured, plucking the gauze out of the small plastic case. I tossed the rest of it into the sink. Worthless.
I began to work, winding the roll of gauze around my hands as I wandered out into the hall. I knotted the dressing, tying a tight knot on each hand, just as I reached the living area. I had used up all the bandages. I hoped I wouldn’t need more.
I looked around at the mess.
The chipping plaster around the holes in the walls. The milk and its empty carton on the floor. The dismantled answering machine. The busted telephone. The glass on the floor.
I plopped down on the punctured couch, laughing as the stuffing spilled out onto the floor like guts.
My stomach churned at the twisted thought. Or maybe I was just hungry.
I placed my feet on the coffee table, knocking the clutter to the floor. I noticed then that my foot was bleeding. No doubt from the broken glass.
I lowered it from the table and dabbed the tender skin on the front of a discarded newspaper.
“What’s black and white and red all over?” I asked aloud, chuckling at my own joke, as I set my foot back on the table.
But my eyes lingered on the newspaper, its bold headline clearly visible through the shattered glass and blinding sunlight.
My feet slid back onto the floor with a thump and I bent low, grabbing up the paper.
AUTHORITIES DRAW BLANKS IN SHREK INVESTIGATION.
Beneath the banner was a blurry picture of the man himself, exiting his work place, briefcase in hand. The black and white steps below his feet were smeared with my blood.
The curious grin left my face. A low guttural growl irrupted from my throat, as jagged nails and pink fingers ripped the inky page to shreds. I rose from the couch, fuming, as the little bits of tattered pieces fluttered to the floor like snow.
The growl faded away as I paced the vicinity of living area, making sure to avoid the destruction I had caused. A dark snarl broke the quiet that had settled over flat nine.
“What is wrong with this city that they can’t convict an evidently guilty man? Idiots!”
It’s not their fault. They weren’t the ones to discover his dirty secret.
I ignored the soothing voice in my head, as I kicked the dismantled answering machine out of my path.
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” I countered, that sinister voice rumbling from my throat, “If they won’t bring him to justice…”
I paused suddenly, a idea striking me like lightening and pinning me to the spot. Of course…
“If they won’t bring him to justice,” I repeated, gazing out at the setting sun, “I will.”
Now be reasonable.
“Oh shutup,” I snapped, “Was he reasonable? No. He knocked me out a fucking window.”
More of that language.
I shook off that well-known feeling of disapproval, heavy and thick on my skin.
“It’s simple,” I explained to myself, to whoever was listening, to that voice in my head, “I just have to...uh…”
Kill him.
“Yeah. Thanks for that.”
You’re welcome.
I sighed, turning toward the kitchen, the ache in my stomach almost unbearable. The silverware clattered under my feet, as I headed for the fridge. I stuck my head into the chill to find nothing but an apple or two, bottled water, some butter, and a carton of eggs.
Eggs would have to do.
I set the half empty yellow carton and the butter on the messy counter and went to retrieve the frying pan. It was lying near the mouth of the hallway, covered in specks of pink paint, which I rinsed off in the sink.
I crouched to grab up a knife from the cluttered floor and soon there were two miniature slabs of butter in the clean pan. I switched on the stove and the blue flames danced. The butter sizzled.
My eyes settled on the windowsill above the sink, where the potted plants once sat, and the grimy window. It was open just a crack and a chilly breeze wafted in, carrying the city smells with it.
Exhaust, icy cement, garbage, metal, fried food.
I wrinkled my nose in disgust and moved to close the window, but my ears picked up on a quiet far off sound.
Crunching snow, the rustle of fur in the wind, the creak of ancient metal and then…
The black cat sat on the other side of glass, searching me with those yellow eyes.
I opened the window instantly, almost mechanically, and she leapt down onto the counter. She sniffed at the eggs, confused, and chirped at me, demanding an explanation.
I smiled at her, leaning against the stove. “Humans need to eat too, Ms. Kitty.”
She meowed, unconcerned, and jumped off the counter, having spotted the spilled milk on the floor.
I turned back to the stove frowning, as the sudden yet overwhelming odor of burning fat filled my nostrils. I pulled away horror struck on discovering my right hand had been resting in the frying pan the entire time.
“Shit,” I cried as I hurried to turn off the stove and sidestepped toward the sink, switching on the water with my left hand. But there was really no need. I felt nothing.
No burn. No searing pain.
I was worried now.
I ran my hand under the faucet, instantly regretting it as I remembered the bandage. I sighed, washing away the greasy residue of the butter.
I could feel the chill of the water and the slight tingle as the droplets ran off my palm, but none of the pain that I should.
I cut off the running water, turning away from the sink. I shuffled away from the kitchen, both my hunger and my meal forgotten. I fell onto the couch, exhausted with the questions and unease spilling into my mind like sewage.
Until now, I had approached the topic of my.…accident with casual apathy. The facts were pretty simple: Shrek had attempted to kill me and I had inexplicably survived, coming away with only a concussion.
“And I went fucking crazy,” I murmured, casting a few sideways glances at the mess on the floor and the holes in the walls.
But now everything wasn’t so simple. It was complicated. Things were different.
“Very different,” I observed, running my fingers over the palm of my right hands and pressing down on the dampened bandage.
I could....hear things, far off noises. A simple lick of wind could fill my nose with smells from all over the city. I felt no pain in the some of the most sensitive areas of my body.
I was no doctor, but none of these things sounded like the side effects of bad blow to the head. Actually, none of these things sounded like the side effects of anything.
I frowned, looking over at Ms. Kitty, as if she might have the answer.
She was still picking around the mess on the floor, scavenging for food no doubt. She stepped lightly over the shards of broken glass, as if they were sweet blades of grass. She sniffed at the empty carton of milk, interested. She raised her head, suddenly, golden eyes fixed on the broken window, her ears twitching.
I looked over at the window, as the city outside darkened with nightfall.
And then I heard it.
Off in the distance, the quiet rumble of an engine coming to life and then the spray of gravel as the tires spun in a direction unknown.
It died away. The cat returned to her work. And I was overwhelmed.
My head spun and thoughts ran through my mind at bullet speed, as I began to comprehend what I must do: I needed to explore this strange new me.
I set to work immediately, searching the house like a burglar. I rummaged through the drawers in the kitchen I had not already emptied and groped around in the black, cluttered closet until I found what I needed: five or six white taper candles.
I grabbed a pack of matches from the windowsill above the sink and moved back to the living area, clutching the candles in my bandaged hands.
I positioned each of them about an inch apart, making sure each was perfectly balanced on the surface of the coffee table. I lit them slowly, savoring the quiet roaring of the wick as it caught the flame. I tossed the blackened match over my shoulder.
The room had darkened considerably and the only light in the room came from the candles, which cast a sinister glow on the devastation around me. I took a deep breath and held my hand to the flames.
The outcome was expected: I experienced no pain, no burning.
But as my fingers lingered over the fire, at last, something happened. I watched with interest as my fingertips turned black, though the lick of flames did not sear my skin.
I brought my hand away, studying it by the light of the candles. I heard that familiar purr as Ms. Kitty nuzzled her soft head against my side. I tucked her under my arm and she curled up into my lap.
“What’s happening, Ms. Kitty?” I asked aloud, a panic cracking my voice.
I gazed down at her, worry etched on my face. She licked at my blackened fingers like a mother treating her child’s wounds and looked up at me, concern in her yellow eyes. If that was at all possible.
I sighed, frustrated and confused. But somehow….content.
I had survived the impossible. I would like to believe I survived death even. Or something close to it.
And I knew there was a reason, however vague and ambiguous. But as of now…
“I just can’t say.”
I swallowed back the worried bile in my throat and blew out the candles, plunging the room into darkness.
~~~
I awoke some time later, uncurling from my position on the couch, to the sound of continuous racket.
To be precise, it was a dog. A loud, obnoxious dog.
I sat up blearily, hissing obscenities under my breath. I leapt to my feet and rushed over to the broken window, my lip curling in pure disgust.
I wrenched open the window, a low growl erupting from my throat. I stuck my face out and then my torso, leaning half way out the window frame. I ignored the cold wind biting at my face, as I glared out at the gloomy city.
The light beam was missing in action, not that that made this miserable town any better. The clouds choked the moon, which sat full and happy and fat in the black sky.
Gotham did that to most beautiful things.
The barking continued, filling my head with that raucous noise. My fury seethed.
“SHUT UP, YOU STUPID MUT!” I screamed, that dark voice ringing out of over the rooftops and apartments that crowded my own. It danced along the street below and spun in the chilly air, until it was only a ghost.
And then silence.
I smiled. Sweet silence.
I was about to return to the comfort of the couch, numb thoughts of sleep on my mind, when something below my window caught my eye.
There was someone there, standing on the sidewalk, beneath the streetlight. Just standing there. Waiting it seemed.
I squinted through the night at the statuesque figure bathing in the orange light of the lamppost. I tried to make out a face, or at least the silvery gleam of watchful eyes. But they seemed to be more of a shadow than an actual person.
I faintly remembered seeing them out here last night. But then again, I was delirious last night. I could’ve merely imagined again. Hell, I could be imagining it now.
But as I peered through the darkness at the obscure, yet oddly familiar form below my window, I could’ve sworn they were staring back.
A chill ran over my skin that wasn’t from the cold. I eyed the figure warily, retreating into flat nine, as if they might fade along with the day.
But they remained, even as I shut the window and settled back onto the couch, a little less at ease than before. Even as I closed my eyes and tried to forget, they lingered.
Waiting. Watching.