"Writers are nothing more than borderline schizophrenics who are able to control the voices."
–Jennifer Salaiz

April 3rd, 2007
I've had nightmares about Joseph Orion's death for a solid three weeks now.

A painful gulp traveled through my throat as I eyed the careless penmanship imprinted upon the page in dark ink, vivid visuals of Joseph's mutilated body invading my mind.

There was so much blood. I've never seen so much blood in my life. However, the most mortifying fact of the incident was not the abundance of blood that oozed from the wounds present on his skin — No, the most horrifying reality of the matter was that my darling Joker played in it.

I shifted my weight against the rickety wooden bar stool, which creaked obnoxiously beneath my frame as the legs boorishly scraped against the tile floor.

Anxiously, I clutched the flimsy book close to my chest, neck snapping painfully sideways as I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the vacant kitchen doorway.

After several seconds of staring wide-eyed at the doorway, I eventually eased the book back onto the granite counter, repositioning the ball-point pen between my lanky fingers as my thoughts promptly appeared on the page.

He's a total masochist — Feeds off of physical pain (Which to him, apparently, is a fine line between sexual pleasure). Does that possibly imply that he enjoys rough intercourse? Possibly spanking?

A hefty snort vibrated through my nostrils as I swiftly skimmed the final sentence, the mere thought of the Joker enjoying spanking was honestly more amusing than arousing, to say the least.

I've seen a very dark side of the man recently. However, even though that side of him should frighten me beyond comprehension — His violent nature isn't what frightens me the most.

I audibly sighed, my tongue slipping out from the depths of my mouth as I toyed with my bottom lip, brows furrowed tightly together in concentration as I hesitated imprinting the final thought onto the page.

What frightens me the most is that even after I've witnessed that disturbing event, I'm still in love with him. I think I might always be.

With a dramatic exhale, I curled my fingers around the cover of the book, snapping it tightly closed as the wildly inappropriate printed thoughts disappeared from sight.

Streams of violent sunlight poured into the kitchen, prancing elegantly along the faded cabinets as birds gleefully chirped along to an unrecognizable tune directly outside the window. A frown enveloped my lips at the sight, gaze fixating on the vibrant green digital clock imbedded upon the stove.

9:34.

The Joker never slept this late.

Typically, the theatrical bloke would strut into the dimly lit kitchen at seven-thirty sharp, a fresh face of bold paint applied to every square inch of his features as he'd mumble a practically inaudible "good morning" in my direction as he passed by my lazy frame laid upon the beaten sofa.

I began to feel rather apprehensive, sock-clad feet shuffling in the direction of the Joker's deathly silent bedroom as I buried the wildly infelicitous book deeply into one of my cardboard boxes, which contained several of my miscellaneous belongings and routinely hugged the living room wall.

Dainty fingertips pranced along the carob-tinted drywall of the skinny hallway, floorboards creaking beneath my weight as I swiftly approached the striking purple door. Lucky for me, the wooden door was not properly sealed, a petite sliver revealing the inside of Joker's poorly lit bedroom as I brushed my trembling knuckles against the material.

The door obscenely creaked open, my nose scrunching in detest as my cheeks immediately grew hot.

"Horty?" A deep, throaty tone called, the mattress creaking beneath Joker's apparent shift in weight as he stirred in his spot.

"E-Everything alright, sir?" I breathed, side-stepping into the dark bedroom as I impulsively squinted. My blurred gaze eventually focused on an apparently shirtless Joker, jade curls tugged into a sloppy bun at the base of his skull as his beady eyes met mine.

The paint on his complexion was severely smudged, nearly the entirety of the white absent along his forehead as pale skin peeked through. A greasepaint-riddled hand met his brow, irritably rubbing his blackened eyelids with prominent knuckles as he released a considerable groan.

"I have a migraine." He rasped, curling into a miniscule ball beneath the thick plum duvet as a hasty groan escaped his tainted lips.

My thin lips tugged into a tight frown, palms burying deeply within my denim jean pockets as I observed the madman, who currently laid in the tiniest ball I'd ever seen upon his mattress, comforter pulled over his head like a child.

"I've already thrown up twice." He lowly added, voice somewhat muffled by the thick blanket as I strut further into the bedroom, my knobby knees colliding with the foot of the abnormally large bed.

"Do you get them often? The migraines?" I pried, swaying back and forth on the balls of my feet as I intently observed the man, who blatantly refused to uncurl from his apparently comfortable little ball.

"No," he pressed, blackened fingers curling around the blanket as he irritably tugged it from his face. Several staticky curls framed his sullen features, lazy eyes meeting mine once more. "Only when I don't sleep."

"You didn't sleep at all last night?" I pried, palms meeting the mattress as I balanced my weight against the furniture.

"Pal," Joker grumbled, unraveling his slender legs from the uptight position as he stretched beneath the duvet, fingers brushing the fallen curls from his face. "I haven't slep-t in three days."

"Fuck," the word slipped hastily off my lips, chest slightly heaving at the sight of a distressed Joker as he let out several grunts of displeasure.

Apparently, headaches weren't on his "morbid, pleasurable feeling" list.

"Do you want me to get you anything?" I lowly offered.

Joker simply groaned in response, eyelids screwing securely shut as he writhed beneath the sheets.

"Morphine?" I slyly suggested, a snort emerging from my flared nostrils as the madmans eyes fluttered open, darkened gaze focused on my lax frame.

"Please." He dryly begged, threading several fingers through greasy, tangled curls as I excused myself from the dingy bedroom.

My stomach violently churned as I navigated the familiar floorplan, fingers grazing along an obscenely large plastic medical kit as I curled them beneath the sturdy flaps. A slight wince overtook my features as the harsh plastic created several indents along the soft pads of my fingers, an array of medical supplies appearing before me as I effortlessly shuffled through in search of a sterile syringe and morphine.

Cautiously, I cradled the objects in my palms before twisting on my heel and darting back in the direction of Joker's silent bedroom.

The clown still lay entrapped beneath the amethyst duvet. The moment I'd stumbled back into the premises — my hip lewdly colliding with the doorframe in the process — he'd immediately thrust himself into a sitting position, lanky legs tugged towards his chest as a low grunt emerged from his smeared lips.

"Any reason you haven't been able to sleep, sir?" I politely inquired, readying the needle as Joker intently observed, fingers gently toying with a loose strand present on the knee of his sweatpants.

Joker merely shrugged in response, impatient fingers snatching the vibrant orange elastic band from my grasp as he precisely laced it around his bicep.

"Y'know wha-t I think is the mos-t common cause of insomnia?" He drawled, keenly retreiving the readied needle from my offering grasp as he poked and prodded at the pertruding veins with his thumb.

"What's that, sir?" I squeaked.

"Loneliness." A frown overtook my features as he plunged the needle deeply into his vein, brows knit together in deep concentration as the morphine swiftly entered his bloodstream.

He was lonely?

"I understand what you mean," the statement emerged as a whisper, empty syringe placed promptly into my open palm as he discarded the rubber onto the mattress. "Sleeping alone sucks."

"Agreed." Joker grumbled.
"I'm never-uh, alone, though."

I twisted the empty syringe between my fingers, brows raised questionably in Joker's direction as he picked aimlessly at his fingernails.

"Sir?" I pried, not quite understanding the statement.

Lazy gaze flickered upwards, instantaneously meeting mine as a devious grin tugged at his stained scars. A determined forefinger jabbed at his temple, tongue creeping out from the depths of his mouth as he tapped the skin several times.

"They never leave me alone." He revealed, dropping his hand to his lap once more as I stared blankly back, absolutely appalled at his confession.

The Joker heard voices in his head?

My jaw laid ajar, words failing me as I hovered the foot of the clown's bed. What the fuck was I supposed to say to that?

"Don't worry," Joker cooed, a slight giggle falling off his lips as he eased back onto the mattress, burying his painted face into the comfort of his fluffy pillow as the remainder of his statement emerged somewhat muffled. "They like you."

I abandoned the Joker almost immediately after his gut-wrenching confession, my fingers anxiously clawing at my throat as I choked back the bile that threatened to spew from within. Although I certainly was not a doctor, hearing voices in your head was not entirely — normal.

I discarded the used syringe into the kitchen trash can, clammy palms tugging at the flushed skin of my face as I recalled Joker's final words:

They like you.

Suddenly, I found myself no longer wanting to sleep alone.

"Oh, c'mon!" Emily pressed, lacing her perfectly manicured fingers tightly between mine as I amusingly rolled my eyes.

"I swear!" I exclaimed, chest dramatically heaving with each individual chuckle as I stuffed an additional golden french fry into my mouth. "I used to be obsessed."

"I just totally can't see you being into Beauty and the Beast," Emily mused, eager arm dipping beneath mine to snatch a single fry from my grasp. My jaw instantly dropped at the action, eyes widening as she stuffed the greasy food into her mouth with glee.

"Are most guys into Princesses in Metropolis?" She teased, voice slightly muffled by a mouthful of fry as my cobalt-hued eyes rolled thickly in their sockets.

"Oh please," I snickered.
"You act like Gotham guys are so pristine."

Emily Oyler's nose crinkled in response, her gorgeous emerald orbs heavily lined with thick, inky eyeliner as she avoided my prying gaze.

"Not even remotely," she revealed, shifting uncomfortably against the ratted, hazel sofa, fingers intently curling around the lopsided v-neck of her t-shirt. "In fact, you're the first decent guy I've met, and you lied straight through your teeth the first day we met. By the way, hows Germany?"

"Fabelhaft." I snickered, earning an irate shove from the petite woman as she erupted into a fit of giggles.

"Was that even real German?" Emily thickly inquired, snatching another fry from my desperate hold as I grunted outward in response.

"There's fake German?" I mocked, earning another pitiful slap from the playful girl as a genuine grin encaptured my lips.

"I can't stay, Emily. Actually, it's been an hour, and I need to go. My boss is sick today, I don't want to leave him unattended for too long." I mutely explained, earning a dissatisfied glare from the woman.

"A grown man can't take care of himself?" She countered, shifting her position on the couch to face me fully, knees pressed harshly up against her busty chest.

"He can, but that's my job, Emily. To look after him." I grumbled, tossing the vacant fry container into the depths of the greasy McDonald's bag before eyeing her once more.

"He's an interesting guy, isn't he? Marissa kind of told me about him before her—death." The woman audibly gulped, quivering bottom lip tugged between rows of teeth as I uncomfortably shifted in place. If she knew that I'd murdered Marissa, she'd hate my fucking guts.

"Do you know what he looks like without that ugly makeup? Why does he wear it?" She wondered, bottom lip smacking back into place as blatant tooth marks lay imbedded upon the swollen flesh.

"No," I breathed, Joker's greasepaint-riddled complexion raiding my thoughts. "And I don't know. He's never told me."

"Don't you live together? He never takes it off?" Emily quickly countered, impatient fingers drumming against her pointed chin.

"I'm sure he does, I've just never seen him without it."

A stale silence littered the air, the insistent crunching of the brown paper bag beneath my grasp ricocheting off the walls as I stood to my feet.

"I'll catch you later?" The words slipped off my tongue with ease, Emily's expression faltering as she, too, rose from the sofa to meet my significantly taller frame.

I inched towards the front door of Emily's miniscule apartment, the soles of my sneakers squeaking obnoxiously against the scuffed tile floor as she let out a strained: "Wait!"

I spun slowly on my heel, discarding the used fast-food bag into a nearby waste bin as a disheveled Emily Oyler rapidly approached me, skipping along the cool floor on the tips of her toes as her fingers gripped tightly onto the neck of my sweater.

"You're just going to leave without kissing me goodbye?" She cooed, a forced frown tugging at her lips as a mere chuckle resonated throughout my chest.

"Sorry." I pitifully whispered, cupping her cheek with the palm of my hand as I tugged her flushed features forward, lips sloppily colliding in a rushed peck.

She, however, did not approve of such an innocent kiss. After several seconds, I'd attempted to tug away from the embrace, but to no avail.

Emily's arms laced agonizingly tight around my neck, tugging my face closer to her ones more as her tongue gently caressed my sealed lips. With a sigh, I obliged, granting the woman access to the depths of my mouth as I lazily tasted hers.

Her eager lips eventually detached from my swollen flesh, sliding sideways to pepper dainty, open-mouthed smooches to my jaw.

"I love you." She mumbled against my hot skin, fingers threading through greasy strands of my natural blonde hair and I stiffened beneath her hold.

My mouth instantly ran dry at the hefty proclamation, her determined mouth continuing to shower my flushed skin with love as I pitifully stammered, unable to generate a proper response to her sudden statement.

She loves me?

"Emily–" I firmly pressed, palms applying pressure to her shoulders in a strangled attempt to politely shove her off.

"You don't have to say it back," she confidently assured, emerald gaze instantaneously meeting mine as the pad of her thumb traced circles against the swollen skin of her lower lip. She intently studied my perplexed expression, an amused grin encapturing her features as her palm met my blushing cheek. "It's okay. Really. I just wanted to say it. I've been dying to say it, actually. I never stop thinking about you. You can say it back when you're ready, I won't rush you."

My stomach painfully churned at her words, an overwhelming amount of bile present in my throat as I forced it back down. God, this entire scenario was truly one straight out of a fucking nightmare. The woman who I'd been shamefully using to distract myself from the obscene amount of love I felt for my employer had just admitted that she fucking loved me.

I wanted to run away. To burst through the olive-hued front door and never come back. Maybe I'd go back to Metropolis — Back to that dreary, always-too-sunny town, where people worshipped a false God by the name of Superman. Crime had severely diminished there, and finding proper work would surely be a ball-buster, but I just couldn't help but want to get away.

I had an extremely unhealthy obsession with my boss, who was a fucking man. Not any ordinary man, though — No, he was quite more complex than that. This fucker found joy and pleasure out of torturing others, out of playing in the blood that drained from their veins. He wore a thick face of paint nearly every second of the day, tri-colored, which masked his clearly tarnished features. Underneath the crimson tint that masked his lips and extended smile, sat a very real set of gruesome scars, which I had no clue of their true origin. He had a real name, I was almost entirely certain that his mother didn't name him Joker, but would he ever reveal it to me?

Deep down, I hoped that he would.

"I'm sorry, Emily." I defeatedly whispered, the pad of my thumb gently caressing her pertruding cheekbone. "I have to go."

"It's okay," the woman breathed, pressing a simplistic peck to my lips. "I'll see you later."

With that, I tore myself from her affectionate embrace, the front door clipping my heel during my departure as the world violently spun beneath my feet.

Just as I'd managed to stumble in the direction of the van, the burner phone deep within my jean pocket abruptly vibrated against my thigh. I impulsively flinched at the sensation, trembling fingers digging the mobile phone from the impossible tight space as I hastily answered with a breathy: "Hello?"

"Horton, is it?" A deep voice inquired, my brows furrowing together in confusion as I wordlessly nodded.

"Y-Yeah, this is he." I stammered, realizing that the man on the other side of the line could not see my physical reply. The metal keys slipped between my fingers, tumbling to the concrete as an irate sigh fell off my lips.

"Hey pal, this is your buddy Ryder. Jay gave me your number in case I ever needed to get ahold of you."

"Oh," I pressed, falling to my knees to retrieve the fallen set of keys. "What can I do for you, Ryder?"

"Well, as you probably know, tomorrow's Jay's birthday." Ryder confidently began. My jaw fell open at his statement.

No, I most certainly did NOT know this...

"And I know he's only turning twenty-nine, which isn't a big birthday or anything, but I was thinking of throwing him some kind of party. I've done it in the past, but I wanted your opinion. It's a hit or miss with the guy. What kind of mood is he in today?" Ryder quickly rambled, most of his speech muffled by an apparent cigarette between his lips as I shuffled into the van.

"Uh, he has a migraine today." I murmured, the engine roaring to life as I balanced the cellular device between my ear and my shoulder. "It might be gone by tomorrow?"

"Well, what do you think? Should I just save the big party for his thirtieth?" Ryder wondered, voice slightly raised over the insistent firing of a pistol in the background.

"That would make more sense. Plus, I think he'd appreciate it more, since thirty is a bigger deal than twenty-nine." I dryly explained, peeling the vehicle from the crowded parking lot of Emily's apartment complex.

"Right on, buddy. Thanks for your opinion. Make him feel special tomorrow at least, he deserves that much."

The line immediately went dead, my stare fixated solely on the road before me as I listening to the busy tone of the phone for several seconds too long. Eventually, I tore the object from my ear, snapping it closed before discarding it onto the bench seat beside me.

Tomorrow was the Joker's birthday. Twenty-nine years ago, he was born on the fourth of April. Man oh man, how I wish I could track down his parents and ruddy thank them for giving birth to — quite possibly — the most gorgeous human being to ever grace the face of the planet.

The hideout was eerily silent when I arrived, a low, consistent hum of the aging television in the living room propelled me out of my temporary trance as I filed into the dark abyss.

The Joker laid slump against the sofa, messily painted face engulfed by my pitiful excuse for a pillow as soft snores slipped off his parted lips. A shirt was still absent, a glimmering silver chain latched tightly around his neck as he laid on his side, lanky arms dangling off the side of the furniture. His features were solely illuminated by the persistent blue haze of the television screen, which displayed reruns of an old television show from the nineties that I'd never quite learned the name of.

Several viridescent curls lay draped over his concealed eyelids, masked by inky black paint as I swiftly approached the man deep in slumber.

I fell to my knees before the madman, the bleak carpeting dipping slightly beneath my weight as I cautiously claimed the fallen ringlets between my fingers, tucking them behind Joker's chalky white ear as he slightly stirred in his sleep.

My arm immediately stilled at his miniscule movement, breaths hitching in my throat as low grunts slipped through his cracked lips.

"Shh," I confidently cooed, easing the curls tightly behind his ear as he readjusted his position on the sofa, burying his nose into the comfort of my pillow. His body eventually stilled once more, a final exasperated breath emerging from his nostrils as he drifted off into a deep slumber once again.

An impulsive smile overtook my features at the sight of his sleeping form. He looked drastically younger in his slumber, easily twenty or younger. His expression was extremely lax, the permanent lines which nearly always claimed his forehead drastically softened, leaving behind thick indents of pale skin as the vibrant white paint dissipated.

"I promise to always protect you," the proclamation emerged as a shy whisper, barely inching above the insistent buzzing of the low volume television. "Even if it kills me one day."

The man did not even stir. Steady breaths continued to emerge from his parted lips, eyelids twitching as he presumably dreamt.

"I will always love you." I confidently added, swiping my thumb along the deep creases of his forehead.

Always.