In Another Life IV

Chapter 7

Twenty Years Later

"Well now, Harley, how are you feeling today?" asked Dr. Joan Leland, smiling at the young woman lying across from her on the sofa.

"Fine, Joan," Harleen Quinzel whispered. "Thank you for taking the time to see me."

"How are the nightmares?" asked Dr. Leland, flipping open her notebook. "Better?"

"They're...uh...less frequent," murmured Harleen, playing with her fingers. "And I don't...uh...scream as much. Which is good – I used to wake Ricky up all the way away in his bedroom," she said, forcing a smile.

Dr. Leland cleared her throat. "Forgive what will seem a very personal question, but he and you don't...you aren't...intimate at all?"

Harleen looked down at her hands. "He...he wants to be," she whispered. "But I...I'm just not comfortable with..." She looked back up at Dr. Leland. "It's why I wanted to have these sessions, Joan," she murmured. "Whatever it is I'm repressing has completely taken over my life. It...didn't used to be this strong, but lately these images keep coming back to me, haunting my nightmares, and sometimes even when I'm awake, little things will be big triggers, setting off memories of some trauma I don't even remember. I can't live like a normal person. The intimate touch of another human being, even a great guy like Ricky, it just...repulses me. And he's so patient and understanding, and I keep hoping I'll get over it, but...but even being touched by him just doesn't...feel right."

She buried her face in her hands. "I don't know how to explain it. It doesn't make any sense, not even to me."

Dr. Leland nodded slowly. "Harley, it's not unusual for people who have suffered some form of abuse, whether it's physical, mental, or sexual, to have difficulty living normal lives. It's also not unusual for them to repress these memories of abuse in order to cope with them. But I need you to try to remember whatever traumatic experience you had, horrible as it was. Facing it is the only way of helping you, and making it go away."

"I've tried to remember," she murmured. "I've lain awake every night trying to remember. I called my parents, but all they can tell me is that...when I was four...I was kidnapped by some...bad men. They don't know what they did to me, and I don't remember. I don't remember anything about it, or anyone, or..."

She trailed off. "I have visions of...this man," she whispered. "Always the same man...but I can't remember his name. J. Something with a J..."

"Do you remember anything else about this man, this...Mr. J?" asked Dr. Leland.

"Mr. J," repeated Harleen, quietly. She shook her head. "No, I...I don't. I'm sorry. I've tried. You don't know how hard I've tried to remember..."

"Well, try not to obsess," said Dr. Leland, gently. "The brain doesn't usually respond kindly to stress. I believe your subconscious mind is trying to tell you something, and is sending these visions to you in the hope of influencing your conscious mind. I'm sure we'll figure it out together, in time."

Harleen nodded. "You're very patient, Joan – thank you."

"Just doing my job," replied Dr. Leland. "But I have to say, I don't see any reason why any of this should have any bearing on your work. You have the makings of a good psychiatrist, Harley. I understand and respect you for wanting to see me, for admitting that you have psychological trouble, and to want to talk through some of your own mental issues, but I also think you're rational and capable enough to continue your work here at Arkham. I don't think a leave of absence is necessary, unless you do."

"No, I'd...prefer to continue working," said Harleen, gratefully. "Work is a great distraction."

Dr. Leland smiled. "Then I guess we'll be seeing you tomorrow morning, as usual," she said, standing up and shaking her hand. "In the meantime, go home and get some rest. Try to sleep. And if you have any nightmares, try to remember the details. They may help."

"Thank you, Joan," whispered Harleen.

She drove back to her apartment, lost in thought. After they had left Gotham City, the Quinzels had returned to Brooklyn, where they stayed until Harleen was old enough to go to college, where she elected to train as a psychiatrist. She had hoped that psychology classes could offer her some insight into her own troubled past, especially the blank spot of whatever had happened when she was four, which she just couldn't seem to remember. She had taken an internship at Arkham Asylum, one of the finest mental institutions in the country, and she enjoyed her work there very much. But she had felt guilty trying to judge and help people become more normal when her own life was anything but that. So she had confessed to Dr. Leland that she had some mental issues she wanted to discuss, and Dr. Leland had been very patient in helping her work through them. Dr. Leland told her they were making progress. Harleen sincerely hoped they were.

"Hey, sweetheart, how was work?" asked Ricky, her boyfriend, as she opened the door to the apartment they shared together.

"Fine," replied Harleen. "Good."

"Any interesting freaks you wanna tell me about?" asked Ricky, jokingly.

Harleen didn't smile. Ricky wasn't a cruel man, but he had a tendency to joke about her patients. Harleen wondered what he would think if he knew she was a patient herself.

"No...I...no, there weren't," she stammered, putting her bag down on the table. "Dinner ready yet?"

"In a second," he said, scooping some spaghetti onto two plates. "Hope you're hungry. And in the mood for some laughs."

"Why?" asked Harleen, puzzled.

He held up a tape. "Because for our movie tonight, I got a classic! It's a comedy about some cops who have to go undercover at a circus because they think one of the performers is a murderer. It's hysterical."

"Sounds like it," agreed Harleen, smiling. "My Dad took me to the circus when I was little. I loved it."

"Really? I think I just got an idea for your birthday present, then," he said, grinning and kissing her. "C'mon, I'll set it up."

Harleen snuggled against him as they watched the movie, trying to enjoy herself. Her smile fell suddenly when a clown appeared on the screen. Clown. Something about a clown...or a joke...blood everywhere...

She cried out suddenly, dropping her plate on the floor. "Harley? What is it? Are you ok?" asked Ricky, concerned.

"I...I can't..." stammered Harleen, her eyes fixed in horror on the clown. "I can't...I need to be alone," she gasped, standing up and racing from the room.

She slammed the door to her bedroom, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to think, trying to remember. "Clown," she repeated. "Clown...there's a name...there's a clown name...and blood...so much blood..."

A knock came on her door. "Harley? Are you sure you're ok?"

"I'm fine, Ricky," she called back. "I'm fine," she repeated, sitting down on the bed. "I just wish I could remember..."

She opened her eyes suddenly. "Harley Quinn," she whispered. "Harley Quinn. That name means...something. It's almost...my name."

Ricky opened the door suddenly. "You all right?" he whispered, in genuine concern.

"I don't know why I keep having these visions, Ricky," she whispered. "I don't know why I can't remember whatever it is that keeps haunting me. I just want it to go away."

He sat down next to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her gently. "Can I do anything?" he asked.

"No," she whispered. "No, just...just hold me."

"Was it the clown?" he asked. "Are you afraid of clowns?"

"I...I don't think so," whispered Harleen. She shut her eyes again. "But there's something about a clown...Harley Quinn..."

"Who's that?" he asked.

"I...I think she's...me," stammered Harleen. "I think someone called me that once. Mr. J."

"Who's Mr. J?" he asked.

"I don't know," she murmured. "I don't know."