The Price of Living in Chaos

-Sixteen days ago-

Pound, pound, pound

“Let me out! You sons of bitches, let me OUT OF here!” My voice was past hoarse, it barely came out stronger than a whisper, but I still tried. I’ve grown used to the lump in my throat from yelling and the blurred vision of always having tears in my eyes. Letting out a shaky breath I turned from the door, useless.

“No one cares,” I mumble to myself as I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my shirt.

I don’t even know why I’m still trying. Joker said it himself, the only way I’m leaving this place is in a body bag. But it’s not like me to give up, stubbornness runs in the family, ya know? Always has. Maybe it was my stubborn side that decided that pounding on the door for hours was a good idea.

Bringing my attention to my poor hands- trembling, bruised, slightly swollen at the knuckles, and scraped to all hell on the verge of bleeding- I lightly poke the deep blue-purple bruise, a sting of pain flares.

Pain is the most predominant thing I’ve felt in the last few days. Pain from the massacre: physical, mental, and emotional. Pain from having to relive said event when I gave my final statement. Pain from the citizens of Gotham not believing me. Pain from Joker taking, no, kidnapping me. Pain from being stuck in this damn room!

I’m tired of it. I’m tired of crying, and being weak. I’m going to do it. I’m going to break out of this place; now all I need is a goon to unwittingly walk into my room. From what I have observed in the small time that I’ve been here is that most of the guys that work of J smoke like a chimney. The odds that I can outrun some of the guys that are here are good. But, I’m not physically strong, and the chances of being shot are quite high. This was going to be tricky. Not to mention, I’ve never been outside my room. The only other part of the warehouse I’ve seen is the door across the hallway, which I can only see when someone opens up the door to my room.

The thought of me going through and attempting to run out here made my heart start to race and my palms get sweaty. If I can do this- dodge the men, the bullets and The Joker himself- I’ll be free. But if I don’t, I’ll have to face the wrath of J. That alone made me start to second guess my crude and rudimentary plan. Hell, I don’t even know where this warehouse is! Gotham City is big and spread out, for all I know I could be in a warehouse miles away up the Gotham River.

But if need be, I’ll deal with that problem later.

- About three hours later -

I was prepped and ready to go. The bandage covering my cut was new, and I had done some yoga for the stretching and to keep me focused. It’s my second day in the warehouse and I’m still in the same outfit that I was brought here in. My eggshell cashmere sweater could pass as an odd brown colored one from all the blood I’ve tried -but failed- at washing. Maybe that’s why it says “dry clean only”...

Clunk, clunk... clunk…

Footsteps leading to my door were heard…

Jingle-clink….

Listening intently I heard the sound of keys being picked out and put in the bedroom door. I scurry over to my position behind the bedroom door. You know, the little space you can’t see when you open up a door. My heart was beating faster than I thought humanly possible, I could feel my pulse beating in my neck.

Before I knew it, the door started to open. Holding my breath because breathing seemed too noisy, and sinking deeper into the corner, I held onto the doorknob. I watched as the dull-minded guy stepped widely into the room leaving a good two feet in between him and me; he also carried a plate of food- a sandwich and a bottle of ice tea.

My feet were on auto-pilot, and before my brain could fully come to terms with what I doing, I found myself out of my room and starting running down the hallway of the warehouse. The corridor is longer than I thought with doors just about running alongside each other.

“Wait, what the hell?! Get back here!” I heard the goon bellow as I neared the steps. At the sound of his voice, I push myself harder. Willing my feet to go faster. Frantically, I took to the steps, going down as fast as I could, gripping onto the railing for dear life. Jumping down the last few, I landed on my ankle hard.

“Oomph,” escaped my lips. Taking only a second to steady myself, and to collect my mental bearings.

“Get back here!” The goon snared from behind me. A hand gripped my wrist then, nails digging into my flesh like claws. Turning around in a whirlwind, I did the first thing that popped in my head to get out of this situation.

I kneed him right in the balls. A scream escaped the man’s mouth, I saw a mixture of agony and hatred wash over the male’s face, that brought a short smile to mine. As he released my hand he doubled over from pain, curling right into a fetal position on the floor. It was at that moment as I turned to run, I saw more of Joker’s men. At least four were in the other room across the hall, door wide open, sitting around a card table. Frozen from being caught for what felt like hours, it was the guys that moved first.

Turning on my heel I raced past the room with the guys and towards another hallway, I could only imagine what I looked like to the guys- a bloody, wide-eyed mess of a girl. A crazy person for sure. Just as I thought everything was going all right -a premature thought, indeed- the sound of a gun being fired in close proximity rang out.

To say that I have Post-traumatic stress disorder, would be false. I clearly remember reading somewhere that symptoms of that take about three months to surface, however, when I heard the shot it felt like I was transported right back to the night of the massacre. It took my breath away, literally and figuratively, I crumple to the floor, tears streaming from my lack of breath. Clamping my hands over my ears- much like how I did that night, the sound of the gunshots rang out in my head.

I knew that this may be my only shot to leave the warehouse. I knew that I had to get up on my feet- and quickly. But I couldn’t. My legs weren’t listening to me, and I was stuck. I watched as the goons came closer to me, their eyes beady and enraged. They looked like a pack of wolves getting ready to feast on a wounded deer.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

People say that you become numb to pain as you experience it more. I would have to call those people liars. Every slap, punch, and kick that the guys gave to me hurt, just like the others before. But, honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised for their actions.

“I can’t wait til the Joker learns that you tried to run off. He’s gonna’ be so pissed.” With the last two words two punches were thrown in my direction, the first grazed my jaw, the other lined squared on my cheek. I was their entertainment for the day; I was their punching bag and seeing as I’m duct-taped to a chair, I couldn’t avoid any of their blows. Sadistic bastards.

“Well, that makes two of us.” I spat in the guy’s direction, a wad of bloody saliva landed on the male’s shoe, “Bullseye.” A weak grin grew across my face, blood pooled in my mouth and dripped from the corners.

The torture room I’m in currently is in the basement of the warehouse, and in a weird sense, I’m happy the guys took me here. On the way here, during my kicking and protesting, I got a good view of the place. I can say that I understand the layout better, and I know now where the doors are. But that information is all but useless now, the Joker is most likely going to kill me for trying to escape.

Death has been on my mind ever since the massacre. It’s fringed every thought I’ve had, and til I get out here, every thought I probably will have. Should I accept my inevitable fate at the hands of The Joker? If in the end everyone dies; is being killed by him the worst thing to happen? Sure it’s not growing old and dying peacefully in my sleep, but who actually dies like that? What is the likelihood of me now dying like that? My guess, however cynical, is slim to none.

I can’t exactly remember when the goon left room, it was somewhere after punch fourteen, or kick-to-the-stomach eight. I guess beating me up was no longer fun. Poor them.

My eyes were all but swollen shut; my vision just tiny strips clouded with blurriness. My head was livid in pain, swimming in pain. Pounding, crashing, all encompassing. When I shut my barely-open eyes, strobing pain that was in sync with my heartbeat is all that I can feel. The goons ripped my improv band aid off leaving my giant forehead gash open. They called it stupid and laughed at me.I tried my best not to think about all of the possible germs that could be getting into my cut. Actually I tried not to think at all, it hurt too much.

I must have fallen asleep, or passed out. Blunt force trauma will do that to you. Whichever, when the feeling of freezing cold water hit me, my eyes shot open, and I jolted awake. Hyper alert from the get-go.

I blinked the water from my swollen eyes, my vision only a little bit better. But, I didn’t need vision to know that he was in the room. His presence was a tangible thing, like a dark shadow that followed him everywhere and filled every room he was in.

The metal bucket that was in his hand fell and clamored to the concrete floor, the echo produced seemed to bounce around the room. That left me feeling utterly scared. He looked blankly at me, he was wearing the same outfit as yesterday though his makeup looked smudged.

“Hello. Fancy meeting you here.” I tested him while awkwardly sitting up. My restraints groaned against my movement. Nothing. No facial changes, he didn’t move, hell, it didn’t look like he breathed. This -the Joker before me- was barely held-back anger Joker. I don’t know which is worse Joker when he’s being loud and laughing like maniac, or when he’s deadly silent.

I studied him quietly as he eventually walked towards me, stopping right in front of me. Only inches separated us. With him hovering over me, I avoided his gaze, feeling kind of ashamed for my actions- kind of- turning my limited attention to the boring floor. The chair which I was duct taped was bolted to the ground and in the middle of the room, my blood splattered around me. Much like an area-of-effect map of nuclear fallout.

“Look at me.” He sneered above me, his usually high-pitched nasally voice, gone. God, the venom coming from him cut right through me. The scared, logical, and obedient side of me wanted to do what he said. I’m in really bad shape and I can’t risk being a punching bag again, but at the same time I couldn’t think of a thing I would want more than to defy Joker. “No dice? Fine. You have three seconds to look at me or I’m cutting off your fingers. One. By. One.”

Before he could even finish, “cutting of your”, my eyes flicked up to his face and when they met him a huge, grotesque smile formed.

“There. Was that soooo hard?” I hated how exaggerated and condescending he said that. I’m not a child.

It’s been said that hatred is when fear meets anger, and boy do I hate the Joker.

“If I could use my hands, I’d strangle that stupid smile straight off your face,” I whisper to him staring him dead in the eye. By most accounts, I’m a pretty peaceful person- most of the time I find violence idiotic, plus it’s usually not worth the energy put into it-, but he makes me want to hurt him. Make him suffer the same way I have. Make him pay for all the people he killed in the massacre.

He chuckled and moved his face till his mouth was by my ear, “Oh, I’d-ah love to see you try, especially in your current state.” I could feel his breath as his words all but tickled my ear.

“Untie me and let’s find out. It’ll be fun... at least for me.” My words were empty and he knew it. I couldn’t put much authority in my words for two reasons- one, I’m tired, weak, and sore. Those assholes guys really did a number on me: two, there’s no way I’d win an actual fight with the Joker. As much as I hate it, the Joker is in control right now.

He straightened up to look at me again, he expression bemused. “I’m a man of integrity, blondie. Even I know when to walk away from a bad deal. But enough with the jabber-jabber,.. it’s time for me to hurt you. You did after all try to escape.” He mocked a frown that seemed unnatural to his always smiling face.

“No, please no. I’m sorry. I-I-I was stupid, so incredibly s-s-tupid” I stammered out automatically. I knew this was coming. I knew that this was what waited for me when I didn’t leave this hell hole. That doesn’t necessarily mean I wanted this, though. Tears lined my vision on the brink of flowing over. Getting beat up by the guys was nothing as to what the Joker is going to probably do to me.

His smile broadened at my feeble pleads as he smirked, “You’re not dumb, princess. You knew this was coming and I’m in a peachy mood so I’ll let you pick, what should I cut off, hmm, one of your ears, or three of your fingers? You have ten seconds to pick.”

SHIT

“Ten, nine, eight…”

Oh my god! Oh my god!

“Seven, six, five…”

I can’t think this fast! I need to be able to write down a list of pros and cons!

“ Four, three, two…”

“And one. What will at be blondie? If you can't decided I’ll have ta’ pick for you, and I might just wanna’ cut your pretty little head clean off.” I watched as he pulled from his pocket a knife and twirled it through his knuckles. Totally nonchalant.

I took a deep breath as a way to calm myself before stating proudly, “Left ear, please.” I’m a Kingston, and no matter what happens, I have to have regal agency.