Patchwork

For hours after the Joker left her, Sarah lay on the floor, curled up in a ball, shaking. The multitude of cuts on her face burned, but she barely noticed. Her eyes stared blankly at the wall in front of her, her thoughts turned inward.

She knew how close she had come to a fate so horrible she didn’t even want to consider it. But she remembered the surge of anger, after the freak had cut her face, when she was ready to kill. She remembered, and she made up her mind that when he came back, she would be able to act on that impulse.

Finally, she uncurled herself, wincing at the pain in muscles aching from disuse. She felt her face gently. Even the careful touch of her fingers started some of the cuts oozing blood again. Her entire upper body was coated with a layer of dried blood that made her skin feel like leather. Her shirt was a gory mess, and the cuts on her chest that she could see looked like they needed stitches.

She cast her eyes around the room, coming out of herself slowly. She scanned the blank walls, the floor, the chairs. He had taken the camera away at some point, which disappointed her. It might have provided sharp parts for her to use as a weapon. She looked the room over once more, running her tongue over dry lips, and her eyes settled on the chairs.

Crawling over to them, she ran her hands over the one she had been tied to, still tipped over on the floor. It seemed spindly, but as she tested joints, she realized the joins were actually fairly strong. She tried pulling one of the legs off ineffectually. The rough wood dug into the scrapes on her palms, making her hands hurt. Climbing shakily to her feet, she held onto the seat with her hands and slammed one foot into the leg.

It splintered wonderfully, the largest part skittering across the floor. She gathered up the pieces, testing each one in her grip. She selected one that fit nicely in her hand and had a sharp, splintery point. Shoving the rest away, she straightened up, her hand tightening on her weapon.

Unwillingly, she chuckled, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Shivering, she turned away from the chair, still clutching her makeshift weapon. For a moment, she had sounded like the Joker. The thought made her curl her lip in disgust, which brought on a fresh wave of pain from her cuts.

Sarah made her aching way over to the corner opposite the door. She wanted walls at her back to protect her. Sitting down, she proceeded to stretch her aching limbs one at a time. Her hamstrings felt tight enough to string a bow, and her arms were tense. Her shoulders hurt when she stretched them, most likely from wrenching them earlier. In addition to her muscles pains and the ache of her cuts, the back of her head pounded viciously. She touched it gently, but found no blood, only tenderness.

Her muscles back in working order, she drew her knees up to her chest and waited, the sharp bit of wood grasped loosely at her side. When the Joker came back, she’d be ready.


--


Sarah was alone for hours on end. She slept some, catching catnaps still sitting in her corner. It wasn’t very restful sleep. She came awake at every tiny noise, real or imagined. Once she heard something being dragged outside the heavy metal door, something that thumped against it as it passed. No one entered, though, and she was left alone for what felt like almost a full day.

She was staring at her knees when she finally heard the door to her cell creak open. Looking up, she saw the Joker closing the door behind him, watching her as he did. She stood up, careful to hide the sharp piece of wood behind her arm. He smiled.

“Happy to see me, sweetcakes? I’m touched.” He spotted the chair she’d broken for her weapon and circled it, clucking. “Have a little burst of temper did we? Did you miss me that much?”

His eyes came up, locking on hers as he crossed the room. The steely gaze Sarah gave him had no hint of the fear she felt, only the anger smoldering in her heart. When he reached her, he put an arm on either side of her, trapping her between his body and the walls. She didn’t flinch.

“Let’s pick up where we left off.”

Sarah’s mouth curled in rage as her anger burst into flame. She brought her makeshift weapon up fast, snarling as she plunged it toward his throat. He caught her by the wrist a mere inch from his windpipe. His eyes took on a cruel glint as he twisted her wrist outward, turning it until she yelled with the pain. He peeled the pointed stick out of her hand easily, keeping her arm painfully bent.

“Not in the mood?” he asked, tossing her only defense onto the floor behind him. Sarah just winced in pain. She wanted desperately to hit him, but the still aching cuts on her face warned her against it.

The Joker wrenched her around, dragging her until he was behind her, his arms pinning hers to her sides and his hands holding her wrists captive. His body was pressed against her back, and his breath was heavy on her neck and ear.

“That’s all right. How about a little foreplay?” he growled, his lips just brushing her left ear. “Why don’t you tell me how you got that scar on your shoulder, hmm?”

Sarah wriggled, testing the strength of his arms. They were like steel against her weakened muscles, and her movements only made him tighten his grip. Thinking hard, she would not allow herself to panic again. When the Joker grabbed her, he’d turned her away from the wall. In front of her on the floor, not six feet away, was the piece of wood she’d tried to stab him with. If she could just find a way to reach it...

She let her muscles relax. All she had to do was distract the Joker, lure him into thinking she wouldn’t run. When his guard was down, she’d tear free, grab the weapon, and stab him right in his twisted little heart.

“Skiing accident,” she replied to his question. Her voice had just a hint of a tremor, the only evidence of her fear.

The Joker’s silence was expectant.

“The first time I went downhill skiing, I ran into a tree. One of the branches went through my shoulder.”

The Joker’s exhale was a hiss of pleasure. He transferred both of her wrists to one hand, using the other to brush the tatters of her shirt off her shoulder. She felt his breath move to the right side of her neck, brushing her shoulder as he peered at the scar. His fingers ran over it, his calloused hands rough against the sensitive scar tissue. Sarah struggled to suppress her revulsion. She turned her head away.

“And the one on your knee?” His voice was nearly a purr as he brushed her hair away from the side of her face.

Her hesitation was marked. She had no intention of telling him the truth, that she and her high school friends had thought it would be exciting to go slumming in the Narrows. It was fun for all of five minutes, until a man with a knife threatened them. They ran away, down an alley, and had to jump a chain link fence to escape. Her friends, wearing pants, scaled it easily. Sarah, on the other hand, was wearing a skirt. She got stuck for a moment too long at the top of the fence, and the man had had time to slice her knee open before she could escape. Her friends never stopped or even looked back when she screamed.

The Joker’s lips brushed her ear, whispering, “Tell me.”

“Knee surgery.”

He threw back his head and laughed. Sarah cringed, hunching her shoulders to protect herself as much as possible.

“Liar,” he hissed delightedly. “Would you like to know how I got mine?”

Sarah shook her head.

The Joker pulled her in tighter to him, whispering into her ear.

“When I was a teenager, I worked as a clown in a traveling circus.” Sarah closed her eyes tightly, trying not to hear. “The tattooed lady and I were ve-ry close, and her husband didn’t like it. One night after they’d had a fight, she stayed over in my trailer. Her husband came over the next morning and found her there. He,” the Joker licked his lips, and Sarah felt the smile on his face grow. “Was the knife thrower. He took one of his very fa-vo-rite knives and killed her. Then he came to me, put the knife in the corner of my mouth and said, ‘Come on, clown. Where’s your smile?’”

The last words were a coarse growl. Sarah shivered slightly, feeling the sick amusement radiating from him. Her eyes opened, and she turned her head enough to see him.

“Now who’s the liar?”

He tossed his head back and laughed, and Sarah seized her chance. She ripped away from him, stumbling, falling, and sliding across the floor to where the ragged piece of wood lay. The skin on her knees tore and bled, but she lurched to her feet and faced the Joker, gripping her makeshift weapon like a knife.

“Bravo,” he said mockingly, clapping his hands slowly. “But tell me...” He approached her, taking slow steps, as she backed up. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a knife whose blade glinted with sharpness. “What exactly is it you’re planning to do?”

Sarah licked her lips nervously, eyes darting toward the door. He’d hit on the crux of her problem; she didn’t know what to do. If she could make it to the door, she might escape, but to what? A roomful of his cronies, probably. She wouldn’t be able to kill him; the element of surprise was gone. And if she hit him, but didn’t kill him, he might cut her face again. Her free hand brushed over the semi-healed gashes on her face, remembering the pain.

The Joker tossed his knife from hand to hand, slowly backing her up. When one of her feet hit the wall, she knew she was in trouble. She tried to edge sideways, and he blocked her.

“What do you think is going to happen here, sweet pea? Hmm?” he demanded, still approaching. “Do you really think your dear uncle is going to come riding in here on a white horse to save you? He’s not.”

Sarah shook her head forcefully, trying not to hear.

“Or maybe you think his precious Commissioner Gordon is going to charge through that door, guns blazing?” He chuckled meanly. “Or maybe you expect to be rescued by the Batman.”

She felt tears welling up in her eyes. She tried to suppress them, tried to believe that someone was coming for her. But in this stark room, trapped with a psychopath, she just couldn’t make herself believe it. Maybe no one was coming. Maybe they were going to leave her here, stuck with this maniac, for him to do whatever he wanted. And when he was done, he’d kill her. The tears spilled over, running down her cheeks.

The Joker plucked the piece of wood from her unresisting hand. He leaned one hand against the wall, putting his face within inches of hers.

“They’re. Not. Coming.”

“They are!” Sarah sobbed.

“No,” he replied, his voice almost soothing. “They’re not. And tomorrow night, your time is up.”

Her legs collapsed, and she sank to the floor, looking into the Joker’s face pleadingly. He reached down, running a finger along her lips before turning away. Without a word, he walked to the door, opened it, and left. Sarah heard the click of a lock, and her eyes dropped to the floor. Deep inside, she felt like her heart might break.