Levity

When the Joker was Jack I was utterly, ridiculously in love with him.

When he did become the clown, when the change happened before my eyes, a caterpillar whose cocoon had rotted, I became more scared, wary. Did I stop loving him? I wasn’t sure, I hadn’t seen him in a year since Bruce had ended his monstrous acts. Of course the times I had seen him were different, short intervals of terror and that disgusting sense of joy.

None by choice, but I had gotten glimmers of information he’d let slip, seen how his seemingly chaotic series of events were carefully planned.

Of course they had been, everything Jack had ever done was planned, looked at from every possible angle. He’d debated and outlined every moment. My only plan at his point consisted of taking this cab to the Narrows and walking around until I was found.

My breath was visible in front of me, the way you pretend to be smoking as children, the night unusually cool. Maybe it was just the area, the Narrows, one derelict neighbourhood after another, had always seemed cold, damp. I tested the small pistol in my pocket gently, running fingertips over the cool metal as I shifted in my seat, the leather peeling beneath me.

I didn’t plan on using it. I hadn’t used a gun in years but Liam insisted on having one in the apartment, kept in a safe box under my bed. I understood why, he was a couple of years older than I was, far closer to thirty than twenty anymore. He was a cop, he’d dealt with everything with the mob, he’d been there, one of the hundreds trying to hunt down the Joker.

I’d withheld information that could have helped him whilst in the same breath I’d told him things I knew, places I thought Jack may be. I’d helped to a degree, and hindered even more so.

It was no wonder Bruce had ever brought my loyalty into question. The only reason I had gotten a position at Wayne enterprises, had started as a receptionist five years ago was to see what we could steal, to see what Jack could make off with.

I was glad for the accession, a world outside of the Narrows and the dingy flats and abandoned outlets we squatted in. It was a low position but somehow I proved myself, moved up slowly. The further up I went, the further away from Jack I felt.

That was when the worst arguments started, when Jack’s scheme became ever more dangerous, when the few original little sidekicks he’d held for years had started to drift away... mostly into their graves.

Not that the black waters of the old harbour really counted as a grave.

But Jack wouldn’t let me go. He never would. And I was sick in the way I didn’t want him too, not completely. Not Jack, the Jack I’d grown up adoring and continued to. There was less Jack now then there had ever been, his persona had overtaken him.

Jack was all but dead. The Joker remained.

Still I suppose I clung onto the hope that the boy I’d first met still lingered in some way. Other times I looked deeper into signs, delved into memories. There had always been that chaotic, manic element there, my feelings and want had overlooked it until it was just too overpowering.

I had to find him. I had to know, even if the thought of seeing him made my tongue swell and dread bubble in my gut. I let my fingers claw against each other in my lap, picking at my nails and the skin surrounding them until several bled. “Far as I wanna go sweet’art.” I dragged my eyes away and nodded, not even bothering to plaster on a smile. “That’s great, thank you.”

“Sure you’ll be alright? It’s getting late...” I shook away the cab drivers fears, pressing more money than he deserved into his hands and clambering from the rusting vehicle. I’d asked him to bring me to the Narrows, sense had made him stop across the short bridge, if he went much further there was a chance he’d be mugged. Our lovely mayor was still in the midst of using the ‘Harvey Dent Act’ to clean up the streets, and he was leaving the maze of dark alleyways until last, but I knew he’d never get it clean, far too much scum and dirt remained here.

I had no idea where the Joker would be skulking, but I knew sooner or later I'd find him or vice versa. I would head to places that meant something, places where deals had been done.

Everything bad we did.

It had to be close to an hour later when I realised someone was following me. Not Jack, I could tell by the steps, too heavy, too slow. I gripped the gun again slowly, dragging it from my pocket. I hesitated just a second too long, giving the hand time to wrap around my wrist and tightening so I hissed, the pistol clattering to the ground. Why did I hesitate? I shouldn’t have, I never had beforehand, but it had been so long, I was too used to walking down decently lit streets, too used now to not having to watch my back.

I shouldn’t have hesitated. That had been a big mistake, my next attempt at exuding a confidence I had never held was another. “Not too subtle, are you?” I scoff, although his fingers become a vice around the thin peak of my arm and I wince, “Get off of me.” I didn’t lift my voice, keeping it as calm and collected as possible. The man, short but thick, paid me no attention and dragged me several steps down the alleyway, towards the thin crossroads that led to several abandoned factories.

I tried to place his face, crooked teeth a sign he was poor, likely from the Narrows itself. No money meant no braces, no healthcare. Several small scars shone when the moonlight met them, but I had no idea who he was.

“I can walk you know. I came to find him I’m not going to run off.” I tried to retract my arm again and a flame flickered over my shoulder as he yanked me forward, my foot catching so a knee scraped over the cement. “Shut up.” His voice was slow, a little struggle between each word.

“I’m telling you. He’s going to be mad you’ve hurt me.” This made him hesitate a moment, “You’ve seen him angry right? Unless you fancy one of those Brooklyn smiles he’s fam-“

This time my back met the wall, and I felt the rough surface bite through my clothing, “Smile?” The man’s breath was off, tainted with a hint of old greasy food and alcohol. “Who do you think I’m taking you too?” He grinned at me and any sense of bravado dropped.

“I...” I tried feebly to get away again, but now that my fear was evident I knew there was no chance of that. “Who? Who are you working for? No, please don't...” There was no stopping the lift in my voice now, the slight quaver. There were a number of people I’d done things to in the past, or people that were aware of my connection to the Joker and could want me, now that he was out.

We reached the crossroads but he didn’t continue towards the familiar factories, he took the left pathway, further into the rows of houses, where the damp smell never lifted. Jack wouldn’t be that way, not now. He’d crossed too many people in that neighbourhood.

I panicked, still not sure what I was scared of, but feeling the fear pulse through me in overwhelming tides. I struck at him, finally snapping the chord that had allowed him so far to be calm. The arm still wrapped around me swung me again against the wall, “I swear to god you little bitch...” The other made spots appear in my vision before pressing against my neck.

The spots were overtaking everything when it finally stopped, lungs aching, head spinning, I slumped down a little bit. The hand released me with a grunt, a weak beg, and finally a whimper before there was silence.

Someone grabbed the top of my shoulder, pulling me upright as I continued to gasp for air, rubbing across my neck as the ringing in my ears faded slowly. I let out a weak cough as I found we were in a far more familiar place, the gloom of the factories ahead of us. I finally could see clearly enough to try and examine my saviour, my first thought was Bruce, but the man was a little too short, stooped a tiny bit.

He was wearing an oversized hoody, a darker colour than my own, but still with the hood drawn up to shroud him. I didn’t need to see his face to recognise him, not in that moment when his hand grabbed for me again, harder this time, nails digging into my palm.

I recognised him by the scars that lined his knuckles. I knew how so many of them trailed up to his wrist, the ones on his forearms, pin pricks in his inner elbows when the temptation had become too much. So many scars littered him, and I could remember the incidents in many cases, every detail.

He didn’t speak to me, just led me forward towards the factories again, a slight limp in his steps.

He was subdued, not excited, not worked up. He was injured and lethargic; or furious, not mad in the way that he needed something to do, someone to torture. Furious in the way that he delved deep into himself before he exploded. Those explosions explained many of my own scars.

None were as significant as his, the two deep gnarled lines that defined him to most I finally saw as we passed a lone streetlight and his jaw became illuminated.

Those are the scars I remember the most. I could never forget them.

They were there because of me.