A/N: A bit of a dark chapter.
Also, I apologize for all the time jumps. Jackson didn't become the Joker overnight.

Word Count: 7101

I present to you:
Jackson's transformation into The Joker.

|•|•|•|

"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."
—Kahlil Gibran

|•|•|•|

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Jackson, happy birthday to you!" Michelle and Livy playfully sung.

"Make a wish!" Michelle gleamed, her palm resting on Jackson's shoulder as his lips curled into a grin.

His eyes screwed shut, his tongue tracing the scar on his bottom lip as he thought of a good wish.

I hope my daughter won't be afraid of me.

Jackson's lips curled into an "o" shape, blowing out the eighteen candles on the chocolate frosted cake as Livy cheered beside him, her swollen belly brushing against his elbow as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

"What'd you wish for?" She smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips. The scar on his bottom lip brushed against hers slightly, the still rather odd feeling making her toes curl as she weakly smiled.

"That Avery won't be afraid of me." He revealed, his chocolate brown gaze settling on her lips as he practically begged her for another kiss.

"Oh Jackson," Livy cooed, her thumb grazing over the deep folds of his left scar as she pulled her lip between her teeth. "Avery is going to love you no matter what you look like."

Jackson's lips tugged into a smirk, Michelle snatching the cake from in front of him as she sunk the knife into it, portioning out a piece for each of them.

"I have a gift for you, Jackson." She said, handing him a slice of vanilla cake with chocolate frosting.

"Mom, you didn't have to." He smiled, his palm resting on Livy's belly as his thumb traced circles against the sheer fabric of her shirt.

Avery moved beneath his touch, her small foot pressing against Livy's belly as it met Jackson's palm.

"She only ever kicks when you're touching my belly!" Livy huffed, Jackson's heart leaping into his throat at the simple action. He absolutely loved feeling his baby daughter kick against his palm. She wasn't even due for another three months and she already had him wrapped around her tiny finger.

"And when she hears your voice. Fuck, Jackson, she's already obsessed with you. I'm actually a little jealous."

"It's because she knows that I'm going to spoil the living shit out of her." Jackson chimed, his palm retracting from Livy's belly as Michelle handed him a black wrapped box, complete with a green bow.

"Wow, thank you, Mom. The last time I got a birthday present was..." Jackson began, but his expression suddenly faltered when memories of picking out the paper plane necklaces with Ember eight years ago flooded his mind. The coolness of the silver pendant sat neatly upon his chest, concealed by his navy Guy Harvey t-shirt that used to belong to Michelle's bilogical son.

"Just open it!" Michelle impatiently said, her hands clapping together in excitement as Jackson tugged the bow from the box, ripping the paper open with his nails.

He took the gift in his hand, a smile toying at his lips as he twirled the flourescent purple switchblade between his fingers, the paint sparkling underneath the aritifical lighting of the dining room.

"Gotham isn't safe anymore, darling. Always keep this with you to protect you." Michelle explained, her hand clamping down on his shoulder as he twirled the closed switchblade between his fingers.

Jackson's thumb flicked open the blade, the tip of his finger toying with the sharp tip as it gleamed in his palm.

Something seemed to stir inside him as he held the blade between his fingers. It was as if it was his lifeline. He felt complete.

A sense of exuberance coursed through his veins as the blade clicked back into place, his lips curling into a devilish grin as he pocketed the present.

"Thank you, Mom. I love it." He beamed, twisting in his seat so that he could give Michelle an awkward sideways hug.

That alluring purple switchblade would only be the very beginning of Jackson's deep fascination for knives.

|•|•|•|

three months later

"Have you thought about getting a job, sweet pea?" Michelle wondered, stirring the boiling pot of noodles as Jackson sat at the dining room table, immersed in a book of poetry he'd gotten from the library.

"Some guy offered me a few odd jobs." Jackson dryly explained, scribbling one of his favorite lines from a poem onto a sheet of lined paper. His foot tapped irritably against the wood floor, his scarred lip pulled between his teeth as he flipped through the book.

"That's great, honey." Michelle said, straining the water from the pot as she portioned the fettuccine into bowls, topping the noodles with her homemade alfredo sauce before placing a bowl in front of Jackson's book.

She took a seat across from him at the old wooden table, her fork twisting a long noodle around it as she stared at the necklace around his neck.

"You still haven't told me the story about that paper plane necklace." She said, scooping a forkful of noodles into her mouth.

Jackson's leg froze in place, his lungs forgetting how to intake air as Ember's beautiful face bombarded his mind.

He should be having a baby with Ember, not Olivia.

"Uh," Jackson stammered, the ball-point pen tumbling from his grasp as it clicked against the wood of the table. "It's a friendship necklace, kind of."

Michelle raised a penciled eyebrow.

"Friendship necklace? I didn't know guys did that."

"Er, it's not with another guy. Her name's Ember." He whispered, his chest painfully beginning to ache as he blinked away tears. "We lived together at the orphanage for ten years. We were inseparable. She got adopted when we were fifteen and I haven't seen or heard from her since."

Michelle gauged Jackson's expression, her hand darting across the table to capture his as she sympathetically squeezed it.

"You loved her, didn't you?"

"Still do." He admitted.
"She was my first everything."

"Does Olivia know about her?" Michelle gently wondered.

Jackson merely shook his head, his tongue darting outward to trace the destroyed flesh of his left cheek. It was a habit he'd only recently picked up: licking his scars. Michelle warned him that if he kept doing it, he wouldn't be able to stop. She unfortunately had been right.

"It would probably be best not to tell her." She whispered, patting the top of his hand before returning to her bowl of noodles. "Did Ember like poetry too?"

Fuck.

Jackson's hand darted up to claim his dark curls, tugging arduously at them as he choked back tears.

"Baby, please don't cry... I'm so sorry." Michelle cried, standing from her seat and rounding the table to take Jackson's head in her arms, holding him close to her chest as he began to openly sob.

"I'm so fucking pitiful. I really am a freak."

"Stop it!" Michelle scolded, cupping his cheeks with her hands as she pulled his face from her chest. His beautiful brown eyes sparkled with tears as his tongue lapped out to outline his right scar.

"You are not pitiful and you are absolutely not a freak." Michelle stated, the pads of her thumbs wiping away his fallen tears as his lips curled into a weak, closed-mouthed grin.

"You're my Mom, you're supposed to say that."

"No," Michelle began.
"You know how I am. If you were a freak, I would tell you."

She pressed a kiss to his clammy forehead, her manicured fingers running through his tangled curls as he relaxed under her touch.

He'd known Michelle Napier for only eight months, but to him, she was his mother. He loved her more than words could even describe. She saved his life, she nursed him to health, she fed him and clothed him and gave him a loving home... everything that he's been craving for his entire life.

Jackson's phone vibrated in his pocket, his face pulling away from Michelle's grasp as he shoved his hand into his pant pocket to retrieve the cell phone.

"Hello?" He answered, chewing mindlessly on his bottom lip.

"Jackson? It's Livy. Avery's coming!"

Jackson's heart stopped clean in his chest, the wind escaping his lungs as the phone nearly toppled from his clutch.

"What?" Michelle mouthed, slightly concerned by his reaction.

"M-My daughters coming."

Jackson and Michelle arrived at Gotham General Hospital thirty minutes later, Jackson's heart nearly bursting from his chest as he thrust the car door open while it was still in drive, sprinting towards the front doors as Michelle parked the car.

He was out of breath when he approached the oval desk, a woman in Scooby Doo printed scrubs sitting at a computer as he panted before her.

Her gaze settled upon his, her expression contorting into a mixture of horror and disgust as her eyes met the ghastly scars on each cheek.

"Sir!" She yelped, a hand clutching her chest, directly over her heart. "This is the Labor and Delivery ward, you need to go to the Emergency Room!"

"W-What?" Jackson panted, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion as realization suddenly dawned on him: his fucking face.

"O-Oh. No... no these are scars. I'm okay." He stammered, growing more and more uncomfortable by the way the woman gawked at him. "I need to see my girlfriend, she's in labor with our daughter. Olivia Edison?"

The nurse's eyes flickered away, searching the computer for Livy's room as she awkwardly stole glances at his mutilated face.

This is why he barely goes out in public.

"Third floor, room 303." She shakily said, trying her best not to stare, but failing miserably.

Michelle appeared behind him, her gaze meeting the womans as hers darkened in annoyance.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to stare?" She scolded. "C'mon, Jackson."

"Wait, he needs his bracelet." The nurse stammered, ripping a bright green paper bracelet off of a paper as she quickly tied it around Jackson's left wrist. "And you can't go back, ma'am."

"Call me when Avery's here, okay?" Michelle cooed in her sons ear, wrapping her arms tightly around his broad shoulders.

Jackson's heart raced as he paced the hospital, finally spotting Livy's room as he bombarded through the door.

Livy sat upright in the bed, a styrofoam cup in her hands as she slowly sipped through a straw.

Her mother, Claire, sat on bench beside her, her eyes flickering over to Jackson as a horrified expression overcame her.

"Oh my god." She announced, covering her mouth with her hands as Jackson slowly approached the bed, his chest heaving slightly from running up to the room as Livy's lips curled into a grin.

"Mommy, you remember Jackson." She simply said, outstretching her arm as she wiggled her fingers, prompting him to take her hand.

He obliged, lacing his trembling fingers with hers as he observed the dumbfounded look on Claire's face.

"Y-Yes, of course. Is this what your father did?" She lowly inquired, blatantly staring at the lacerations on Jackson's face as he avoided her prying gaze.

"Unfortunately." Livy sighed.
"I still think he's handsome."

"O-Oh. Of c-course he is." Claire stuttered, simply mortified by the fact that Livy could even stand to look at that hideous face.

"I'm seven centimeters," Livy explained, squeezing Jackson's hand. She could practically feel his severely racing heartbeat through his palm. "Avery's almost here!"

Jackson chuckled in glee, smiling so large that his scars began to tingle a bit.

"I'm so excited to meet her." He admitted, dragging a chair over to sit directly next to the bed, his hand still firmly clutching Livy's as her mother continued to glare at his face.

Three hours later, the doctors informed Livy that it was time to start pushing.

Jackson stood beside her bed, her hand squeezing his painfully tight at the doctors and nurses cautiously avoided gaping at his face. Truth be told, he was actually quite horrifying to look at.

"I need you to push harder, Olivia." The doctor lightly scolded.

Livy sobbed loudly beside Jackson, her mother clutching onto her opposite hand as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear, encouraging her to keep going.

"Just one more push, Olivia! One more!" The nurse encouraged.

Livy let out a strained scream, pushing as hard as she possibly could as she nearly strangled Jackson's hand.

Then... bliss.

The sweet, beautiful first cry of Jackson's baby girl filled his ears, his heart leaping into his throat as his mouth suddenly went dry. It was, by far, the best sound he had ever heard.

"It's a girl!" The doctor exclaimed, placing the bloody, screaming baby on Livy's chest as she uncontrollably sobbed.

Jackson shook violently as he finally took his first good look at little Avery, only to suddenly stop breathing entirely at the sight of her.

She was... Asian?

His eyebrows knit tightly together in confusion as Livy cradled sweet Avery, pressing kisses to the babies forehead as her mother, Claire, cut the umbilical chord.

Jackson stood frozen, his body completely numb as the nurses took Avery away to clean her up.

Livy's eyes met his, a look of concern etched on her features as she reached out for his hand.

He backed slowly away, his forehead heavily crinkled in confusion as he shook his head.

"Whose daughter is that?" He asked.

"Jackson—" Livy whined, but he only backed further away, his heart sinking lowly in his chest as he began to shake.

This wasn't happening... this couldn't be happening.

His gaze suddenly darkened, his once soft, chocolate brown orbs shifting to a menacing solid black color, his hands curling into fists at his sides as the nurses gave a swaddled Avery back to Livy.

"I'm sorry, Jackson." She cried, but he couldn't bear to even look at her.

Jackson stormed from the room, shoving the door open so forcefully that it loudly collided with the wall, causing several nearby nurses to jump in fear. The ghastly scars on his face didn't exactly help his case either.

Michelle sat in the waiting room, her nose stuffed in a cooking magazine as she tapped her foot contently. The sudden sound of a door being abruptly opened startled her, her gaze shifting upwards to see Jackson storming from the building.

"Jackson!" She called, the magazine toppling to the floor as she darted after him, her hands gripping onto his heaving shoulders as he collapsed outside, his knees buckling as he fell to the concrete.

"That bitch!" He seethed, his fists colliding with the concrete sidewalk as he violently shook under Michelle's touch.

"Hey, hey!" She called, sinking to his level as her hands traveled to his face. Her purse slid from her shoulder, falling to the floor with a thud as she desperately attempted to calm Jackson down.

"Talk to me!" She ordered, her voice rushed and shaking slightly as Jackson merely glared at her.

"She isn't mine." He darkly spoke, his voice resembling that of a growl as his tongue snaked outward to feel his scars.
"They all gawked at me, like I'm some kind of freak."

"Avery isn't yours? How do you know?" Michelle gasped.

"She's fucking Asian." He replied.
"She lied to me..."

"It's okay, baby. Let's go home, okay?" Michelle cooed, helping him to his feet as she quickly claimed her bag from the ground, steering him in the direction of the parked car.

Jackson lay in the same spot on his bed for a solid twenty-seven hours, moving only to piss.

Michelle practically forced food down his throat, reminding him that if he didn't eat he'd simply feel worse.

But absolutely nothing could feel worse than this.

Betrayal.

Olivia Jane Edison lied to him. She made him believe that the life growing in her womb was because of him, when, in fact, it was because of the little Asian boy named Ken who lived down the street.

The worst part of all, however, wasn't the that Avery wasn't his. It was the fact that he'd sacrificed himself, had himself fucking disfigured to protect Livy and the unborn baby. The scars that destroyed his face were for nothing.

He practically shook in anger, bringing the pillow tightly to his face as he shouted into it.

Michelle stood directly outside of his bedroom, which was the very same one that he lay in the first day Livy'd brought him over. Michelle had converted it into a more boy-friendly room, even though Jackson insisted that it was fine the way it was.

Her heart sunk at the abundance of profanities that left his mouth. Clutched tightly in her hand, was some even worse news for him. She wasn't quite sure if this was the right time, but it sure fit the situation well.

"Jackson?" She softly called, rounding the corner as she hastily entered the room.

Jackson lay curled up underneath the sheets, his curls greasy and thrown askew as he buried his face into the pillow underneath him.

"Sweetheart..." she cooed, taking a seat at the foot of his bed as she laced her fingers around his ankle.

"Yeah?" He throatily croaked, his bloodshot eyes meeting hers as he cowered against the blankets.

"I-I think you should sit up for this, sweetie." Michelle stammered, picking at the skin on her fingers as Jackson slowly sat up.

He scooted closer to her, his mouth held ajar as he observed the concerned look on his mothers face.

"Mom? What is it?"

"Do you remember when I asked if Charlie hurt your genitals?" She slowly spoke, avoiding his gaze.

"Uh, yeah?" He raised a brow.

"Well, I checked them out to make sure that you wouldn't need any surgery or anything, and you had some pretty severe bruising on your balls. So I did some tests on them, and, uh..." she trailed off, twisting the paper between her fingers as Jackson's heartbeat accelerated.

"What? Do I have cancer now? What is it?" He worriedly pried, his fingers lacing around her arm as she bit her lip.

"Jackson, the damage inflicted upon your genitals made you infertile."

Jackson's jaw hung lowly open, his hands began to shake as Michelle's bottom lip quivered.

"I'm sorry, baby. You can't have any kids."

|•|•|•|

One-thirty AM.

Jackson sat outside the back door of Olivia Edison's home, his back perched against the uneven bricks as he twirled the unused purple switchblade between his fingers.

His legs were clad in a pair of black jeans, the ankles tucked nicely into his sloppily laced combat boots as his hoodie's hood covered his face. Greasy strands of dark curls lay in his eyes, his tongue intently tracing the shape of his jagged scar on his left cheek as he waited.

Don't do this, Jackson. This is wrong.

But just imagine how fucking amazing you'll feel afterwards.

The kitchen light from inside the house bled through the open window and onto the grass outside.

Jackson's lips curled into a sinister smirk as he slowly rose from his position, peeking through the open window to see the sorry excuse for a man, Charlie, standing in front of the refrigerator in nothing but his boxers.

Jackson placed the blade between his teeth, clamping down lightly as he slunk through the open window, silently creeping through the room as he approached the man.

Charlie slowly turned around, munching loudly on cookies as Jackson quickly fell to his knees, crouching behind the island counter as he took the blade from his teeth, holding it tightly in his palm.

Charlie hummed a tune under his breath, a scruffy cough tumbling from his lips as Jackson grimaced behind the counter.

Any moment now...

"Come on, come onnn..." Jackson hissed under his breath, his tone shifting to a higher-pitch as he impatiently clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Charlie finally rounded the counter, about to take his spot on the nearby stool when Jackson stealthily hopped from the ground, his hand cupping the back of Charlie's head as the knife rest against his lips.

Charlie's eyebrows raised, a throaty chuckle falling from his lips as he merely rolled his eyes.

"Oho, it's the little joker. What are you gonna do, kid? Stab me? Those are some pretty gnarly scars ya got." He mocked, his eyes scanning over his handywork on the boys face.

"Take a good look, fuck face." Jackson seethed. "The little shit isn't even mine, and my face is going to look like this forever."

Charlie merely shrugged.
"Not my problem, kiddo."

"Fuck you." Jackson spat, lowering the knife from Charlie's face, resting the tip of the blade against the beefy mans chest.
"Any last words?"

"For the last time, joker. Your jokes aren't fucking funny." Charlie spoke, but choked back his words the moment Jackson pressed his palms flatly against his chest, shoving him onto the floor.

Charlie's skull cracked against the tile as he let out a throaty groan. Jackson crawled on top of him, straddling the cowards waist as he positioned the tip of the knife against his chest.

"You know wha-t," Jackson drawled, his voice nasally and haunting as he overpronounced his "t".

Where did this voice come from?

"I actually really like that little nickname."

Before Charlie could speak, Jackson raised his arm, plunging the knife deeply into the mans chest, directly into his heart.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" Jackson chanted, twisting the blade inside of Charlie's chest as he spluttered beneath him, choking a bit of blood up as it splattered against Jackson's face.

A strand of warm blood began to coat his hand, seeping through his fingers as an indescribable feeling overcame him. The feeling of Charlie bleeding to death underneath him was simply glorious.

It was almost euphoric, to feel the warmth between his fingers. A strange sensation began to swirl in his belly, a giggle escaping his lips as he smeared the blood over the dead mans chest, spitting carelessly onto his face before climbing off of him.

Surprisingly, no one in the house awoke from the sound. Both Olivia and Claire still slept soundly in their beds, while Charlie lay dead at Jackson's feet.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he rounded the counter, twisting on the faucet as he washed the blood from the blade and his hands, clicking the blade closed before returning it to his jean pocket.

Jackson stood cross-legged in front of the corpse, leaning his side against the counter as he thoroughly thought of a way to dispose of the body.

Livy has a fire pit outside.

A sinister laugh fell from his lips, his fingers lacing around the mans ankles as he drug him across the floor, smearing a mess of blood along the tile as he brought him through the back door and into the back lawn.

Trying to rotate Charlie's body over the rocks and into the fire pit proved rather difficult, but once his limp body was fully in, Jackson let out an additional sinister laugh, resembling that of a cackle as he snatched the lighter from his pocket and ignited the pit.

As Jackson watched Charlie's body burn right before his eyes, an overwhelming feeling came over him. He was happy to see the filth burn before his eyes, and it slightly terrified him that he was so calm about the situation at hand. He'd just fucking killed someone, he'd ended a mans life, just like that. And he didn't even regret it. Not. One. Bit.

In that moment, Jackson felt himself spiral further and further into the pits of insanity.

|•|•|•|

Jackson paced the streets of Gotham, deep in the Narrows as he continually checked the watch on his left wrist.

It was well past midnight, and his face was shielded by the dark hood of his deep purple jacket.

Supposedly, he would be meeting up with a man named Ryder for a few odd jobs. Michelle had assured him that someone would surely hire him, regardless of his face. Unfortunately, she had been wrong, as Jackson attended more than six interviews. At every single interview, they blatantly stared at his face, promising to "call him". He never got any calls back.

Jackson arrived at the disheveled building, becoming aware of the weight of his switchblade in his front pocket at his knuckles collided with the deteriorating wood.

The door slowly pried open, revealing an extremely tall man with a deep gash that traveled down the shape of his jaw.

"Er, Ryder?" Jackson questioned, his tongue tracing the indents of his left scar.

"J?" Ryder asked, his voice deep and thick as the door opened further. "I'll be damned. If I would've known you had such a gnarly face, I would've had the whole crew over to meet yah. Come in."

Jackson's brows raised, an uneasy feeling rising in his belly as he entered the premises, which smelt strongly of gunpowder and stale cigarettes.

"Ever shoot a gun, J?"

Jackson shook his head.

Ryder chuckled, a large hand clamping down on the skinny boys shoulder as he squeezed.

"You have a lot to learn, bud."

|•|•|•|

Michelle sat at the dining room table, an abundance of bills scattered over the surface as she calculated the totals on an old calculator.

One of her penciled-in gray eyebrows rasied suspiciously when a low, muffled grunt emerged through the wall behind her, the wall belonging to Jackson's bedroom.

The woman craned her neck, peeking in the direction of the hallway as the sudden sound of a bedroom door opening startled her slightly.

A girl, possibly around twenty, stumbled from the room, her pitifully dyed blonde hair thrown astray as bright red lipstick sat smeared around her lips and onto her cheeks.

She stole a single glance at the middle-aged woman, before readjusting her heel and scurrying from the house, slamming the front door shut behind her.

Jackson hesitantly appeared in the doorway, a hand in his hair as he avoided Michelle's stern glare.

"Whose that?" Michelle called, returning her gaze to the bills in front of her as Jackson shoved his hands messily in his front pockets.

"Uh, Lily."

"Huh," Michelle grunted, focusing solely on the paper before her as Jackson awkwardly scratched his head. "Well, I'm glad to see that you're donating to whores-are-us."

"I didn't pay her. She's not a prostitute." He quickly defended, pacing around the room as Michelle merely rolled her eyes.

"What is she, then? Because she's the third girl to walk out of you room in the past week."

Jackson's brows raised, his breath hitching in his throat as Michelle's beady eyes bore into his.

"I'm not fucking blind nor stupid, Jackson. If I'm being quite honest, you're a little loud."

He openly scoffed at her statement, his forehead creasing in disgust as he shook his head. "Fuck, Mom. Please never say that again."

"What's going on with you, baby? I know you're grieving over Avery, but you're doing it in all the wrong ways. You're sinking yourself into random girls, you always smell like gasoline and gunpowder. What have you been doing behind my back?"

Jackson sucked tightly on his bottom lip, his arms darting outward to circle around Michelle's seated frame, his chin resting on her head as her fingers circled around his arms.

"I'm not a good person, Mom." He lowly spoke. "I have these... urges."

"You killed Charlie Edison, didn't you?" Michelle interrupted, tracing circles against the skin of his arm as he tensed above her.

"Will you send me to the looney-bin if I say yes?"

Michelle rotated in her seat, her eyes meeting Jackson's sad gaze as her hand cupped his scarred face.

"Jackson," she cooed, tracing the deep folds of his right scar. "You're my son. I would never judge you for anything you do. I will love you no matter what you do or how you act."

How did he get so lucky to find such an amazing woman to be his mother?

"His ashes are scattered all over his yard." He grinned.

Michelle smiled.
"The douche had it coming, anyways. He deserved it for what he did to you."

|•|•|•|

Most nights were similar to this one.

Jackson met up with Ryder five times a week to learn how to be the absolute best criminal.

He simply didn't have much to live for anymore. Ember was non-existant, good as fucking dead for all he cared at the moment. Livy was lucky not to be dead, as he couldn't bring himself to make Avery an orphan. He knew how that life was, and it was pure torture.

The only people who seemed to appreciate his talents and not goggle at his face (besides Michelle, of course) were Ryder and his people.

They appreciated him.

"Fuck, dude. You're fucking ugly." A throaty voice called from the alley adjacent to Jackson.

He froze in place, his blood running cold at the comment.

His gaze darkened, his neck slowly craning in the direction of a frail middle-aged man with wild eyes against the brick wall of an old bar.

"Wha-t?" Jackson lowly spat.

"You're a fucking freak, dude. What happened to your face?"

Freak.

In a fraction of a second, Jackson had the sorry excuse for a man pinned harshly against the wall. His left hand claimed a chunk of his hair to steady his face as his right held the sharp blade of his favorite knife against his mouth.

"D'yah want to repeat that, pal?" The clowny voice slipped involuntarily through his lips.

The mans eyes widened at the sound, his body squirming underneath Jackson's sharp hold.

"Fuck dude, let me go!" He pitifully begged.

Jackson's lips curled into a sinister grin, his scars stretching upwards as the soft brown color of his eyes transforming into a solid black.

"Too late for that, bud."

Before the man could speak, Jackson quickly swiped the knife against the thin skin along his neck, hopping backwards to avoid the sharp spray of blood.

The boy watched intently as the man choked, his grubby hands clinging to his neck as if to stop the bleeding.

"I'm not a fucking frea-k." Jackson muttered under his breath, leaning down once again to wipe the shiny blood from the blade against the mans shirt as he stilled indefinitely beneath him.

|•|•|•|

Twelve-thirty AM.

Michelle lounged on the sofa, the dark living room illuminated solely by the low lighting of the television as she drifted in and out of conciousness.

Typically, she liked to stay awake until Jackson came home. Tonight, she was beginning to grow a bit worried.

She knew quite well that he'd killed additional people since Charlie's death seven months ago. His switchblade collection was growing, as she frequently found him cleaning them in the kitchen sink.

Staying true to her promise, she didn't once question him. No matter what he did, she loved him unconditionally, as if she'd given birth to him herself. Jackson would always be her son, even long after he left the comfort of her home.

The low click of the front door opening woke her from her light sleep. She peered over the back of the couch, her eyes focusing on a hunched dark figure stumbling into the house.

"Jackson?" She called, sitting up quickly as he collapsed against the wall, his left hand clutching tightly onto his side as a whine escaped his lips.

"M-Mom—" he croaked, his knees buckling as he sunk to the floor.

Michelle lept from the couch, rushing immediately to his aide to see a large amount of blood oozing from his side, coating his fingers as he lay defeated on the ground.

"Fuck, Jackson." She sighed, her hands cupping his as the blood steadily seeped from his side. "Did you get shot?"

"Y-Yeah. Fuck, it hurts." Jackson cried, gripping tightly onto his skin in an attempt to cease the bleeding.

"I need you to listen to me Jackson, okay? I need you to calm down. I need you to clear your head. The more you panic, the more blood you'll lose." Michelle calmly explained, flicking on the lights as she lifted him from the ground, half-carrying him over to the dining room table as he collapsed onto the chair, inhaling deeply.

Jackson slung his neck over the back of the chair, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately attempted to rid his mind of the pain.

Michelle gathered her medical supplies, spreading them out on the table as she cut open Jackson's shirt, revealing the gaping hole in his side.

Jackson's breaths came out in short pants, his fingers roughly rubbing against the skin of his forehead as he tried to focus on his breathing.

"Open your eyes, Jackson. I'm going to teach you how to do this." Michelle ordered.

"W-What?" He panted, brown eyes wild as he glanced downward at the bleeding wound.

"If you're going to be getting into this type of—business—you need to learn how to stitch yourself up if need be. Understood?"

Jackson whined, nodding slowly as Michelle removed two pairs of latex gloves from the table.

"Put these on." She said.

Jackson obliged, shakily placing the cream colored latex gloves over his hands as Michelle did the same.

"We need to get the bullet out."

A strangled cry escaped his lips when her index finger and thumb positioned themselves around the wound, stretching the skin slightly to see inside as he writhed in pain.

"Fuck." He groaned, struggling to stay put under Michelle's touch as she took a pair of sterilized tweezers between her fingers.

"Don't move." She snipped, the cool metal of the tweezers suddenly puncturing his wound as she gently dug for the bullet.

White hot pain seered through his head, nearly blinding him as Michelle promptly retrieved the bullet and discarded it onto the table.

"Done. Now, I need you to do this part, okay?"

Jackson took his quivering lip between his teeth, nodding silently as she handed him several antiseptic wipes.

"Clean the wound." Michelle instructed.

His severely shaking hands traveled downwards towards his bare skin, a hiss escaping his scarred lips as he thoroughly cleaned the hole in his side.

Michelle kneeled beside him, eyeing his every move intently as she began to thread a needle.

"Am I going to stitch myself?" He panted, his breath hitching in his throat when she merely nodded.

A hiss escaped his lips as she carefully instructed him on how to do so, his severely trembling hands gliding through the skin as he sloppily closed the wound on his side.

"O-Okay, I think it's closed." He stammered. Michelle nodded, covering the wound with a familiar white bandage as she kneeled before him, her hand darting upwards to cup his cheek.

"Oh, Jackson. What am I going to do with you?"

Two weeks later, Jackson found himself seated on an old plush mahogany sofa, a lit cigarette hanging limply against his bottom lip as his hands sat folded in his lap.

Ryder sat opposite the boy, his ass planted firmly in a ripped leather chair as he took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Did you take care of the fucker who shot you?" He asked.

Jackson giggled, circling his lips around the cigarette as he, too, took a long drag. His eyes fluttered closed as he envisioned the scene from yesterday, where he'd tracked down the bitch that shot him and slit both of his wrists.

"I think I've found my calling." The boy replied, ripping the cig from his lips as he scooted forward on the scratchy material, his elbows resting on his knees as he balanced the cigarette between his fingers.

"Oh? And what's that?" Ryder smiled, admiring the young boy that sat across from him.

Jackson's lips curled into a sinister grin.

"Killing."

Ryder raised an eyebrow, as if to urge Jackson to elaborate.

"I'm not sure what it is, but when I take someones life, this feeling of euphoria overcomes me. My toes get all tingly and it's almost orgasmic."

Ryder nodded, twirling his cigarette between his dirt-stained fingers as Jackson continued to ramble on.

"I like blood. I like the way it feels in my hands. I'd play in it all day, if I could."

"You know what, J? You're a fucked up little dude." Ryder chuckled, stomping the butt end of his cigarette out on a nearby cluttered table as he let out a sigh. "You're wicked smart, though. You're good with knives."

"I like knives." Jackson grinned.
"Guns are too quick. The best part about the kill are all the little emotions..."

"Ever think about using an alias? Something other than 'J'?"

The boy raised a brow, bringing the cigarette to his lips against as he inhaled deeply.

"There is one name I've been considering."

|•|•|•|

Two years had passed since Jackson's life had changed forever.

He'd become distant with Michelle, almost cold. He was hardly ever home, and when he was, he was always muttering to himself about some guy he wanted to chop into little pieces.

The knife collection expanded. His dresser was almost completely covered with them, all organized by shape and color as he lined them neatly in rows along the wood.

His voice began to change as well, Michelle had noticed. It wasn't the typical husky voice that she'd known. Instead, it was higher-pitched in tone, his tongue clicking with certain words as he licked his scars more profusely.

Michelle Napier stood in Jackson's vacant bathroom, scrubbing the hard water stains off of the bottom of his shower as she let out an exhausted sigh.

She was really beginning to miss her baby boy being around.

The middle-aged woman slowly stood from the ground, the bones in her back creaking as she stretched her limbs. As she turned around to toss the used paper towels into the nearby trash, three circular containers next to the sink caught her eye.

She slowly approached the counter, her cramped hands darting outward to capture one of the containers, bringing it to her face as she read the label: Ben Nye Clown White.

Michelle raised an eyebrow, twisting the cap from the base as she peered inside, running her pointer finger along the substance as her features contorted into that of confusion.

Greasepaint?

She quickly screwed the cap back on, returning the container to its original spot before reading the labels on the other two. One container held black paint, while the other contained red.

"Uh, Ma?" A sudden voice questioned.

Michelle jumped slightly, her palm clutching onto her chest over her heart as she spun on her heel to face the door.

Jackson stood in the doorway, his shoulders hunched as a purple sweater clung to his torso. She recognized it immediately. It was the sweater she'd given him for his nineteenth birthday.

He loved the color purple.

"I was just cleaning the bathroom." She sputtered, her eyes suddenly coming into contact with the dried blood on his right hand. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

Michelle shifted her weight from each foot, wiping her hands on her jeans before weakly smiling.

"I should go make dinner."

Jackson casually stepped aside, waving his arm outward as if to lead her from the room.

Just as she was about to leave, she froze in the doorway, mere inches from the boy as her bottom lip quivered at his stone cold expression.

"I miss you, Jackson." She whispered.

His features immediately softened, his lips parting to allow a deep exhale to escape as he fidgeted in place.

"I-uh, miss you too, Ma."

There it was. That fucking voice.

"Why do you sound like that?" She asked in passing, but never got a reply as she exited the room.

She stood at the stove several minutes later, tossing the diced potatoes into the boiling pot when a hand suddenly clamped down on her mouth.

Michelle's heart lept into her throat when the unfamiliar feeling of a cold blade came into contact with the skin of her jaw, her hands beginning to shake as Jackson's chin rest on her left shoulder.

"Yah know," he mused, smacking his lips together as he swayed in place behind her.
"It would be so easy for me to kill you. I can't be-lieve you trus-t me."

Michelle's heart hammered in her chest as her worst fears had finally come true: It was her fault he was this way. She should've stopped him from spiraling out of control when she could...

"Please don't." She whispered against his palm.

A haunting giggle slipped from his scarred lips, his hand traveling downward as he laced his long fingers around her neck.

"I saved your life." She croaked through a fit of tears.

"And look at wha-t I've become. Tell me, Ma. Are you proud of me?" Jackson enunciated each letter in the word "proud", the knife pressing further into her jaw as she trembled beneath him.

"I've told you before and I'll tell you again, baby." Michelle whispered. "I will always be proud of you. I love you. I will always support you, no matter what you decide to do with your life."

Jackson's tongue darted outward to caress his scars, his chin digging further into Michelle's boney shoulder as he slowly lowered the knife.

"Uh, really?"

"Really." Michelle assured him, twisting her neck to look him in the eyes as his face sat inches from hers, still perched upon her shoulder.

"You will always be my son, Jackson Napier."

The boy pried himself from her frail frame, the sound of his blade clicking back into place filling the stale air as she exhaled deeply.

"Good to-ah, know." He grumbled, running a hand through his greasy curls before digging into his pocket to retrieve a mess of cards, tossing them onto the dining room table and disappearing from view.

Michelle struggled to steady her heartbeat, her wobbling legs trudging towards the table to see what he'd discarded onto it.

Michelle's fingers grazed over the playing cards, the breath hitching in her throat when her eyes scanned over the two dozen Joker cards that littered the surface.