There is no way. Just...no way. I had dreamt of this moment for so long...of course, deep inside of me I knew it could never turn out well. Yet here I am. Wrapped up to this rickety, wooden chair like a fucking present; bundled up in heavy chain, twine, string, straps of burlap and that really coarse rope that I'm pretty sure sailors use. I shake my head, trying to reason with myself that this is just some elaborate prank by my friends...the ones who always worried about me, the ones that silently wished I would like someone that didn't have a reputation for causing pain and misery.
But...I am me. Unfortunately or not. As if my body wishes to concur, it bucks against its haphazardly robust restraints, filling me with some untimely pleasure. Groaning, I let my head fall back, trying to find a comfortable way to wait for whoever put those paint cans in the corner by the door to come back. Although there is only one light (a naked bulb flickering above my head), I can see the extent of the room. It's small, bare and grey. Not even the good kind of grey. The kind of grey that leaves you feeling dull, helpless and...horny? What in the world is wrong with me?
And in this instant, the door snaps open to a darkness that seems to go on forever. Is there...anyone even there? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe something even more fearsome is sitting there, ready to lunge at my face and devour me. Nope. No, I was right before...only wrong in assuming that some ungodly beast lunging at me would be more terrifying than the paint-sodden face that stares at me now.
He doesn't speak...only places his dirtied camcorder and its already connected tripod down on the hard concrete flooring, habitually licking his lips, and trying to find the perfect distance and angle at which to record whatever deliciously sickening thing he's going to do to my body. Or face. He's all about the face, after all.
"You uhh....You seem more fascinated than terrified." He belts out a high pitched laugh, half-way forced and the other half completely legitimate. "What's wrong with you?" A few more chortles roll out of his scarred up mouth. But I just can't help what happens next...his smiles have always been so infectious, his laughter a disease that I just couldn't build an immunity to.
His mouth drops, but he smiles on, rushing toward me and gripping my hair with his incredibly strong fingers, pulling it all to one side...just enough to strain a muscle in my neck.
"Ah!" Twinges in the muscles of my face are telling me that my features must be melting into pain and confusion. Although why I'm confused about mood swings from he-who-appears-to-be-the-Joker, I have no clue.
"There it is...that's prettier. That's an emotion I like." He lets go, carelessly pushing me back the opposite way from which he had pulled me, as a child might do to snap a ruined toy's body part back into place. He turns his back to me and begins a very comical strut in the direction of the paint cans.
"Is pain an emotion?" I can't help the sarcasm from sticking to my inflections; I can't even help speaking against my better judgment. He turns his head before flipping his body theatrically, bringing his careful, crafty hands toward the ceiling, challengingly.
"Oh...oh-ho-ho-ho-ho..." Without restraint, the Joker plasters his face right up next to mine, breathing on me and continuing that obnoxious (erotic) laugh...he's so intensely close that I can see that the features that are just so distinctive of the icon are real. This isn't stage-paint..."We've got a smart-mouthed one on our show today." He looks toward the camera and smiles just that tiny bit more before looking back at me. "I wonder if there's anything we can do about that..." He begins his laugh again, shaking his shoulders, touching his scars...the scars that certainly aren't made of silicone. No...whoever this is has definitely taken his job seriously. At least he's attractive. If I have to be killed, it might as well be a killing done by someone nice to look at, right?
