Pandemonium | joker fanfiction

Chapter 10

     The walls of my new cell are cracked and stained. My eyes trace the crevices over and over again, memorizing each branch splintering through the cinder block. I find myself relating to the wall: in a state of disrepair, only attended to when it's too late, the damage has been done.

A cot lays untouched in one corner while a dingy toilet occupies another. I sit with my back resting against the wall in the farthest corner from both. The smell of piss and sweat is least strong here.

Last night, I barely slept. I was trapped in a constant cycle of sleeping and waking. When my eyelids finally remembered how to open, it was too late, I had already taken in all the awful things hidden in the crevices of my mind. My dreams, or rather nightmares, always made some sense in the past. But these were different. They were filled with gore for the most part. Blood so red it hurt my eyes, coating bodies, rooms, and my own hands. I remember hearing cries and seeing faces that then seemed familiar. When I awoke in the dark, covered in sweat, heart seizing with panic and fear, I had to stifle a scream. I can only hope that this was a one time occurrence; that it was just the drugs from the hospital still working through my system, some crazy side effect.

Since then, I've been placed in isolation. Apparently, I'm a danger to the other prisoners. They also told me it'll be at least three months before they can hold a trial, and since my family can't afford my bail, I'll be stuck here for quite a while. A psychiatrist is coming to see me from Arkham as well. They want me diagnosed. I'm scared of what they might find.

Best case scenario, I'll be charged with second-degree murder and kidnapping. That's about 50 years in prison or a facility if I'm lucky and they blame it on a mental health factor. If I'm not lucky, I could end up behind bars for the remainder of my life.

My case has already aired on the news. I know how selfish reporters have portrayed me. I can tell from the way the other prisoners stare. Now, even among criminals, I am a monster. I know there is no hope.

I will lose my case.

I will be locked up for good.

I will die like this.

I am an open wound, gushing with red. The truth is out and this skin is cut too deep, too wide, to ever be stitched back together again.

I bring my knees to my chest and try to hold back tears, my body quivering with the effort.

It's not fair.

It's not fair.

It's. not. fair.

     In my head, I pretend I went to that French class. I pretend I got a taxi home and even made dinner for my family. I pretend I gave my mom a kiss and did all my homework like a good daughter would do. But no matter how much I pretend, nothing changes. I'm still in this godforsaken cell with scars that run deep into my flesh and heart.

Finally, the tears win, and tiny streams of liquid pain course down my face. I'm crying in prison, but I can't muster the energy to care. I bury my head in my hands and silently weep. I cry for those who will now hate me: my friends, my classmates, and just about every other citizen in Gotham. I cry over a lost future, the dream of going to college and living my own life away from the slums of this city. Most of all, I cry for my family who will now pay for my own poor decisions.

It's been so hard to go on like I have for so many years, to play the game played by so many before me. It's a losing game. I was so stupid and naive to believe anything else. Everyone dies in the end.