Body Count

He had his fingers wrapped once more in her damp, dripping purple locks. He was tugging at her hair, earning himself satisfying little gasps of pain from her. In his other hand he held a pocket knife, the blade no longer than his palm. This knife was special. This is the knife he used to kill very important people. Gambol hadn't even been good enough for this knife. Gambol was nothing compared to Shane.

A shuddering feeling somewhere behind his naval made The Joker pause momentarily, with Shane clutched easily in his violent grip, staring at the glinting blade of his knife. Gambol, nothing? Sure, he was just some deadbeat mobster who thought he had crime in the bag, but he was much more than a small-timer teen who went around murdering massive groups of people on her nights out. But the stubbornness that resided within him stood by his earlier thought: Gambol was nothing, nothing, in comparison to Shane Fatello.

The urge to hurt himself overpowered The Joker for a split second, and his grip loosened in Shane's hair. Thoughts like that should not be pouring so suddenly into his mind. No. That would not do. Perhaps that small, defiant part of him that thought Shane was something more was in cahoots with the part of his body sent that cold, happy feeling up his spine at the sight of her. Apparently, the deadening effect that hurting her had on him was wearing away. Apparently, that feeling was bubbling below the surface, sending these sneaky thoughts to the front.

Staring at her now, still damp from the shower she'd had to steal in a time of fright, gazing unblinkingly at his knife, he felt that feeling churn in his gut. He tried to force it back down, his hold on her becoming suddenly tighter. Her face screwed up in silent pain. With all his effort focused on beating away that feeling, Shane started to struggle, perhaps sensing signs of weakness. He shook her roughly, pressing the blade to her neck. She fell still, gaping instead into his narrowed eyes. A furious staring contest began, one that he could feel she wanted desperately to lose, and one that he knew he couldn't win. Because staring right into her eyes gave that unwelcome feeling strength, and it reared up inside of him. His grip on her hair became a different grip. It was still firm, it still caused her pain, but she felt the change, too.

Her stifled sobs petered out as they continued their silent battle of the wills, with her trying to stay alive a moment longer, and he secretly trying to convince himself to hurt her. That it was right. That it would kill that foul beast inside him once and for all.

Brow furrowed in outraged concentration, shoulders squared around his neck, tongue trailing across his lips, The Joker pressed the blade tip to her neck until a drop of blood gushed forth, running down the gleaming surface and onto his unprotected hand.

She was whimpering now, feeling the blood leave her body, her eyes wide open and blurry with the threat of tears. He lessened the pressure on her neck, trailing the knife up and over her jawline, right to the corner of her lips.

Time to put a smile on that ruined, frowning face.

With a cruel jerk of his wrist, the blade was in her flesh, and her screams were tearing at his resolve. The locker room echoed with that uneven noise, high and low at the same time, rough and smooth. Her mouth was agape, her lungs pushing out every breath of air she had into one continuous cry. He began to pull the blade up her face, curving up away from her lips. She screamed still louder as the blood poured out of her face, down her cheeks and down his hand.

That feeling was battering away at his ribcage, telling him to stop, to pull the knife away. But he couldn't. Just a bit more, and he'd be fine again. In control. And angry. But it was hard as diamond, sharp, cutting away at his insides, sending waves of cold fury through his body at what he was doing.

And the knife dragged on.

It didn't cut right through her flesh, just dug a shallow trench through her soft skin. Right up to her cheekbone ... where, exhausted from the simple effort, he stopped. Lowered the knife.

Looked at her.

The screams continued, and the frown that pulled relentlessly at her lips contrasted sharply with the smirk he'd carved into her face. Just one side, though. Not both. Not like him.

He was always smiling.

She was just deformed, now. With just half a smile to sustain her.

Why wasn't he smiling, then? Why couldn't he see the humor in this, of all things? Because of that ungrateful, undying feeling in his lower intestines.

His eyes raked over her, her trembling body, her clenched fists - the one that was broken never unclenched - her thin, frail, vulnerable form. Her face. His own piece of art. Smirking at him, screaming at him. Her eyes were tight shut now.

Leaking.

Crying?

A dam seemed to burst in his chest, sending the knife clattering to the floor and his hand up towards her untainted cheek. The flood that ran through his veins now pushed his smile away, along with all the reason he had left, and filled his mind instead with images of her tormented face, tearing at his furiously angry insides.

He felt hot surprise course through him as his arms encircled her and pulled her into his chest. Her surprise was obvious through the sudden lack of sobs, and through the confused way she clutched at the back of his shirt.

"I told you," he whispered in her ear. "Never cry."