Killer's Kid [Ledger Joker Story]

People always ask me if I'm okay. All it takes is a fake smile to hide my broken soul. But trust me, I may look happy but honestly dear, the only way I'll really smile is if you cut me ear to ear.

Sixteen-year-old Lucy Quinzel was locked into Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane after viciously murdering two hundred innocent people. But it wasn't entirely Lucy's fault, it's the voices. There are two sides of Lucy: the child and the cold-hearted killer.



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6. Chapter Three: Fly Away Little Bird

First Person, POV: Lucy Quinzel

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"All damaged people are dangerous. Survival makes them so. "Why?" Because they have no pity. They know what others can survive, as they did." -Josephine Hart

<><><>

Seven thousand, one hundred ninety-two... seven thousand, one hundred ninety-three... seven thousand, one hundred ninety-four-- Two hours. I lounged across the padded cell floor, immersed in silence, for two hours. It was as if someone had held a remote to Earth and pressed the mute button. I opened my mouth to says something, just to reassure myself that it was possible to even make noise. But I couldn't bring myself to say anything, it was as if the lumps in my throat were blocking the words from pouring through my gritted teeth. The only thing stopping me from drowning in the thick silence of prison, was the counting.

I yearned for attention, just someone to talk to. Security guards had dragged J to electroconvulsive therapy after J shoved his fist down the guards throat. His response to his actions was that he wanted to see if his hand could reach the other end.

The familiar sound of maniacal laughter echoed through my cell, my heart skipped a beat as the laughter rung in my ears. I jerked myself upright, every hair on my arms stood straight up. The sound of footsteps grew louder as the laughter died down. 

"Luce..." J hissed from the hallway as he passed my cell. 

"Shut it inmate!" A security guard demanded.

"Cool it spazz." J grunted as the guard threw J into the the padded floor of his cell. The guard locked J's door and left us alone. "So Luce," J cackled, "ya miss me?" His high-pitched snickering passed through the vent. "Were ya just dying of-uh, boredom without me?" His condescending tone towered over me, casting a shadow over my frail body.

I scoffed, "You wish J!" I stifled my laughter, "Whadda 'bout you, how was the-uh, shock therapy?"

"Quite shocking!" He giggled at his lame joke, "But really," his voice became stern, "these doctors are just so fun." 

I squirmed in the figure-hugging straight jacket that the guards had forced me into after the mishap with J occurred. The new rule was that every inmate must be wearing a straight jacket when unsupervised. 

"Jesus kid, can-uh, ya ever stand still?" He chuckled aloud, the buckles of his straight jacket clinked together as his chest bobbed up and down. I ignored his commentary as I continued to fidget in the jacket. 

"Hey Lucy," J cooed through the vent, "ya wanna play therapy?"

"Alright... but I don't want to be the patient." I negotiated.

"Too bad," He laughed, "I get to pick at your brain before you get to peak at mine, seniority rules." I rolled my eyes at his statement but didn't argue. He took my silence as an answer and began.

"So-uh, Lucy... Lil' Luce, hows your parents? Visit them often?" He giggled, "Or just during the holidays?"

"None of your damn business." I spat venomously,

He mocked, "Touchy-er, subject?" He continued his fit of giggles, "Don't worry doll, I wasn't really interested." He uttered carelessly and skipped to the next question.

"Why are ya, locked up in the madhouse?" He meddled.

"Because I got caught." I proclaimed. I tried to act bored or at least play it cool, but truthfully, I was having a blast. I loved the attention. 

"For doing what?" He laughed, "Ya blow up some toilets? Graffiti potty words on a building? Swear in front of your grandma?" I smirked at his remarks.

"No, I-uh-" I giggled, "killed some-uh, people."

"Well how many?" He chortled in amusement, "Did they... deserve it?"

"I'm not really sure, I kinda lost count." I grumbled, "Last number I heard, Gordon-uh, told me one hundred and fifty-two, but I've killed 'bout eighty in the past couple months." I paused trying to contain my maniacal laughter, "I'm not exactly sure if they deserved it... most were just at the wrong place at the wrong time, people give me the most shit about the kids."

"Kids?"

"The children that I've killed, it-uh, seems to upset people, I dunno."

"Well that's just cold-hearted, even for a guy like me. I leave the kiddies outta it." He smirked, "Unless if it's for comedic purposes, then it's a must." He sighed with lust, "It just upsets them because they're scared, because they know if you have the balls to kill a kid, then you'll-uh, murder them with out battin' an eye."

"Whadda 'bout you, Lucy?" He cooed with a devilish grin, "What are you scared of? What keeps you up at night?"

"I'm not scared of anything." I defended, there was no way that I was going to let this lunatic know my one true fear.

"Oh c'mon Lucy," He smiled innocently, "everyone's scared of somethin'"

"Well I'm not," I lied as I heard a scoff escaped from the vent.

"Even I'm scared of something." He taunted, "Hell! Even Batman is scared of something."

"Batman," I mocked, "I have no idea why you find him so intriguing."

"What's not to love?" He giggled, "He's just a ball of pure energy!"

"God," I mumbled, "you're so fuckin' crazy." 

"Not crazy, darling, just ahead of the curve." He stated sternly, "And besides, aren't you the one with those lovely voices in your head." I stopped giggling, I raise an eyebrow in suspicion. I had never told a living soul that I had voices in my head.

"What's the matter... cat gotcha tongue?" He joked, I remained silent. "Well don't be so serious, only the best crazies have those lil' bastards campin' out in their head."

"I thought you said your not crazy."

"Crazy people don't know their crazy. I know I'm crazy, so-uh, therefore I'm not crazy." I laughed at his twisted logic, "Some would even go as far as calling me sane."

"Oh really?" I mocked, "And who says that? The voices in your head?"

"Precisely!" He cheered, "Now you're getting the hang of it!" Once again, I rolled my eyes.

<><><>Time Change<><><>

A black ink ballpoint pen. I giggled at the humorous idea. It was quite hilarious to think that my day turned from dullsville to the most enjoyable sort of batshit craziness all because of a writing utensil. I also found it funny how a little misunderstanding could've caused all this... destruction

It wasn't my fault. All I wanted to do was draw picture, just a doodle. But no, the guards just had to make a big fuss about me possessing a "prohibited life threatening device" I've never heard anyone call a pen a "prohibited life threatening device", as far as I was concerned it was just a cheap writing instrument. But me being me, now all I can think of is the gruesome ways to slaughter someone with a pen. A pen will forever now be everything but a pen.

If my assigned security guard, Jagger, would've just minded his own damn business, I wouldn't be in this absurd predicament and I then wouldn't have killed four Arkham employees. Like I said, it wasn't my fault.

<><><>Rewind 10 minutes<><><>

I sprawled out on the padded floor of the dark and grungy cell. I laid on my stomach as my left hand supported my head upright while the other hand examined the beautiful gift I had swiped off of my previous cell visitor. Resting on the floor was a crumpled sheet of binder paper that I had snatched from Dr. Arkham's notepad. In my hand, I fiddled with a glossy ebony-colored ballpoint pen, this too was a past possession of Dr. Arkham. Though he didn't seem to miss the pen. Hell, he hadn't even noticed it's absence, because if he had I would be in shock therapy right now.

I pressed the point of the pen against the creamy-white colored paper. My eye twitched in anticipation. A comical question circled around in my brain like a broken record, why am I so obsessed with this stupid pen? But it wasn't the question itself that was such a damn gut-buster. What I found so hysterical, so rib-tickling, was the reason why the question was on a infinite loop in my twisted little mind. I knew the answer, but the answer didn't matter. It was the question. The question, nothing but the question, was replaying in my mind for what seemed like the millionth time. 

The paper was almost as mesmerizing as the pen. I always liked the word paper. It was a short word with countless possibilities. For I could do whatever I pleased with the paper. If I was clever enough I could fold it into a crane, crumple it into a basketball, doodle stunning pictures, scribble down my wide vocabulary of profanity words, or ink down poetry. But I didn't do any of these simple tasks, instead I gawked at the pen. Because the pen was all the mattered. 

I held the pen in my trembling hand, the cool surface of the writing utensil shot an electric wave of excitement through my bones. I clicked the point into place as I flattened the paper out with my palms. I drew a deep breath as butterflies flutter carelessly in my stomach. I knew I was going to mess it up, I never do anything right.

I pressed the nib of the pen on the smooth paper as the possibilities overwhelmed me,"Don't fuck it up." I murmured coldly to myself. I drew air into my lungs one last time before I began. I steadily dragged the point of the pen along the white surface, a trail of sable ink followed the nib of the pen as I moved the tip of the pen in swift, smooth motions.

"Stop." I whisper faintly to myself. I had lost control, and my hand didn't stop. "Stop!" I cry in panic, once again my hand ignores me. I stared wide-eyed at the shapes I was unintentionally creating, I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't have a plan, I didn't know what I was even drawing. "Stop!" I bellow this time taking my free hand and swatting the pen out of my defiant hand. I looked down at the paper, shocked at what I saw. 

Drawn onto the paper was a beautiful drawing of sparrow, the bird's feathered wings stretched out in flight. It's short, rounded beak faced down as if it was plunging down to snatch it's defenseless prey from their feet. Each feather drawn individually. It was the most astonishing picture I had ever seen... but I had ruined it. Slashed across the bird was a diagonal line, I must have created the mark when I struck the pen free from my grasp. I had killed the bird. 

Tears streamed from my eyes as laughter escaped from my lips. Once again, I had fucked it up. If only had I waited. If I had waited I would have a picture of an elegant sparrow, a true piece of art. Now all I have is a piece of trash.

As I forced another maniacal cackle a loud knock struck my door. "Quiet inmate!" Jagger ordered from the outside. I ignored his futile demand as my laughter and sobs mixed together in fusion.  I heard the clicks of the locks, Jagger stormed into the cell as I laid recklessly on the padded floor, rolling around in hysteria.

Jagger sauntered towards me with a jet-black baton raised above his head, he forced the baton down as it struck the base of my rib cage. I strained a smile as he glanced down at me with his dark orbs. He raised an eyebrow as he swung his baton at me repeatedly, he chuckled as rosy welts appeared on the surface of my body. 

"Cool it Jagger!" I looked away from Jagger, standing in the doorway was four masked security guards. Jagger removed him eyes from me and glanced at the guards, he smirked and placed the baton back in his utility belt.

"Aw c'mon Jagger, don't let these-uh, downers ruin the fun." Jagger cocked an eyebrow but didn't show any more aggression. I sighed, "Can't rely on anyone these days... ya gotta do everything yourself."

I shot up from the ground and lunged forward, knocking the nearest guard over, who toppled onto the other three. They all stumbled around on the floor in disunion as Jagger charged forward. I held out my hand and struck him in the nose with the base of my palm. His head snapped back and he hit the floor. "Hold your horses Jag, I'm tryin' to clear the room." I snatched the pen from the floor and impaled the pen into a guards neck. Blood poured from his lips as he choked on his own crimson fluid. Two guards sprung to their feet and rushed towards me. At the last second I stepped away, one ran into the wall while I grabbed the other by his head. I jerked his head in an unnatural way and heard a pleasing crunch. His body grew limp and he dropped to the ground. The two remaining guards switched the blade of their knives into place, "Thank God, I was startin' to think you guys were no fun at all."

The two guards simultaneously jabbed their knives in my direct, one blade pierced my left arm while the other missed. I grabbed an arm from each guard and pulled them to the ground. I raised my right knee and smashed one guard's face in. Blood splattered in all directions, red fluid dribbled down the remaining guard's face as he watched in horror as I murdered his friend.

I then directed my eyes down at the remaining guard. I giggled at the sight of him, his thin pink lips quivered in fear, his friend's blood dripped down his terrorized face, and long strands of pitch-black hair were matted to his sweaty forehead. "Well, well, well," I tutted, "look who it is, lil' Johnny, looks like you'll never keep your promise." 

The guard lying on the floor was Johnny, a familiar face from my last stay at Arkham. Though he was just a mere cadet when I saw him last. I used to taunt him when I saw him wandering the hallways. The day before I escaped Arkham he had promised me that he would leave Arkham as the chief of security. In response I laughed, because Aaron Cash is chief of security. I don't even mess with Aaron Cash, so that should tell you something.

I pressed the heel of my foot to Johnny's Adam's apple, his eyes bulged and face reddened as he sputtered for air. I applied more pressure as his face grew a light shade of blue. Then all at once, his resistance stopped. Twenty-three year old Johnny Slew was dead.

I kicked the dead bodies aside as Jagger finally staggered to his feet. Surprisingly, he showed no sign of aggression. Instead he picked up his mask that had flown off and shuffled out of my cell. He didn't dare to glance at the corpses. He shut the door behind him and locked it. 

Then ever so faintly I heard him murmur, "You had your fun freak, have a nice night."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Hey peoples! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter even though it took my FOREVER to update. I kept on adding more and more until I had to create another plot chart to plan out the chapter. IT WAS REALLY FRUSTRATING! If only you could see my five pages of notes. Just in case you didn't catch on, yes, the paper and pen holds some symbolism. ~W4WUMBO xoxo

Appreciation to the lovely Jaime King that plays Lucy Quinzel<3

 
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