Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

misery's the river of the world

All the good in the world
You can put inside a thimble
And still have room for you and me
-Tom Waits, Misery is the River of the World

It wasn't as simple as just walking away from him. It would never be that simple, not where the Joker was involved.

If I was just being manipulated, then why did everything he say ring so true? Why did everything he pointed out to me become suddenly obvious? Why was I unable to see the world as it was before?

He doesn't have to lie. All he has to do is tell the truth—but if what he's saying is true, then how is he manipulating me?

Is he manipulating me?

Or is he just trying to show me what he sees? Is this his method of unburdening himself? Does he need me to see the world the way he does in order for me to understand why he does the things he does?

But no. He doesn't act out of any misguided sense of obligation towards the human race and he doesn't give a shit about the greater good; he made that perfectly clear. He doesn't act out of any motive that I can see. So what? What?

I couldn't focus on anything, so I didn't argue when Stratford quietly sent me home an hour later.

Once I reached my apartment, I found myself struck with a craving for coffee. I decided against it. I didn't need to be any jitterier than I already was. I brewed some chamomile instead, and went to the bathroom to take down my hair and wash off the day's makeup. That done, I leaned against the counter and stared at myself in the mirror.

I had always had the type of face and body that was described as "cute", a stigma I had been ungratefully trying to escape since my teens. To me, the adjectives "beautiful" or "stunning" were much more desirable—but my nose was too snub to be called beautiful, my face too heart-shaped. I was too short and too curvy to be called stunning—one had to be willowy, to have long legs for that. Pam was stunning. Not me.

He called me beautiful.

The thought arose unbidden, and I glared into the mirror, angered by that weak part of me that insisted on being flattered. Then again, I doubted that his idea of beauty was conventional, so maybe I should have felt insulted instead... but I didn't.

The most disturbing thing about it was that I was beginning to find him beautiful, too. The knotted scars splayed across the face, the burning eyes, the matted green hair... the hands, rough and long-fingered and dangerous. The solid lips, untouched by the scars spread over the rest of his face, soft in appearance. I was even beginning to find beauty in the stained teeth.

And this new admiration for him physically was just a reflection of how I'd felt about his mind for a month now. It was unique, it was interesting,and that made it beautiful.

I stared at the mirror and suddenly resolved to try once more to get inside of his head. This time, I wouldn't be trying amidst the distracting environment that was the asylum and I wouldn't have a ferociously dangerous patient across the table from me requiring at least half of my attention and quick responses. I was determined to piece together what he had told me so far to reach some sort of understanding, to make sense of it all, because I knew I would not rest until I had.

I went into the kitchen, removed the kettle from the stove, and then returned to my room, shut off the lights, and locked the door. In the twilight coming in from the shaded window, I sat on the bed, and I set my mind free to wander and puzzle out this problem.

The Joker was either manipulating me for some reason of his own—probably for the sake of escape—or he was trying to show me the truth. I somehow doubted he needed my help escaping (an event that I imagined was looming over us all). So, assuming it was the latter, what truth was he trying to show me?