Terra Firma

The Joker

You know that feeling you get right before you're about to stick a blade against the vein and...

Oh. Ah. Hm.

Wait. Wait. Let me rethink this.

Think. Heehee.

The... the feeling you get when. Uh. Just before the blow to the wall, the crack of fist and skull, the pain and the stars that make everything a funny color and a funny thing in general, making you laugh so hard your teeth rattle and your head hurts...

Oh, screw explaining it.

It was those feelings, that high, that temporary wholeness. Times a thousand. That's what she was to me now.

I cradled her now sleeping head in my hands, preventing the wheels from jostling her awake. She was never awake when I treated her like that. Or at least I didn't think she was. I didn't want her to see. She'd get too comfortable if she did.

I was a speeding train, she the blood on the tracks.

I was a monster, a black bullet, a cold man with a body on fire and a mind that was shattered into a million tiny pieces.

I'd burned the house to try and get rid of the initial spark of crazies, try and make things up to her. But it wouldn't be enough. Nothing would ever be enough. I was sure of it.

So I just settled back and stroked her hair, enjoying the calm before the storm, the eye of the hurricane. I'd survived four years, probably because I had a strait jacket on. But who knows how long this would last? Who knew? Nobody.

Nobody knew what I was capable of. Nobody. Not even me.

Cosette

"I am the clown with the tear-away face..."

Jay belted loudly,

"Here in a flash then gone without a trace!"

"In this town... we call home... everyone hail to the ..hic... joker! throooooone.."

"Shut up, Jay!" Angel screamed. Thank God Homer was sleeping back at home and under supervision of Angel's elderly neighbor.

Jay convinced us to go out to Wings again.

And like before, too many times before, he got carried away.

Angel and I watched with worry as he leaned against the brick wall of a building, walking in a zig-zag pattern, yelling loudly. He was waving around a bright green flyer, advertising the carnival's opening night tomorrow.

We'd stopped by to look at them setting up the tents in Gotham Memorial Park. They'd established the park where Rachel died. I would go there with Homer when Angel needed someone to watch him, telling him pleasant stories and letting him smell the flowers. Bruce refused to step foot in the place.

That was the problem with Bruce. With The Batman. He refused to see the bright in things. He stuck to the cemeteries and the tippy tops of buildings, wore only dark colors and heavy utility belts, and refused to believe my talent for writing and poetic insight came from anything other than good.

But we all know better than that.

"Ya'll. Ya'll don't know what it's like! Being Gambol's son..."

I knew exactly what it was like, being the product of madness.

"Oh dear, he's going down." Angel and I ran forward quickly, supporting him before he fall to the concrete fully. He'd tried getting help. We'd tried keeping him away. But oftentimes we all had a little tonic, distractions to keep us from thinking about the harshness of our lives. Some more proactive: Angel's little brother. My medication.

And in Jay's case, as brilliant as he was, his destructive habit became his comfort. His distraction.

And, as you may know, some habits cannot be broken.

"Oh... I'm going to be sick..."

He darted into an alleyway quickly, leaving Angel shaking her head hopelessly and I feeling strange.

I'd forgotten my meds again. Everything struck me with the old sense of humor I had. I had to battle harshly to keep giggles and nonsensical observations at bay as I heard Jay retching up his insides behind a trashcan.

Angel looked at me, concern flickering in her gray eyes, "I swear. He does this one more time I'm going to march up to Gordon..."

"Gordon knows." I snapped moodily, "The whole fucking unit knows. They tolerate it because he's the one guy on the force that gets down to the dirt quickest."

Angel flinched at my sudden use of language and then shrugged, "But it's not good for him. It's not right..."

"What's good? What's right? Nothing." I chuckled. I couldn't help it, "In this city, the good people do bad things and the bad people do good things."

I felt my face twitch. A flicker. A split second. But she caught it. She was a psychologist, after all.

"Cosette..." Angel looked me strangely, "Why do you get like this? Everytime you miss a day of therapy or..."

"Don't tell me I need therapy! I'm okay now! They let me go so I'm okay!" I babbled.

Angel's brown eyebrows furrowed darkly, "Who let you go...?"

Jay screamed.

We ran into the alley in a flash. He stood, frozen, staring at something, his brown eyes glazed and wide. He was horror-struck.

"Another one. Oh God. Another one." He pointed and Angel shook her head, not comprehending. But as we turned to see his point of view, Angel cried out in dismay and I stood, cocking my head.

It was a young woman, about my age. She lay neatly among broken glass and crumpled trash, like one of the princesses you see at rest in fairy tales--their legs straight and faces peaceful, painted skillfully in illuminated and ancient text. In her hand, clasped neatly over her chest, was a folded scrap of paper. Jay plucked it out carefully, mumbling about not ruining evidence. He opened the paper with shaky hands, reading a code aloud again and again and again as I stared at the woman's head.

The woman's hair.

Angel spoke in a thick voice what I could not, for my throat was tightening as I battled something.

"Is that... i-is it... her hair color... or... or blood?"

Jay tightened. He no longer sang silly children's songs, no longer complained of an upset stomach.

"Whoever did it... whoever did it..."

I flinched, gritting my teeth, staring up at the black smoky sky. I clenched my fists. Held my breath until I felt blue. But I couldn't keep the dog tethered to its chain in that moment.

"Both. Both. Both!! Painted it red! Paint! That's all you need! Just paint your face. Paint your face!" A whisper turned into a shout. A shout into a hysterical giggle, and finally.

I laughed. I laughed for the first time in four years. I could feel their eyes on me. Could feel Angel shaking my shoulders suddenly, but I couldn't stop. I went right on making that horrid sound.

According to my private therapist, the loss and regaining of my voice was all a psychological battle in mind for innocence and evil, sanity and madness.

If this is what my voice could create, then I regrettably came to the conclusion that night that madness was prevailing.