The Moonstruck

“Tell me about your father, Selina, you never have much to say about him.”

I cringed. That name…A sneer turned my lips. “I don’t really ever have much to say, doc. About anything.”

“Don’t be difficult, Selina,” she sighed, giving her pen a few tired clicks, “It’s Monday.”

I stared at her, wondering why she thought I’d give half a fuck what day it was, and drilled my nails into the table.

Dr. Quinzel. What a pretty, blonde thing like her was doing at Arkham, I’d never know. She was smart; I’d give her that, with a kind of girlish resilience that impressed me As if the lot of us in this asylum weren’t just barmy, lustful leeches. As if she truly believed she could fix my partner and me.

Why else would she have fought so hard for our case? Actually, to be perfectly correct, she had fought tooth and nail for the Joker’s case. And she got what she wanted, without the knowledge that we were a package deal. Dr. Arkham and the rest of the board had figured that the key to unlocking either of our minds would lie with the other.

They were horribly mistaken. And dear ol’ Harleen was paying the toll. I knew the Joker derived more than a little pleasure from toying with her daisy-fresh mind, plump full of Freudian ideas and hope. I, on the other hand, preferred to run out the clock with playful banter and sneering comments. I could tell she already hated having to divide her time between the Joker and me but this…really pushed her buttons.

I tilted my head, my scowl melting into a patronizing grin. For today, I’d play her game. It was Monday after all.

“Daddy, you say?” I pondered, licking my lips, “What is there to say about Daddy?”

My smile widened as she shifted in her chair, her pen at the ready to mark down any critical, case-breaking information. I drew out a long sigh and she glanced up at me, eager.

“Dead.”

Her disappointment was tangible and I snickered meanly, crossing one leg over the other. But I was feeling generous.

“He was a drunk and a profound Catholic,” I drawled, catching her off guard. She did a poor job of hiding just how excited she was. Unlike the Joker, I didn’t much oppose of her delving into my character. So what if she knew me? What could she do? Or rather undo…

“Was it the liquor that killed him?” Quinzel chirped, writing away.

I rolled my neck. “No, doctor, I killed him.”

Her scribbling stopped. She glanced up at me, wary, and I shrugged. “Thought you oughta’ know.”

She nodded slowly, leaning back in her seat. “Would you say he deserved it?”

We all deserve to die…

I was quiet for a moment, watching my reflection in the silver of her plated name tag. “I loved him...but,” I let out a short laugh, “I suppose I have an affinity for muddled men.”

Quinzel chuckled, to my surprise, shaking her head as if we were sharing a private joke. “Don’t we all?”

I stared at her. After a moment, she looked up at my silence. And I saw it in her eyes; the same vague, incredulous thought that had swam across the swampy girth of my mind just seconds before.

Silly girl…

My conclusions were called to an abrupt halt however as the egg timer sitting at the edge of the table began to scream. Dr. Quinzel used it to time our sessions and she let out a short sigh as she moved to turn off the alarm, breaking her gaze with me.

“Until next time, Selina,” she muttered, closing up her folders, though I barely heard her over the boom of the iron door behind me. I did manage to catch that name one last time, however, and made sure to voice my disgust with a low growl as I was hoisted from my seat by a burly guard.

We made our way back down several dreary hallways, the twists and turns already burned into my memory. I nodded amiably to a few passing inmates, going to and from therapy and recreation. There was the used-to-be doctor who was rumored to have been buddies with Bruce Wayne – before he tried to kill him; the raving ginger with the word games and the affinity for green; and the bitchy plant-lady. I had to admit: I liked her best.

When we came to my cell, the guard hastily disposed of me and I didn’t even cringe at the shrieking crash of the door that swung shut on my heels. Moseying over to slump against the wall, I caught the Joker’s laughter, wafting in through the cracks like some raucous melody.

“Good,” he wheezed and I heard a low thud as his bottom hit the floor, “You’re back.”

I settled into my familiar spot with a sigh. “That Quinzel woman loves you.”

“I know,” he gloated, yellow pride dripping on his murmur. “Jealous?”

I caught the squint on the edge of the voice. “Quite frankly, if a few sexual favors will hurry us out of this damn asylum, then by all means…,” My hand gave a silly wave, “Humor the woman.”

He let out a rough cackle. “Nice to know you’re not one of those…possessive women.”

“No, no. Not possessive,” I returned, shaking a few ragged pieces of hair from my eyes, “Just desperate.”

“Well, let’s not lose our minds here!” he yelped suddenly and I heard him leap to his feet, bouncing on his heels, “Not when we’re so….close…”

My attention sparked. “How many days?”

He let out a long, rattling breathe and I could almost feel it on my neck. “Five.”

I gasped slightly, in spite of myself, my lips buzzing with more excited questions. But I was abruptly cut short when my cell door let out another violent screech. A pair of guards appeared in the doorway.

“Visiting hours, Ms. Kyle,” one of them grumbled as they trundled into my cell. I was hoisted to my feet and heard a familiar series of resistant grunts from beyond the wall. “There’s a visitor for both of you.”

Maude.

A brilliant smile split my face and I raised my chin a little higher, strutting out of my cell, a beefy hand clenched around my arm. My partner was still growling contemptuously as he shuffled out into the hall and he swung his scowling face in my direction. My grin faltered slightly as I took him in.

He was so pale. More sallow than I could remember. And there was another large bruise blossoming across his cheek. I could see his scalp peeking through, where patches of sickly green hair had fallen out. Or been tugged loose. His straightjacket was speckled with long-fermented blood. He just looked…unwell. With a brief gust of maternal affection came the urge to hold him. It had been almost five years now…since I felt his skin on my own…

I was shaken out of my thoughts as we came to a halt in front of yet another series of clanking, locking, slamming metal doors. We were shown into the visitor room through a side entrance and as my eyes swept the glass panels that separated the psychos from the “normal” folk, I found her.

She was fiddling with the zipper of her jacket, not even bothering to pretend as if she felt comfortable. Her unkempt bangs hung in her eyes but she blinked them away when she caught sight of us. She smiled and I felt a small part of me soar.

The Joker and I were detained for a few minutes more as the guards cuffed me and made sure the buckles of his jacket were secure, but then we were free. I hurried over to her stall, the Joker shuffling after me with nonchalance.

I settled onto the bench, wetting my lips and cooing into the voice box. “Good morning, beautiful.”

“Hello Bijou,” she returned, her eyes skirting between my partner and I as he plunked into the seat beside me. “Hello,” she nodded to him and I couldn’t help notice the tenseness around her mouth.

“What’s with the formality, kid?” he grumbled, writhing about in his bondage and tossing his head around as though trying to scratch an itch. He succumbed with a sigh, thrusting his face in my direction. “Could you?”

I smirked, raking the nail of pointer finger along the bridge of his nose, a filthy layer of face paint collecting in the nail bed. “You do seem a bit tense, Maudie,” I joined as he sighed contentedly.

She shrugged one shoulder in a familiar fashion. “It’s just the Lithium, I suppose. It always makes me a bit gray…”

The Joker and I exchanged looks, sniffing out her bluff like fresh blood, but neither of us decided to press her.

“Tell me about it,” the Joker drawled, sucking his teeth skeptically, “How’s the outside world?”

“Boring,” she returned with a roll of her eyes, “When are you two getting out of here to throw some red on this town?”

I made to mouth the deadline my partner had mentioned just some minutes before, when he cut in.

“Well, uh…according to Bijou, it’s as soon as I get around to fucking our therapist,” the Joker spat, earning an offended look from an elderly woman visiting at a nearby booth.

That wrung a smile out of my girl. She snorted, a grin splitting her pretty face. “I implore you to hop to it then, good sir!”

“But until that particular occasion arises…,” I smirked, shooting the man beside me a teasing look before turning back to Maude, “Perhaps you could tell us how much sweeter life has been treating you?”

Her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as she squinted to gaze at some space beyond the room. “Not sweeter…gentler, I’d say. Everything feels…soft and slow. And comfortable. Something to get used to, I suppose.”

The smile was welcomed back onto my face. I saw it now. Not the gray but the roundness of her. The soft light, the low glow, the rose in her cheeks. Health, complacence, life. Happiness. Enough proof for me that we had done a good enough job. That she had salvaged herself.

The Joker was nodding conversationally, smacking his lips, rocking slowly like a distracted school boy. “You talk like a poet,” he observed in the quiet way mad men say quiet things. He sounded almost normal.

I swept in close to peck him swiftly on the cheek, avoiding the steely stare of the guards as Maude gave another lopsided shrug.

“I should,” she mused, glancing away from that far place, “I’ve had plenty of inspiration.” She smiled at us then; at him smiling at me; at me smiling at her, licking the dirty paint from my lips. A communal grin. A private joke.

But the moment was shattered carelessly by the uninvited.

“Time’s up, miss.”

Maude jumped at the harsh tap on her shoulder, blinking back into the harsh, gray reality of the visitor’s office. She glanced blearily around before nodding to the security guard. He lingered, expecting her to stand. I shot him a reproachful look and he withered, retreating to his corner after a few moments more.

“So, I’ll see you around then?” she murmured, clutching the strap of the tote on her shoulder. She cast a furtive look around and leaned closer. “Soon?”

Her breath made a foggy little patch on the glass. I put my fingers to it, feeling a familiar, unwelcomed pair of hands take hold of my arms.

“Cinq jours,” I hissed as I was wrenched to my feet, trusting that she’d understand what with the little French I’d taught her. “Il a promis.”

The Joker let out a cackle at my hack-like accent, squirming in the grip of his guards. He swung dangerously close to the glass, threatening to shatter the shield with the force of his motion.

“I’m a man of my word,” he wheezed with inexplicable comprehension, his face cracking into that smile I knew. He no longer looked sick. He just looked barmy. I smiled as the pair of us was roughly torn from the room, leaving Maude with a half-simper on her mouth, her eyes following us out, pale hands still clutching her purse.

My heart didn’t hurt like it usually did, leaving her; my restlessness was at an end. I could feel liberation waiting just around the bend. And the Joker and I would swerve to meet it. I could feel the tremors of oblivious freedom, like the echoes of his laughter, ringing on the hospice halls as we returned to the dust and the cracked walls.

However, this anticipation was somewhat numbed by the relentless monotony of the following days and nights. Days of exercise and recreation were wasted in bleak suspense. From my cot, I watched the sun climb up the walls and then slither away. I listened to the sink’s seepage, the methodical, plunking tick-tock; the taunt of a rusty clock.

The Joker was no help. He skirted the topic of escape, chattering endlessly of stupid, useless things; chatter that usually escalated into manic shrieking. He’d yelp and cackle until the guards came to shut him up. Then I’d recoil within my bed, stuffing my ears with the cotton of my pillow to drown out their thrashing.

I awoke on the fifth morning to the clack of startled footsteps, pacing up and along our hallway. It was early morning; the guarantee of the day had yet to hit me. A sliver of sunlight had just begun to bleed in through the window. I watched the passer-bys, curious as I rocked on the dull edge of consciousness.

Doctors, nurses, security. A frazzled Dr. Arkham. Something was the matter. An escaped patient maybe. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. It wasn’t me. I flirted with slumber, drowsing to the metronomic click of dress shoes and the plush lullaby of whispering scrubs.

I was shaken awake some hours later by a pudgy nurse. I heard her before I saw her.

“Time for your medication, Ms. Kyle,” she murmured quietly, “I’ve let you sleep in long enough.”

I opened one eye at a time. She towered over me, a pillar of pastel. She rattled the cup of pills in her hand. Groaning, I slung myself into sitting position and managed to withhold my glare as her amiable grin the scent of her baby powder deodorant washed over me. I begrudgingly accepted her offerings: the cup of pills, the cup of water. Down the hatch.
“That’s a good girl,” she cooed and my mouth slipped down in a disgruntled frown as I handed her the pair of empty cups, “I know you’ll be upset, dear, but there’ll no visit with Dr. Quinzel today.”

My eyes brightened, blinking away the haze of sleep. “Why?”

She made a face, as if unsure whether or not to tell me and shuffled the cups in her hands. I stared at her. She cracked.

“She’s gone missing.”

The woman left without another word, her shoes squelching with concern. I sat there for a long moment, jolting with the onset of a hard case of hiccups. I pondered as the pills roiled and burned in my stomach.

Missing…that’d explain this morning’s much ado…missing…perhaps…

My gaze slammed into the crack-riddled wall.

Could he have….?

I shook my head at the notion with a chuckle that bubbled into another violent hiccup. My hair bristled and I gave a shrug, deciding I didn’t care much for specifics.

Swinging my feet from the cot, I rose to etch yet another morning into the wall. I whittled my nail against my canine, strutting across the cell, my bones cracking dustily. Setting my finger to the wall, I brought it down as I’d done a thousand times before, with both pain and ease.

But this time, as I shook the cakey, broken stone from my hands, I felt that same stirring. A flavor of hope for the bleak. The commotion had begun, had already leaked into the hospital with the light and heat. The wheels were in motion. The domino had already faltered. The ace in the Joker’s hand was burning to be played…

Nothing could settle. None of us. Not now.

It was time.