Fawkes

The State of Mind

When I was a child, I would write out plans of escape in my head for hours into the night. Intricate plans with insane amounts of detail, most of which involved killing the Joker.

And yet when I did finally leave, it wasn't on a plan. There were no details, no schemes, just a spur of the moment escape attempt.

I wondered for ages what would've happened if I had done things differently. I wondered what would've happened if I had killed the Joker. Surely things would've been better.

That's the thing I never understood about the Bat. He knew the Joker was slippery, he knew that no matter how many times he was locked up, he would escape. He would escape and reign terror on Gotham. He would kill innocent people and torture families.

And yet Bruce refused to kill him. He refused to kill one person to save so many others. He believed that if you killed someone, you would never be able to dig yourself out of that hole. What I believed was that if there was a man killing hundreds of civilians, someone had to put their foot down. I might have made a vow to never hurt another soul, to be good, but I knew that this was different. This was one life that I couldn't spare.

I woke up in a dark room, my hands bound by thick ropes behind my back and my feet bound to the legs of the chair I sat in, which also happened to be bolted to the ground. There was tape covering my mouth, and at first it seemed as though I sat in pitch black, but then I could make out a shadow lurking in the corner.

"I didn't want to wake you, you seemed so peaceful," said the Joker in a taunting voice, stepping forward so I could see him better. He looked around, "I don't love how this lighting makes you look, though."

He reached up and pulled on a chain above his head. A dingy, yellowish lightbulb came to life, casting a dusty beam of gold across my face.

"Much better."

I worked on licking the tape off my face as he continued.

"Now I can really see you," he purred, leaning down and grinning, "you cannot guess how happy I am to have you back."

He reached his hand up to my face, and before that moment, I had never worked so hard to stay strong. I stared him right in the eyes as his fingers stroked my cheek. My hands were shaking behind my back, my breathing picking up and my heart pounding against my rib cage as if trying to escape. I didn't blame it, I wanted out of here as well. As his hand ran down my face, I could no longer handle it. The man before me, the one that had made my life a living hell, was touching me once more. I thought he never would be able to again. Every ounce of pain he caused me came rushing back, and I closed my eyes, moving my head away.

"Ah ah ah . . ." He scolded, grabbing my chin and roughly making me face him once more. I tried to glare at him, but I felt myself begin to panic as his eyes scanned me, "I have waited so long to get my prized possession back. I am not letting you ruin my moment."

At that point, the tape slipped from my mouth, and I could finally speak.

"Are my friends alive?"

He looked at me with the utmost disgust, clearly horrified that that was the first thing I was concerned about.

"Yes, they're fine," he snapped with a roll of his eyes, "though I'm not sure it was my best idea to spare them. Not considering how much of a clear attachment you seem to have."

I didn't care for his words. I felt relief flood through me. The team was okay. They weren't dead because of me, and that was enough. Even if I was here with the Joker again, that was enough.

"I'll never fight for you," I said carefully, "surely you know that."

He giggled, "I know I know, you're poisoned with the tempting nature of being good. Blech. I always thought you had a few too many . . . how you say . . ? Ah—Morals. I thought I could beat it out of you, but I took the wrong approach."