"You're Going out With a Bang, Toots."

Being locked up in a cold and dark room drives a person insane after a few days. Literally. I had little energy; I had stayed in the same spot for the four days I had been in the room, unable to move because of the amount of blood I was losing, and it was taking everything in me just to breathe. My lips had come unglued from each other - though it had taken two days.

My breathing was becoming shallower and shallower, and the lack of food and drink was getting to me, like it would any other person. The Joker was bound to come and fix me before I died; I knew he would. He just wanted to torture me until I committed suicide with the things he always left in the room.

And I was starting to seriously contemplate it. That, or just seriously injure myself until I did die.

I lifted my head and sat up slowly, leaning myself on the wall I was by, gasping to catch my breath. I clutched my stomach, and then reached to wipe my tears of pain. I could see the table in the dim light, and all of the weapons on it. A million thoughts raced through my head as I reached for the table leg to balance myself, so I didn't go crashing onto the floor.

Would Bruce miss me?

Would Commissioner Gordon miss me?

Would my friends and the family I had left miss me?

No, they wouldn't. The Joker's probably already killed them all. No wonder Bruce hasn't come for you yet.

My conscience was fighting back; and I knew it was right. If Bruce, and everyone else that would have been able to save me hadn't come already, they weren't going to. This torture, to them, was payback from all of the people I had murdered, all of the banks I robbed, all of the innocent people I hurt.

I reached up and grabbed the ledge of the table and pulled myself up, hunching over the table to reach for the quickest way to die; a gun. I gripped it loosely in my hand, seeing as I was about to use all of my strength to try and stand up. I wobbled on my legs, and crashed to the floor. I lost all of my breath as the wind was knocked out of me, and the gun clattered a few feet away. Blood leaked out of my elbow as I had hit it on a piece of glass that was on the hard floor, and I gripped it tightly in my hand, blood oozing from the cuts.

I rolled onto my stomach, and propped myself on my elbows, tears springing out of my eyes, down my face, and onto the floor. I brought the piece of glass to my wrist, took a deep breath, and cut.

You've driven me this insane, are you happy now?