We drove through the night at a speed so exhilarating, my stomach had butterflies the whole journey. A sleek, blue Ferrari that glided down highways and melted into the night. That new car smell lingered in the air, mixed with the soft pine of the air freshener and the faint tang of cigarettes.
My father lived 6-7 hours drive away from Gotham. At normal speed. At 180kmph however, time flies.
"Isn't this fun, Harls? Just like old times!" Joker exclaimed.
"I love it, puddin, go faster!"
He slammed his foot down even further.
I felt weightless. The last time I felt like that, I was...falling down stairs. My eyes closed and I embraced the experience, gripping onto the seat so I wouldn't fly away.
As I glanced over at Jack, however, his brow was furrowed.
"What's wrong?" I asked calmly.
He shifted his purple-gloved hands on the wheel and gripped it tighter.
"It's uh, it's nothing little bird," he lied.
"Puddin, come on. Tell me."
With a sigh, his shoulders relaxed a little and he cracked his neck from side to side.
"I'm just...well, it's your father," he began.
"Yes?"
"Well I'm nervous. I mean, he hates me."
"What makes you say that?"
"Harls, it's my fault that you are...the way you are. I don't think he appreciates me turning his little girl into a psychopath," he said sincerely.
"Ah so something snapped inside me, so what? We're not going here for his approval," I scoffed.
"Still."
"You don't even have to come with me, just wait in the car," I suggested.
"Mhm."
He slowed the car as we passed signs for the nearest town.
"It's the next exit," I clarified, peering in the mirror above to fix my riotous blonde hair. I was dressed in simple clothes - ditching the eccentric costumes. But him, he remained in his suit and purple coat. Brown hair, no makeup. Half normal.
He was nervous? Hell, I hadn't contacted my father since the hospital...many many many months previously.
We took the exit and followed the road until we approached the outskirts of the town.
"I haven't been here in...years," I sighed, my childhood flooding back to me.
"Nice town...uh, quaint," he commented.
We passed the drug store. The town hall. My old school. I directed him to my street, full of grand houses and tidy lawns and power washed driveways.
"This one, on the left."
He pulled up outside number 17 and switched the headlights off. I gazed at my old home, marvelling in its splendour. Every detail exactly the same as when I was a kid, right down to the sad garden gnome who resided by the doorstep.
