09 | guilt

(n) feeling of having committed wrong or failed in an obligation

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It has been two days.

I still havent left my living room sofa.

After meeting with Mr.Fox, I came straight to home and vomitted. Yeah, I vomitted. I was feeling nauseous whenever I thought of him. I had called in sick. Ms. Roberts has been calling every three hours to ask me how I was doing. I said I was well, and I just needed to rest.

I was not fine.

Apparently, I had become a legend in the Asylum already. News had spread out like wild fire and everyone wants to meet me. I felt sick thinking of it. Tricking someone to get the information and then bask in the pride of achieveing it. I felt bad, I felt g-guilty. Newspaper articles had released and my name was in the front page. I had been receiving calls from unknown people to interview with me. Media has been swarming my apartment and I did not ket anyone in.

Ms. Roberts just called me five minutes ago and mentioned that Joker is acting strange. That he refuses the food given to him. Shouting at the guards to kill him. Banging his head in the metal table repeatedly until blood comes out. They had given him electroshock therapy and put him in restraints, tied up to a bed.

And, it is all because of me.

Imagine what would happen when he sees me. He would definitely be angry. I would not be surprised if he took out a gun and shoot a bullet straight through my head. I felt like I don't want to meet him anymore.

Another thing that is driving me crazy is that, his presents have stopped. Just for the past two days. I looked at the small shoe box infront of me. They were filled with letters from him that he had sent me the past two weeks, except these two days.

Why had he stopped?

Because he is angry? Duh.

My conscience answered for me.

I popped in another bubble gum in my mouth. I looked at all the bubblegam wrappers littering the floor. I eat bubble gum whenever I feel said, anxious, confused or just to sum it up, emotional. I had stopped eating this chewy delicacy for two years, because I am addicted to it.

When I had mentioned about my bubblegum addiction to Mr.J during one of our sessions, I came home to find a box filled with bubble gums and the card had said to embrace my guilty pleasure. So, since that day, I have been popping a bubble gum in my mouth five times a day. It calms me down. Bubble gum is my guilty pleasure.

So, is he.

Shut up!

I am fighting with my conscience again.

Something is definitely wrong with me.

Anyway, how am I going to face Mr. J after all this? I dont know what to expect. I know I am a psychiatrist but still... I really cant judge him. He is the Joker for god's sake.

My phone rang.

For the fifteenth time that day. Yeah, I counted.

It was an unknown number.

I immediately knew it was one of those media, who wanted to have an interview with me. I ignored it and laid down on the sofa, staring out of the french window.

Jack Napier

The guilt was like gasoline in my guts. My insides died slowly in the toxicity, needing no more than a spark to set it ablaze. The fire burnt me out so badly there was nothing left but a shell, an outline of a person. The guilt sat not on my chest but inside my brain. What I had done, I could not un-do. I could make amends in subtle way...

I felt that nauseous feeling coming back.

I quickly ran to the bathroom and stood in front of the toilet bowl, right in time. My stomach contracted so violently. Chunks of food covered in the creamy chyme from my stomach were propelled into the air and splattered into the toilet bowl. I heaved again, letting out an disgusting, repulsive sound.

I was feeling weak. I sank to my knees and retched until only clear liquid was coming up. My throat felt sore from the stomach acid that was layering it and my mouth tasted of vomit. There was no-one to fetch me a glass of water or hold me and tell me its going to be fine. The stomach-acid stench of vomit filled my nostrils. I looked at the toilet bowl with watery eyes and my stomach dry-heaved again.

I tried to stand up, putting all my effort in it, flushing the toilet bowl clean, I reached the sink and splashed my face with water and washed my mouth. It was my third time vomitting.

I wiped some cold water on my forehead and felt my headache go away. I sighed, walking towards the kitchen feebly and grabbed a waterbottle, drinking water from it. I sank down on the kitchen floor, looking at the white marble tiles. I knew I had to go back and face him. I cant just hide in my small apartment, forever.

Why do I even feel like this?

Like I have betrayed someone who had trusted me a lot.

I have used him, played with his feelings to get information.

I lied back on the kitchen floor. Feeling the coldness of the marble tiles, soothing my nerves. My tiredness makes me hang limp like wet laundry on a cold still day. I feel like every muscle is giving into gravity and I closed my eyes, sleeping in the cold kitchem floor.

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"Thank you, Ms. Quinzel." The reporter said and stood up, gathering her clipboard and pen, walking away, leaving me with a fake smile plastered in my lips.

My interview had just finished.

She was Ms. Lane.

Lois Lane.

I let out a huge breath that I had been holding and my smile dropped in an instant, I glanced at the clock, it was 4pm.

Its time.

I tensed, standing up from my blue rolling chair and walked, my heels making the click-and-clack sound on the corridor. My heart was racing frantically. My nerves were on judge. If anyone just popped out of anywhere right now, I would have an heart-attack. Maybe, I wanted that. Any excuse to not go into his cell.

I turned right and stopped.

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Hey everyone!

Poor Harleen. Dont you worry. Everything will be fine. :]

Did anyone notice the superman's gf here? :>

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