‹ Prequel: Give Me a Smile
Sequel: Smile With Me
Status: Finished

Smile for Me

Harley Quinn

Harley Quinn would not get out of my head. Pieces of her were everywhere. Scraps of red and black cloth left by the door, a few blonde hairs scattered across the wooden floor, her toothbrush still in Joker’s bathroom. I could see her whenever the henchmen looked at me and sighed, when the voices produced a high pitched giggle I knew was hers.

I hated her. Stupid Harley Quinn, pretty Harley Quinn, unscarred Harley Quinn. Harley Quinn who was dead, who still haunted my thoughts. I took to giggling more, putting my hair up in girly styles, using Joker’s paint to smear my face black and red. All I could see in my head was her.

I was forcing myself to simper at some TV show when Joker’s hand came out of nowhere to smack my cheek. He was sitting on the couch beside me, eyes on the screen, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap. I winced and put my hand to my sore cheek. “Ow.” He looked over at me, eyes very dark in the dim room.

“You are NOT Harley,” he said slowly, enunciating each word. I looked down, feeling tears on my face. “You are Quinn. Stop being a stupid BITCH and realize that.” “You liked Harley better,” I mumbled, regretting my words when his knife went to my neck. “Harley was, ha!, Harley was fun. Mhm, FUN! She, ah, then she died. Now I have you, haha, again. You and your pretty scars, Quinnie. Shut UP about Harley know, mmmmmmkay?” he hissed.

I beamed and nodded. His face was completely emotionless as he slipped the knife away. “Wipe that paint off your face,” he ordered, eyes returning to the screen. I nodded anxiously, hoping to please him, and hurried to the bathroom.

I was leaning into the mirror, wiping the last of the paint off my face, when he came up behind me. I jumped as his hands went to my waist. “Isn’t that, ha, better, Quinn?” he purred in my ear. Fire ran through my blood. “Mhm.” Joker slipped his hands under my shirt, long nails pricking my skin. I laughed as his mouth went to my neck.

He left me for a few days after that. I didn’t even get to see him go. I woke up to an empty room. “Joker?” There was no reply. I shrugged inwardly and got out of bed. His clothes were gone, and papers were spread across the table. I leaned over them, trying to decipher the images. I couldn’t. There were rows and rows of numbers in his ungainly scrawl, complicated symbols I vaguely recognized from Algebra.

It struck me, suddenly, that I’d never graduated from high school. I’d left a month or two before the school year ended. I smirked bitterly to myself, feeling a little sad. I’d had plans for myself, plans for a college outside of Gotham, plans for escape. All I could see in my future now was the Joker, large and grinning as he blocked out what I could have been.

On Day Two I got bored. Really, really bored. Joker hadn’t left me any books, and the TV wasn’t working. I made the stupid decision to head upstairs, see what Joker’s henchmen where doing. I shouldn’t have. It took me at least an hour to find my way to the main floor, for one thing.

The men were sitting around on boxes scattered across the warehouse floor, chattering easily. When I shuffled into view there was silence. They stared at me with various negative expressions. I didn’t look good. I hadn’t showered in days, leaving my greasy hair to grow back in clumps. I still wore the asylum uniform, bloody feet peeking out from the hem of my pants. Bruises and cuts were visible on my arms and face. My grimy, scarred face.

“What the hell is she?” someone said. He was quickly hushed. I felt small and stupid as I stood there, heart pounding against my ribs. It was just like being back in school, with everyone’s eyes on me and my scars. The thugs might as well have been bitchy teenagers. The thought made me laugh, too loud, the sound echoing sharply around the room. The men fidgeted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at me.

“You’re a fucking freak,” one of them snapped at me. There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd. “Go back downstairs to whatever fucking pit you came from, crazy bitch,” someone else snarled. Their eyes were angry, the men closest to me curling their fists.

I shrunk back into the shadows, biting my lip. “I’m not...I’m not crazy. I’m not,” I said softly. They just cursed at me and glared as I spun and hurried back to the Joker’s room. I didn’t want to be entertained anymore.
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The Joker: [clubs Batman with a wrench] Meanwhile, back at the wrench...