Chapter Text
The thought lingered in the recesses of my mind, swelling at the back of my throat like an unshed whisper.
I wanted to watch him.
It was a thought that settled into the corners of my consciousness, dark and comforting. I had never seen him—not really. And yet, I was glad in moments like these, moments when the harsh edges of reality blurred into to the strange space between dreaming and waking.
I lay beside the cold metal desk, its edge biting into my side. Above me, the vintage lights flickered, their glow buzzing softly with an electric hum that filled the empty room. It was almost comforting, like a steady lullaby of white noise, drowning out everything else. In this symphony, I could imagine anything, think of all the things I could do in theory, but never actually bring myself to do.
My world had fallen to waste outside the prisons of my mind. I had become a passive observer, a naturalistic onlooker to life. Detached. Watching as events unfolded without my influence. I could not control who would be the first to raise their hand in class or who would be the first to throw themselves off a building.
No, I had no control over the world within the walls of my thoughts. There, everything was chaotic, unpredictable and wild. But within the sanctuary of my mind, I could control every variable. There was a twisted kind of charm in it. A place where all the chaos made sense, where I could bend the world to my will, even if it was only in the quiet of my imagination. But even within this refuge, there were consequences. Sins whispered in the shadows, and I knew that even there, God could hear.
He listened through the dreams of white noise and the screams of those who threw themselves from rooftops. He could hear my pitiful fantasies. My hollow dreams.
I knew I should stop them. I should let them go, cleanse myself of these thoughts. But they had grown dear to me, like a secret I held close, a sliver of warmth in the cold. These dreams were all I had. I craved them. When I woke, I ached to close my eyes once more, to slip back into that place where he existed.
I never knew his name. But there was a J, burned across his cheek. A scarlet brand, vivid against pale skin. I had been seeing him for what felt like years.
J.
The letter fascinated me, haunted me. What could it stand for? What had compelled him to brand himself? Why had he chosen to bear such a scar, to brand himself with that symbol?
I wondered what my father would say if there was a burned J upon my own face. Would he care? Would he look at me with those same vacant eyes, the way he always did, or would the sight of that scar shock him into feeling something?
I traced the letter onto my arm, the tip of a red marker dragging across my skin in a careful curve. It was a fragile connection, but it was something. If I were ever to meet this boy, we would be bound by that scarlet J, as if fate had tied us together with a single letter.
J.
Maybe it was the start of his name. John. Jacob. Those were names from the Bible, weren't they? Maybe he was religious.
There was something about the idea that captivated me. Religion.
J.
Jesus?
It fits, in a strange, disjointed way. Perhaps he bore the mark as a kind of repentance, an offering to God. I could understand that. Repentance was familiar to me, the notion of suffering to cleanse oneself of sin. It made sense, even if nothing else did.
I pressed the marker down harder, feeling it drag against my wrist, the ink smudging, staining my skin. The marker was faulty; the ink spilled from the tip, running down my fingers in thin, crimson lines, seeping into the beige of my coat. The coat used to be white, I thought—clean and pure, like I had once been. I'd bought it for twenty-five dollars, an impulsive purchase. Twenty-five. Twenty-five days I had been here, trapped within these walls, disconnected from the world outside. Twenty-five days since I had felt warmth on my skin or the sting of wind against my face.
The ink was warm as it spread, sticky and clinging to my skin. Branding myself with his mark, binding myself to the sinner of my dreams.
I reached for the glasses my mentor had left behind, their frame catching the dim light.. I picked them up, holding them to my eyes, but everything only got blurrier. Scarlet stained the world around me, the blood running down my arms, pooling on the floor beneath me. The fleeting thoughts of ending it all edged into my mind, a shadow hovering at the edge of my vision.
I looked at the letter carved into my skin, the blood like ink soaking into my pores, staining me. It was already a memory—a mark that had been there long before I had traced it. A symbol of something I couldn't name.
I wondered if I should associate it with him, the sinner who haunted my dreams, or with my own driftless thoughts. The pull toward oblivion, the longing to be free of it all. To slip away into the quiet, where no one could reach me.
A scarlet letter, burned into my skin, a reminder of the dreams I couldn't let go of, the fantasies that kept me tethered to a world I no longer understood.
I traced it again, my fingers moving slowly, reverently. The blood was smeared, smudged, imperfect. But it was mine.
The sting in my wrists reminded me of the pain the boy in my dreams was burdened with, and my righteous cause for life. If I ever met him, I would save him. It would be the first good thing I have done.
-
The bandages wrapped around my arm, binding my skin, just as the moon wraps itself around the sun during an eclipse. The wound underneath was relentless and the bleeding refused to stop, as if the hurt itself was holding on, like it had found a purpose in my suffering. I never wanted to see that letter again, that scarlet J etched into my flesh, nor the boy who haunted my dreams.
It took time to put myself back together, even if it had only been minutes.
I am not a schizophrenic patient. I have not stayed here for twenty-five days.
I had been here for roughly twenty-five minutes. Not twenty-five days. The aura of Arkham, the buzzing halls, the claustrophobic rooms—they all seemed to have worked their way under my skin. The blood circulating through my face felt sluggish, like my body was rejecting the very air around me.
In those brief twenty-five minutes, I experienced a kind of lurking darkness, an evil that could only be born in these corridors.
I should have known. As an intern for Arkham Asylum, I should've known that simply witnessing madness can drive one insane. Maybe it was something in the air, the radiation, the toxins or the molesting malevolence that seeped through every crack in these old walls.
The truth was, my qualifications for being here were thin at best. I was still in high school. The city needed able bodies after the Prince of Crime orchestrated a massive breakout. Qualified staff were scarce and no one with sense would choose to work here. But here I was. And I wasn't too worried about myself. After all, I wasn't important. Nothing interesting ever happened to people like me.
The ceilings above were lined with cameras, twitching every few seconds like the sharp, darting head movements of a crow. Being watched made me feel safe, as long as I didn't think too deeply about the eyes behind those lenses.
My footsteps echoed continuously, my worn sneakers tapping against the concrete. As I walked through the corridor, I noticed a peculiar liquid leaking from one of the old water fountains. It glistened, catching the dim overhead light, but the color was too dark, too thick, and made me want to wretch. You would think that since taxpayer money went here, they could afford water filtering. I should've just kept moving, but there was nothing else to distract me from the excruciating pain in my bandaged arm, and so my curiosity got the better of me.
I moved towards it, drawn to that strange, viscous fluid. Just as I was about to lean closer, one of the cameras snapped towards me, its lens twitching, swiveling to meet my gaze as if it were alive.
The cold eye of the camera seemed to watch me. I became anxious under its glare. For a moment, time seemed to slow, the world narrowing down to that unblinking lens staring straight through me.
The shiny bulb shattered, glass splintering, the pieces falling like feathers. Green ooze spilled from the broken camera like the bleeding of a crow. I took an involuntary step back, my eyes widening, my breath caught in my throat.
Standing there, beyond the shattered lens, was Dr. Jonathan Crane.
The man was just as unnerving as the cracked camera. His eyes were a piercing blue, which felt even more intense through the shield of his glasses. There was something sharp about him, something that seemed to cut through the air and settle into the goosebumps on my skin.
Normally, something like this happening would be a wet dream, but the lights in the building were just not sexy.
"Ah," he said, dryly. "No matter how much they invest in this establishment, they still cannot fix the water filter."
His eyes fell to the scar on my arm. "Did the patients already hurt you," he asked, his voice carrying a trace of disdain, "or is that your own doing?"
My eyes fell to my arm, to the poorly wrapped bandages that clung to my skin, evidence of my earlier foolishness. He noticed it, of course. His gaze flickered over the stained cloth, and I felt a rush of embarrassment.
I forced a weak smile, feeling the lie slipping off my tongue before I could think twice. "I fell off my bike while riding here. Hopefully, I can afford a new bike after this internship!"
Dr. Crane's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. "You do realize this is an unpaid internship?" he said with a hint of curiosity of how someone as stupid as me got into this establishment.
The words hit me like a brick. Unpaid. My shoulders sagged, and I stared at him, blankly. Was this a joke? Had I truly lost that many brain cells, along with the blood I spilled?
"If it were paid," I managed to mutter, "I probably wouldn't have been hired."
He made the doctor laugh, soft but professional, and more warm than the smile he gave earlier. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Most of the people who stay here are unpaid."
Well, obviously. "If you mean the patients, I'm sure they have a better living situation than a normal person in Gotham."
"There are no normal people in Gotham."
-
The asylum began to feel more like a prison, each patient locked away behind bulletproof glass. They watched me from behind those barriers, their empty eyes following my every step. From their side, I must have looked like the one imprisoned, the way I moved so stiffly, nervously. They probably pitied me. I almost pitied myself.
Their thousand-yard stares locked me into an invisible trench, and I was too weak to maintain the fight. Eventually, I looked away, breaking from the gaze, admitting my defeat. It didn't matter. I was the one who was free. At least that's what I told myself.
The screams began faintly at first, soft, eerie wails, echoing through the floor beneath me. It had been there for a while, and I told myself it was nothing to worry about. Shock therapy, I thought. I reassured myself that the people here were not innocent. Whatever made them scream, they probably deserved it.
Still, I found myself drawn to those muffled cries. Dr. Crane had told me not to go down there. His voice had been stern, but I convinced myself there was no real danger. All the truly dangerous ones had broken out, hadn't they? There were no monsters like Professor Pyg down there—just a few unstable men too weak to escape.
It was probably the safest place in the asylum. I reasoned with myself, assured myself that I could take on whatever lay beyond. I'm just an intern, I thought.
I took a deep breath and turned down the corridor, my footsteps falling silent as I moved towards the door where the screams echoed from. There were no cameras here, no twitching crows. I reached the door, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the lock.
The door was locked, of course. I wasn't supposed to be down here. But I trusted myself. Or maybe I was just stupid.
Crane's keys weighed heavy in my pocket. They weren't given to me. I had taken them, borrowing them after the camera broke.
Maybe it was the toxins or green ooze in the water fountains deluding me, but I really think that today I might make a change in someone's life. Maybe, I would make myself memorable.
I hesitated, then fit the key into the lock, turning it slowly until a soft click.
-
The air beyond the door was stale, and lacked moisture, like dead air. The sharp tang of rusted metal and decay filled my nose, and I gagged, my stomach churning as I stepped inside. There was no light, just the pale, ghostly glow of my phone's flashlight. I swept it across the floor, catching glimpses of rats scurrying away, their bodies darting between the rusted pipes and debris.
The whimpers were still there, cascading through the room, but the source was hidden, somewhere deep in the shadows. My heart pounded, and I felt a cold sweat form on my forehead. The room felt dark. The walls loomed and the shadows moved, slipping out of the corner of my eye.
My mouth was open, sucking in short breaths as I wondered if the whimpers came from me or someone else, my hand covering my nose in a futile attempt to block out the rank odor of rot and mold. Then I heard a boy's voice again, soft and trembling. A whisper that shook the room, shivers tracing the lines of the scarred J on my arm.
I swallowed, my throat painfully dry, words lodged on my tongue. I wanted to turn back. I wanted to run. Please, God, let me go back before I meet someone I can't save.
I stumbled through the shadows, moving closer, my eyes darting to the stairs, the door I'd come through. Could I get back up? Could I just walk away from all of this? My body trembled, my legs felt like they'd been filled with concrete. And then–
For the first time, I saw the boy's face.
J.
There he was, J written on his face, bold and red, just like the scar on my arm. All those variables I had created in my head of how the situation would go if I ever met this boy, they're all presented before me now. The dreams that had strictly resided in my head, had become the reality before me.
The boy looked as though he had just awoken, his eyes half awake. His under eyes were painted with tones of red and black, as if it were a mix of bruises and sleep deprivation. The bottom half of his face was covered by a shadow, but I can assure you, he was not smiling.
Though I couldn't tell you if he was a boy or not– he was so hollow, he might have been a girl as well. Perhaps a zombie would fit better, or a mutated creature. His posture was similar to that of an ape, a piece of his hair graying, though he looked no older than me. Blood encrusted every crevice of his emaciated body, and his open wounds were raw and full of infections.
The entirety of his body was desaturated, as though all life had drained out of him, leaving him as a shadow of himself. Slowly, his face lifted, inch by inch, the darkness revealing his sullen features.
"Who..." he croaked, his voice barely audible, like his throat was collapsing in on itself.
Who? The question lingered in my mind. Who in this world would come down here? I knew, of course, that the answer was me. I had led myself down here because I was bored. Because I was useless.
"Who else would it be?" I asked, genuinely wondering. Who would do this to him?
"I won't—I won't fall for it," he rasped, as though I was playing some game I didn't understand. "Stop—please."
"Stop what? What are you talking about?" I stared at the blood staining his skin, at the ropes biting into his body, cutting into him like he was nothing more than an object to be bound and broken. I felt a knot in my stomach, and yet, I couldn't look away. "What happened to you?"
The words came out like a reflex, though I wasn't really expecting an answer. My voice softened. "Please, just let me help you."
He looked away, averting his gaze like I was some nude model in a window display. But I was here. I was the one who had come down here to save him. I crept forward, trying to catch his gaze by lowering myself onto my knees, placing my hands on his lap, searching for his eyes in the darkness. I wanted him to see me, really see me.
As I knelt beside him, searching for some flicker of recognition in his haunted eyes, a faint sound drifted through the darkness. It was barely audible at first—almost like a whispering breeze—but then it grew louder, more distinct, until I realized it was a laugh. Hollow, mocking. A chill ran down my spine. My heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself to stay focused on the boy. Surely, it was my imagination.
Up close, his face was gaunt, bruised, and hollow—hauntingly familiar, yet terrifying in its desolation. My fingers brushed against his cheek, tracing the grotesque J carved into his flesh. In my dreams, his face had haunted me, lingering on the edges of my mind, in the corners of my vision. It felt like fate had drawn me here, like I had been destined to hold his fate in my hands.
I touched his face again, gingerly tracing the mark with my fingertips. He tensed. Even the smallest gesture seemed to hurt him. He flinched at my touch, his brows knitting together, pulled down by a string of sorrow that seemed to weigh on his every feature. I wanted to take that weight from him. I wanted to make him feel... something other than this.
But as I stared into his blue eyes, it struck me. Just because I had seen him in my dreams, just because I knew him, didn't mean he knew me. To him, I was just another person here to gawk at his suffering.
The only sign of familiarity was the scar on my wrist. The one I had marked myself with because of him. I started unwinding the bandage— to him, this probably was the closest he could feel to a sensual encounter. Underneath was the scarlet letter, the evidence of my own questionable choices. We weren't so different. We were both scared. Though, I chose my own scar; he was branded.
"Who—who hurt you?" he asked, his voice soft, as his wide eyes fixated on my mangled arm. I had found it strange that he had asked me if I had been hurt as he sat in a pool of his own agony.
I saw something flicker in them—recognition, maybe, or a desperate kind of empathy. He thought I understood him. But he was wrong. I was the one who had chosen to do this to myself.
"I hurt myself," I admitted, bragging almost. His face twisted, confusion clouding his expression. "I wanted to carve it."
"Why?" The question lingered in the air, his innocence clashing with the pain in his voice. His gaze fell to my hand as I began untying the ropes, the sharp edges biting into my fingers. He looked panicked. "You're hurting yourself—again."
I barely registered the pain. "Am I?" I shrugged. "It's fine. I'd rather hurt myself than be... whatever it is you're going through."
The boy flinched as I touched his arm, but it wasn't his reaction that made my heart race. Out of the corner of my eye, something moved—a quick flicker of color against the wall. Purple? Green? I blinked, but when I looked again, it was gone. Just a trick of the light.
My hands trembled as I tugged at his shirt, pulling at the filthy collar. The fabric was so worn, so faded, it was hard to tell what color it had once been. My fingers crept under his collar line, releasing the contact between his neck and the filthy cloth. He let out a whimper, "Stop."
"Too early for that?" I said half wittingly. My hands stopped at a symbol on his shirt, which had faded. It resembled an R, like the Robin that Batman works with. "Are you wearing a Robin costume?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. The symbol had intrigued me more than it should have.
His face lowered once again, as if he was at the brink of tears. I reassured him, "I didn't mean to offend you– I mean a lot of people wear these costumes and if I'm gonna be honest, I think Robin is super hot."
His lips slightly pinched up, a very child-like smile. I continued, "Hey, maybe once we get out of here, we can tell the story of how we escaped– to everyone! Maybe we will get enough attention so that Robin will give us autographs."
His face fell, as though the mention of the name alone caused him pain. His voice came out in a whisper, so quiet I barely heard him. "I'm here because of Robin."
Is everyone out to get this kid? I wondered if he had ever made a single decision on his path to get here in the first place. I figured that I would be some sort of inspiration for him, since I chose to be here and chose to help him. I mean, Robin? That didn't make sense. "Robin? What do you mean? Did Robin do this to you?"
His eyes lowered once again, as if speaking from a distant dream, "Yes."
"I'm sure that's not true, Batman would never let that happen–" I was cut off by his eyes glaring down at mine with anger.
"Batman doesn't save anyone." His words were venomous, filled with years of animosity. His head tilted back as if he were distancing himself away from me. In response, I tugged at his hand to keep him close.
The words cut me, but I didn't know why. Were we talking about the same Batman who puts half of the criminals in prison? "That's definitely.. an opinion," I managed, my voice trembling. "Look, I'm sure you can just blame anyone for your predicament, so just let me take this off and–"
He cut me off, his voice hard. "I put myself here."
I froze. "What?"
"I was Robin," he said, and the words hit me like a punch to the gut, it was almost laughable. But the suit and animosity for Batman made it feel like the truth. I remembered the speculations and theories that there was a new Robin, someone different. Could this— could this really be the previous Robin?
"No," I said, shaking my head. "No, Robin– Robin doesn't look like that– like you."
His almost nostalgic voice sent a chill through me. "It was years ago– he told me not to go anywhere, but I–" His breath waned.
"Told you not to do what? Who told you?" My voice grasped for an answer, hardly believing what he was saying. Robin was seen just a week ago, patrolling the southern side of the city.
"Batman did. But my mom– my mom, she wasn't safe so I–" he gasped for breath, as if these were the most words he had spoken in a while. I squeezed his hand further, as if to get out information. "I had to save her from him and.."
I interrupted him before he finished speaking, "You chose to come here? On your own?" The words tasted bitter in my mouth. "To save your mom?" I had dragged myself down here because I was bored, and wanted to be something. But he had been trying to save someone.
Suddenly, my confidence waned. The belief that I was helping him, crumbled in the face of his story. He had defied Batman, sacrificed himself for his mother, while I had done nothing but chase after a dream that didn't even belong to me.
What was I thinking, that I would be the special one? I came here on my own selfish desires, and he– he was the true hero. If we ever got out of here, his story would be praised, not mine. For I hadn't suffered at all, unlike him. I just came and went, like a wave falling just as quickly as it rises. I would yet again be unimportant.
"You have to go in underneath, and unwrap it to take it off," he lectured me. I stood up, releasing my grip from his hands, my face contorting with bitterness. So, what am I? Just someone who tells me what to do so he can get out? Someone to be overshadowed by his tragedy?
I pulled back, irritation boiling up. "I know how to do it. Don't treat me like I'm an idiot," I snapped. "If you know how to do it so well, do it yourself!" My voice grew sharp, bitter. "Don't forget, I'm the only one who came here to help you."
"I didn't mean—"
"I don't care!" I cut him off, the bitterness seeping into my words. "What, do you just want all the glory for yourself? You want to be the only one who survives the Joker's torture and gets the credit? Well, I hope he comes. I hope he hurts me, so I can come out of this a hero too. At least then I'll have something to show for it."
His face fell. "You don't need to be hurt. You're already special," he said softly. "Please, just listen to me. We need to get out."
"Special? Maybe I'm a little too special. I cut myself because of a dream. You know how crazy that sounds?" I scoffed. "Being branded by some psycho gets you on the front of the newspaper; being the psycho who branded themself gets them put in a mental institution for being schizophrenic."
His eyes widened. "You... you did that because of me?"
"Yeah. You should be happy. Someone tried to die for you. Not even Batman did that for–"
His expression turned cold, interrupting my speech. "If you're not here to help me, then just do what you want. I don't care." His voice was low, but the words pierced through me. "I don't need you."
His rejection enraged me further. "You don't need me? Then why don't you help yourself!" My voice was venomous now, lashing out at him, but it was rooted in jealousy. Because he was the hero. I was just a shadow. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but the only thing you can do to help yourself is slitting your wrists, and you can't even do that!" I tried to use suicide as my way of being brave, some kind of bravery he didn't have.
"If I had killed myself, Batman would be free from torment. I need to live—so he can suffer."
Every word struck a nerve. Somehow, the one chained and tortured had more drive than me. If I were in his place, I would have given up already.
"But I thought you put yourself here, not Batman?" I asked, my tone smug, as if I had uncovered some hidden truth. Deep down, I still hoped he hadn't chosen to suffer like this, and that it was all Batman's fault, and that maybe I could swoop in and save him.
"No, I chose to be here. But he let me suffer. He left me to rot and replaced me," his voice cracked, struggling to hold back emotion. "And if you leave me here, you'll be just like him."
The sting of his words hit harder than I expected. I had imagined myself as the hero, coming to his rescue. Instead, I was starting to see how he viewed me—another person who would abandon him. But that wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to share his suffering, to prove that I could endure it too.
"You won't have time to figure out what you're going to do if you keep arguing," he warned. "Time is running out."
"I'm sorry I'm not moving fast enough for you," I snapped. "But if Batman couldn't help you, I don't know why you think I should meet your expectations."
He let out a long, defeated breath, as if he had already resigned himself to whatever came next. "Just do—do whatever you want. When the Joker comes, there won't be any talking."
I froze. Did he just say the Joker was the one who had him down here? The actual embodiment of chaos and evil?
A sudden drop in temperature made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The room had been stuffy, oppressive with rot, but now it felt cold, too cold. The light from my phone flickered, casting jagged shadows that seemed to stretch farther than they should. My pulse quickened, and I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone lurking in the dark.
But then my thoughts shifted. Escaping some random psycho would be one thing, but the Joker? If I got us out of here, people in Gotham would know my name. I'd be the one who saved Robin from the Joker. Batman himself might even thank me. The very idea sent a thrill through me.
"The Joker? Are you serious?"
He nodded.
"I expected worse." I scoffed, trying to hide my nerves. "That guy's old and skinny. I could take him in a fight, easy. Everyone thinks he's scary just because he's evil. But what would he do if I pulled out an AK-47 on him, huh? Bet you didn't think of that. And here I thought being Batman's sidekick would make someone smarter."
I spiraled into a nervous ramble, bragging about how I'd outwit the Joker, how easy it would be to take him down. I circled the room, visually showing how I would take him down. But then I saw his expression—he wasn't amused. His eyes flickered toward something behind me, and then his head dropped, almost in defeat.
"He's coming."
"Good," I hissed, leaning into the challenge. "Let him come."
It was as if I'd conjured him with my words.
My shoulder brushed against something cold and unyielding, pulling me from my rant. Slowly, I turned, the air thickening around me. The wall behind me was smeared in twisting hues of purple and green, vibrant against the darkness, like the embodiment of madness creeping closer. My pulse quickened, realization sinking in as I strained to breathe.
Then, I saw him. A grin, impossibly wide and gleaming like a sharpened blade, emerged from the shadows. His face—pale, stretched tight over jagged bones—hovered above me, illuminated by the faintest sliver of light. The Clown Prince of Crime. His eyes glinted with a sick amusement, as though he knew every thought twisting inside me.
The world seemed to collapse inward, my body frozen against the very nightmare I had recklessly invited. The Joker. The figure I had foolishly believed I could conquer, now standing before me. And in that instant, the false courage I had clung to drained away, replaced by a creeping terror I couldn't shake. I had wanted this. I had prayed for him.
And now, here he was.
-
It was as if a car was veering towards me and someone yelled for me to get out of the way. But my feet were cemented to the ground, every part of my body stopping, except for my heart beat which was increasing.
I stared down into the spiral of patterns on his suit, a sick irony. I would give anything to stare at the green ooze spilling from the fountain, or the rats right now. Anything but those sick, luminescent colors on the boy or the Clown.
Suddenly, I could feel my vocal cords starting to work again. I decided to finally do something.
"We were just talking about you," I said, a distasteful and twisted truth. I tried to keep up the facade of me being happy he was here, and I think I was successful in convincing myself as well.
For some reason, he found this very amusing. His cackles send an electric shock to the room, as opposed to the melancholic energy it once contained. The boy winces at each roar, reacting to every sound like the strings of a violin react to a bow.
As the Joker's final laughs wind down to an awful throat noise, he exclaims,"I knew he was thinking about me while I was gone!" He turned to me. "Ooh, ooh! Tell me what he was saying!"
I paused, "A lot, but none of it is worth mentioning to you."
"Did he tell you about the time we had the operation?" He leans in, eyes wild, pantomiming delicate surgical movements. "Oh, it was a riot! I was the surgeon, see, and poor little Robin was my patient. Snip, snip, here, a little twist there, and oops!—I think I might've misplaced a rib or two!" He laughs maniacally, clutching his sides, gesturing to Robin. "He screamed for days... but oh, how he loved our little sessions! I think he misses me, don't you? Poor boy, always so clingy."
"I didn't recall asking for a recap, but thanks for that horrid anecdote."
"Oh, Jaybird, your new friend reminds me of you in the early days! So much spirit. Tell me, do you think they should be our new plaything? Hmm?" He steps closer towards Robin, "Let's test if they can last as long as you."
Jason pulled his head up, "No, leave them out of this. This is between us. Please."
The clown leaned down, placing his arm over my shoulder, his breath hot against my ear, "Now, now. I don't remember him being this possessive." He turned his head to Jason, "You can't just save all the fun for yourself, that's not fair! Especially when you made an all new friend without me."
The boy's voice cracked a little, his desperation clear. "Don't– don't do this."
The Clown took out his knife and closed in further, gently tracing my hand, but not pressing down. "Maybe if you beg harder, I'll consider going easy."
"Please. Please don't hurt them." The scar on his face sort of wrinkled as he said this.
I wondered if the boy had even listened to a word I'd said before. I told him, I want the Joker to come in here. I want to get hurt. Maybe if this Robin wasn't so stubborn, he wouldn't be in this mess. My anger wasn't even aimed at the clown anymore; it was Jason who frustrated me now.
Before the Joker could launch into another one of his rants, I spoke quickly, cutting through his theatrics. "I don't know what you're talking about, Robin. I, for one, am not a victim." I lifted my hand and pressed it against the knife, trying to mask the pain it caused to look as though it was the knife being cut instead of me. "Like I was saying earlier," I turned toward the Joker, meeting his crazed gaze, "Robin and I were just having a chat about how much I hoped you'd show up and start hurting me."
The Joker's eyes gleamed as he paused mid-step, his manic grin widening. "Oh! Is that so?" he cooed, tilting his head. "You wanted me to come to hurt you?" He let out a high pitched giggle, clearly savoring the moment. "Ooh, I do love it when they beg for punishment!"
Robin's breath hitched beside me, his eyes darting toward mine, a mix of disbelief and frustration on his face. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed under his breath, the panic creeping in.
But I didn't flinch. I needed him to understand something. Something Robin was too blind to see in his endless spiral of guilt and rage.
"I'm the one who's here to save you, not the other way around, Robin," I spat back, the name tasting like venom on my tongue. "I'm not another one of his victims, you are. So stop projecting onto me."
The Joker cackled, clearly entertained by the tension between us. "Oh, Jaybird! Looks like your friend's got a backbone! How cute!" He turned toward me, twirling the knife theatrically in his hand. "So, you want to play, eh? Think you can take it?" His voice was laced with mockery, but behind his eyes, there was an eager hunger, like a predator sniffing out new prey.
"Dude, why do you talk so much? Just get on with it and stop wasting my time!" I shot back, holding his gaze, even as I pressed my palm harder against the knife's edge. The pain bit deep, but I held steady. I wasn't giving him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Jason's jaw clenched, his fists tightening against the restraints. "Stop... just stop. You don't know what he's capable of—"
"I know exactly what he's capable of!" I cut him off, my voice sharper than the blade. I turned my head just slightly to face him, but kept the Joker in my peripheral vision. "Maybe you forgot, Robin, but I didn't come here for your redemption story."
The Joker's face lit up in gleeful shock. "Oh, I like this one! You're really spicing things up around here!" He clapped his hands together like a child about to open a gift. "So what's it gonna be, hmm? Who gets to break first? You... or our dear Jaybird?"
"Well, considering I already called the police, I doubt any of that will happen," I said, trying to keep my voice steady even though my heart was pounding. I hadn't called anyone. Hell, I didn't even know how to get out of this basement, so I resorted to lying.
The Joker's grin stretched impossibly wide, his eyes twinkling with twisted amusement. "Oh, darling, that's precious." He clapped his hands slowly, mockingly. "You think a little phone call is gonna bring the cavalry in to save you?" He sauntered closer, his lanky frame looming as his shadow swallowed the space between us. "Do you have any idea how many people have screamed for help down here? How many have prayed for a miracle?"
He leaned in, "And guess what? No one ever came. Not for him." He gestured at the boy, who was trembling in the corner, "And certainly not for you." His laugh bubbled up again, but this time it was low, dark, like he was savoring some crappy joke.
"I mean, the only hero in this room is him, and look at the poor thing! His new owner is the Prince of Crime! You're all alone down here, sweetheart. And that little lie? It's the only thing keeping you from screaming right now, isn't it?"
Something clicked. The scar on the boy's face, it stood for Joker. Not anything heroic, just the clown. He had been a hero, the Boy Wonder, and now he had been remade and repackaged into the Joker's toy. J stood for Joker. He was branded by punishment, owned by sin.
I wondered what that meant for the J on my wrist. Certainly, I would not be owned by the Joker. Afterall, he didn't brand me. I only did it to myself because I saw a boy with it. Maybe it stood for judgment, since I've already deemed the boy guilty of being a damsel.
I was afraid. I had no way out, no way to save him. Then, I remember my comment from earlier, about how the only way he could save himself was by slitting his wrists. That comment still applied to the situation.
I looked at his depraved body, robbed of any pleasure. A boy at that age should be studying for geometry, or finding some cringy message to put onto a homecoming proposal. Being here has robbed him of any of those moments, and robbed him of his future. I figured, even if he were to live on, it would not be much of a life. The wheelchair was his graveyard, and I knew it. He would never leave it, dead or alive. He was already dead, at least that's my judgment.
The Joker's eyes twinkled with perverse delight as he noticed me staring at the scar, at the hollow shell of the boy who once bore the name Robin. He sauntered over, nudging Robin's limp form with the toe of his boot.
"Ah, you're starting to get it now, aren't you?" he cooed, bending down next to Robin like he was admiring his handiwork, taking the same knife used on me and plunging it deep into his finger. "He was something once. But now? He exists for me. He's not a boy anymore, sweetheart, just a reminder of how much fun you can have breaking someone, piece by piece."
I clenched my fists, a lump rising in my throat. Jason didn't even flinch, lost in whatever torment the Joker had carved into him. The horror of it all crept into my bones, making it impossible to tear my eyes away from his frail body. Branded by violence, owned by sin.
The Joker turned to me, eyes gleaming with that unsettling mix of madness and curiosity. "So, what's it gonna be, sweetheart? You wanna join the party or just sit there, pretending you've got any power over what happens next?"
I stared at Jason, his body a ruin of what he used to be. My heart pounded in my chest, my mind racing. I needed to get the Joker to see what I already understood—that Jason was beyond saving. Not in the way he'd want, at least.
"I don't know if you've noticed," I began, forcing my voice steady, "but there's nothing left of him. He's not Robin anymore, or Batman's son, hell, he's nobody's son at this point. He's not anything special anymore. Just... your plaything." I let the word sit, hoping it would get under his skin in just the right way.
The Joker tilted his head, still smiling but now more intrigued. "Oh? You're starting to understand how I can mold anyone into anything, aren't you?"
I took a breath. "I don't think you're doing anything to him anymore. He's not fighting back. He's not scared. He's just... gone." I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice as though sharing a secret. "You didn't win, Joker. You killed him, sure, but not in a way that matters. He's just another body you've left behind. No fun in that, is there?"
I stepped toward the Boy Wonder, inching closer.
Even in his broken state, there was a strange, undeniable allure to the way he looked up at me, a mix of defiance and need, like a boy starved for something he couldn't quite name. His breath was shaky, fragile, as though something of his innocence still lingered, desperate to surface, sweetness releasing from his swelled areas.
As my fingers combed through his hair, pushing it back gently, Jason's eyes fluttered before rolling back, his lashes quivering with the motion. A soft, almost inaudible breath escaped his lips as his head tilted slightly into my hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if he were momentarily lost in the sensation, surrendering to the touch. His eyelids hung half-closed, his gaze drifting upward
I leaned in close, his breath trembling under mine. I wasn't sure what I was doing—maybe trying to see if I could reclaim the hope and innocence left within him. I kissed his scarred cheek, then his cracked lips, searching for the boy lost beneath the pain.
Clearly, I couldn't reclaim it.
His eyes were a vast ocean of still water, not reacting to waves of sensuality. I asked him, "Do you still think you can get out of here alive?"
His face retreated back into the shadows of his mind. From this angle, he looked like a fallen angel, one who could not pick himself up from the fall and back to Heaven. From this, I knew I could not save him.
The clown's grin faltered, just for a split second. I pressed harder. "You like a challenge, right? But Robin? He can't even muster up hope after getting kissed, and I'm assuming it is his first time. Can't you see if he can't even muster up hope, he can't ever be disappointed now? He's not a hero, or Boy Wonder anymore. He's just like a broken doll now, which isn't a challenge. You're just... dragging out the joke now."
The Joker's eyes narrowed, his fingers twitching near the knife at his waist. "Go on," he muttered.
I nodded toward Jason, still motionless. "End it. If you want to make it truly memorable, do it now. Before this becomes just another boring death that doesn't mean anything. You're an artist, right? You don't let the paint dry before the masterpiece is finished, do you?"
The Joker's gaze flicked between me and Jason, a calculating shifting behind his eyes. His smile returned, slower this time, more deliberate. "You've got a point. Maybe I've milked this one long enough." He twirled the knife lazily in his hand, as though considering.
I forced myself to keep my composure, to not show how badly I wanted to look away. "Right? Can you imagine the look on Batman's face when he realizes you and some random person gave him more mercy in death than Batman ever gave him? That we saved him, not Batman. I mean, if you're going to be the one to break him, then finish the job."
For a moment, the room was silent except for the flicker of the overhead light and the soft rasp of the Joker's laugh, growing louder as he stepped closer to Jason. "Mercy, huh? Now that's funny. I don't think I've ever been labeled as capable of doing that. But maybe you're right... Maybe I do like a clean ending. And I have been itching to send Bats my condolences."
I nodded, unable to meet Robin's eyes. "The Father will know. He deserves that much, at least."
When I came here, I expected I would be the savior in the way that I would return the innocent boy to his father. Sometime during that fantasy, I realized I was never good enough to pull off that amount of heroism. Maybe I was better off being good at something more harsh and realistic. Either way, I would be the boy's savior so it didn't matter.
The Joker clapped his hands together, laughing with glee. "Oh, I like you! You've got guts, sweetheart. I'll take your feedback very seriously, and I'l make sure to credit you when I tell the Father." He pulled out a gun, spinning it between his fingers with a flourish. "Let's put the poor bird out of his misery, shall we?"
And as the Joker turned away from Jason and lingered over to a camera stand, I felt the weight of the decision settle deep in my soul, the lines between mercy and cruelty blurring beyond recognition.
While the clown was busy setting up the camera, I quietly took a flask of water that I'd gotten from the fountain above ground and silently walked to him.
Robin—or rather, the boy—looked like a feeble mouse. His face was a grotesque mess of blood and scars, and I couldn't tell if he had surrendered to his fate or found some twisted form of peace. As I stood over him, I watched him lift his head, and in that moment, I could finally feel the waves of reciprocated sensuality that had broken the still water. If we had met under different circumstances, he might have been a beautiful boy.
In the final moments of his prolonged release, my heart pounded as we locked eyes, our irises silently making love, his gaze upward, almost as if kneeling before me.
If these were to be his last moments, I thought he deserved to be returned to a state of innocence. I whispered a prayer to the Heavens as I poured the water down his battered face, watching it cleanse the blood from his skin like the Rivers of Eden. The water shimmered on his face, and, inexplicably, my eyes started burning with tears of my own, my own areas bleeding with pleasurable release.
For the first time since I'd met him, he didn't look like a zombie. He looked like a boy, innocent and vulnerable, almost untouched by the horrors he'd endured. I realized I was baptizing him before the Devil would take his life. No, not a baptism by a holy figure, it was more like a demon baptizing an angel. His eyes were closed, and his fluttering lashes reminded me of an angel's wings.
Maybe he kept his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see the mask of the Devil one last time before death. He must have thought I was a worldly pleasure, a life-sucking demon that his eyelids shielded him from.
In his final moments, and strictly those final moments after I cleansed him, the J didn't stand for Joker. It stood for Jesus. Perhaps, one day he will rise again in lush green as a robin and kiss the heavens goodbye for he will come another time.
And for the first time, I think I saw hatred in his eyes.
"Crows die."
These were the last words he said to me.
-
"Have you got something to tell the good man, Jason?"
"My name is Jason Todd."
"Who do you hate?"
"Batman."
Good job, why wouldn't you!? Did you get that, bats? Kids not yours anymore, he's all mine. For me to do as I please."
"Hey, I never asked this. What's the big secret all about? Who is the big, bad bat? Come on, you can tell me."
"Of course, sir. It's-"
The Joker shoots the boy named Jason Todd.
"I could never stand a tattle tale, and a broken doll at that. That's why I prefer to work alone, never anyone to spoil the punchline."
He would look directly at the camera.
"Of course I didn't come up with this punchline all by myself."
Death may be his only savior, but I deserve far worse, I thought as I looked at Jason's lifeless body.
-
I've seen dead people before—crack addicts in the narrows of alleys, people shot dead in the night. I had always been a witness. I never controlled any of it.
His name was Jason Todd. J stands for Jason. And in his last moments, he was just that—Jason. Not the mask, not the sidekick, just a boy. It was a cruel antithesis to everything I had believed the letter J represented. If J had always stood for his name, and I had never guessed, then I had stripped him of his identity. And now, in the stillness, his wheelchair was his cemetery, and the basements of Arkham were his Heaven.
The shock paralyzed me. I had hoped my heart would follow, still itself in my chest, but it only throbbed, steady and painful. The Clown circled the boy, inspecting the broken statue he had carved. The pieces of Jason—Jason, the boy—lay scattered on the cold floor.
"You know, if he had bled a bit more, the floors wouldn't be such a cold place for him to die," the Joker howled, spitting as he laughed. His lipstick smeared mouth gaped wide with delight. "But you know, maybe it reminded him of that cave Batman kept him in!"
It hit me, hard and cruel. The Bat was father to the Robin.
"You just killed the Son of Batman," I muttered, my throat tightening, making the words jagged as they left my lips.
The Joker's eyes flicked to me, his grin broadening. "Well, it would be quite selfish to take all the credit for our little project here, don't you think?" He let out a gleeful cackle "So let's split it fifty-fifty. I pulled the trigger, but you—you got his hopes up and ripped out his heart! Bravo! The Son of Batman, dead because of a traitor!"
His voice echoed, bouncing off the walls in wild, mocking tones. "Oh, how I wish you'd been in the film more! I mean, come on, a religious re-enactment! Me, the devil... you, Judas the traitor... and where's God? Oh yeah, he's off in his cave!"
His blasphemy, his endless rambling, burned my ears. But I couldn't deny it.
Jason must have believed I'd come to save him when I appeared in that hellish place. I wasn't wearing the white paint and red lipstick of the Clown, but I was just as covered in lies. He thought I'd bring the light, and instead, I brought the knife. I was no savior. Just a gilded betrayer.
For my self inflicted scar on my wrist stood for Judas. What am I but a traitor to the boy beaten down by this cruel world?
I forced myself to speak, barely coherent, "If that were totally accurate, wouldn't Jason rise from the dead? Your metaphor doesn't quite hold."
The Joker's face twisted in mock thought, his sharp jaw clicking. His venomous grin stretched wider, showing teeth, each one a testament to his madness. "Rise from the dead? Oh, you're a riot! Let's have him play Jesus and see how it goes!" His laugh erupted again, jagged and loud. "Ever heard of the Lazarus Pit?"
"Lazarus? What are you even talking about?" I could barely keep up.
"Wrong Lazarus!" The Joker snapped his fingers. "This one raises the dead, green fire and all. Oh, wouldn't that be fun? Bring Jason back! Let him play the part for me—Son of Batman!" He rocked back on his heels, eyes gleaming with a grotesque excitement.
I had decided earlier that death was mercy for Jason. But the idea of resurrection clawed at me. Could rebirth offer something different? Or was it just my guilt, hoping for absolution? If Jason came back, it would absolve me of my crime. And Batman... Batman would see me as a savior.
"If that were true, I'd take credit for reviving him, then," I scoffed, half-believing the absurdity I was spitting.
"This play just got a thousand times better thanks to you! Do you think Batman will thank you for killing and resurrecting his son?" The Clown rambled on, eyes flashing with wild delight. His mockery didn't sting as much as it should have.
"Batman should thank me for ending his pain," I retorted. "The world's greatest detective, and he can't even find his own son? I didn't know the kid, but I saved him. That makes me more of a hero than him."
"Oh really? I thought you saw him in your dreams! It seems all kinds of things are wrong with you! I mean, walking into an unauthorized place, kissing a dead boy, proceeding to let him die, and then suggesting he would rise again like Jesus? And saying you're a better hero than Batman? You should be a patient here instead of an intern! Oh, the irony!"
It hadn't occurred to me that he might have seen and heard everything. The crows always see everything here.
But then I started thinking of what the Clown had said, about me being a patient. I wondered how he knew I wasn't a patient, considering I had never brought it up the whole time.
"How did you know I'm an intern?" I asked, suspicion raising my eyebrows. This didn't feel like a random encounter anymore.
His smile curled intensively upwards, his jaw clicking. Any ounce of adrenaline that I once had, was now gone. My mouth started frothing, and my eyes felt the vibrations of a bee hive, blood like honey dripped down my eyes. Hallucinations unfolded in the rhythm's embrace, the rhythm of the crows' shudders.
I could feel the Clown's presence inching towards me, a vile sensation of green and purple hues staining my peripheral vision. But he was not the only one.
A cloaked face of burlap, a stitched mouth, and holes for eyes headed a suited man who had entered the room. It seemed as though I had manifested the crow killer from before, because the Scarecrow stood before me. A different kind of evil. If his presence lived up to his name, I would be the crow.
His presence was darker, quieter. A different kind of evil. As his figure loomed closer, I felt the walls of the room close in. My body betrayed me, lurching toward him rather than away. My limbs crumbled as I stumbled into his arms, my face pressed against his chest. Every breath felt like inhaling powder, my senses slowly unraveling.
"Are you scared?" he whispered, his voice dry and hollow, like it carried through straw. "Don't start dreaming. It'll be over soon."
I had nothing to defend myself, so I clutched the crucifix around my neck, praying for the end. Jason's face invaded my mind, his eyes—blank and accusing—gazing up at me from the floor. A strange comfort, as if he was watching, waiting.
Scarecrow tilted his head toward the cross. "Is that what you fear, or is it me?"
"It's... it's rebuking you," I choked out.
"Ah, so you think this little symbol will save you?" His gloved hand reached up, pulling the cross from my neck, the chain snapping under his grip. "If you think it has power, then you must fear it. You protect yourself with what you fear, what you believe will save you, it's called projection dear."
Projection was a psychoanalytic theory made by Freud when discovering the unconscious mind. Of course I knew what it was. Right now, I wanted him to project himself out of the room.
"Obviously I'm scared of it, you should be too. It's the reason I'm still alive now," I found it hard to believe as I said this, as if I was trying to rebuke my selfishness.
"And Jason—if he'd had a cross on his face instead of a J, would he still be alive?"
How many of these criminals were in on this boys torture and crucification?
His words dripped like poison into my mind. They made sense, even though I hated him for it.
The scarred letter on my own arm burned in my memory, and I found myself muttering, "J stands for Jesus. He will rise again."
Scarecrow's eyes followed my arm, drawn to the jagged mark of the J.
"And will you?"
"Will I do what?"
"Rise again?" His voice lingered, waiting, testing.
"I'd have to die first," I blurted, regretting the words immediately. I had forgotten how everyone took everything I said very literally.
The glint in his eyes shifted. As I tried stepping away from his daunting embrace, he tugged my cross necklace towards himself. The pressure was too much, and it ended up breaking off of my neck, causing me to stumble to the ground. I took a jagged piece of glass that had been on the floor next to me and pointed it towards him. He leaned down like a wilting rose.
"You think the sharp edge will scare me, if it didn't scare you?" he remarked, referencing the scar on my arm that I had clearly cut myself. "If you don't mind, I would like to test that theory of you rising again. You have no crucifix to scare me, so you may as well just play along now.."
I hate condescending people. I learned the only way to deal with them is to play into their fantasies.
The jagged edge beckoned me like the knife I held earlier today, as if they were scarlet colored markers, and my body, a canvas.
I pointed it towards my face and drew the crucifix below my right eye, ink splattering and painting my face bloody. I would ward away all evil with this on my face, and no one would be able to take it away. An emblem of sacrifice, I would purify myself and rebuke all evil. This would be my shield. No one would take this from me.
My hallucinations worsened, and it was as if a murder of crows had pervaded the distance between the Scarecrow and I. The sounds of the Joker's laughs slowly blended in with the caws of the murder as he reentered the room.
All this stimulation suddenly made me want to die again. I don't know why I am here. I shouldn't be here. I don't belong here.
It is said that the crucifix rebukes all evil from the outside, but it should also ward all evil from within. It was like a window, if it showed the outside of the house, it would also show the inside. Inside, the truth of myself was that I was evil, and I was my own enemy. I had killed the Son of Batman, and his name was Jason. I wanted to evict the evil from my heart.
I couldn't live with what I'd done. Every breath felt like it was dragging me deeper into the pit I'd dug for myself. It wasn't just the guilt—it was the knowledge that I had betrayed Jason, someone who looked to me, someone who trusted me. I played my part, and now there was no way to undo it. I kept trying to tell myself there was a reason, that it wasn't all my fault, but the truth gnawed at me. I knew I had been the one to destroy him, to break something that could never be fixed. There's no forgiveness for that, no redemption.
I had played savior in taking his pain, but for all the wrong reasons. I would never be viewed as a savior, but as a killer. If I were to die right now, it would be with a burdened heart, but at least I did something memorable in life. I figured I would leave it at that, it was the least I deserved. Ending it would be the most memorable memory of me in this world.
The only way out, the only way to make it right, was to follow him into the dark.
I wanted to lie down with Jason, forever in death.
I plunged the glass into my chest, over and over, desperate to evict the evil from my heart. Blood poured out, and eventually my heart fell out in broken pieces, and the crows—those angels of death—settled on me, each one a witness to my final act.