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Post by Nikki on Mar 15, 2009 0:36:47 GMT
His presence in the room is like lightning. It takes me a really long time to fall asleep.
I can hear the discussion about the Harvey Dent campaign on the evening news, turned down low. It's so. .. weird to see a man who is more obsessed with bringing the world to its knees than bringing a woman to hers.
What's even scarier is: I would. Anything, anything for this ruined stranger and his masked charade. Anything. . .destruction. Chaos. Murder. Theft. Self abuse.
Anything.
I would be happy to die by his hand, content to wear his bruises, overjoyed to spend countless evenings licking my countless open wounds. It is more than love.
It's obsession.
And it's unnerving how, after a long day of wreaking havoc upon the townspeople, this villain wants nothing from his servant, his partner in crime. Not one inch of her skin, not one second of her touch.
I try to picture his wife in my head. Pretty. Probably dark-haired.
Probably very different from me.
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Post by boo radley on Mar 16, 2009 20:59:51 GMT
I look over, out of the corner of my eye. Harley is trying not to sleep, it looks like. It’s as if her eyes are fighting a battle against sleep itself, waging a war against the unavoidable.
Temporarily.
Because when unavoidable meets the inexcusable… nothing can stop anything from happening.
I look at the publicist’s face closely on the television screen. The name being flashed above was Allan Cypes.
That Allan Cypes wouldn’t be seeing the light of day, come tomorrow. No, he’d be flooded in complaints against Harvey Dent’s honest and clear campaign.
Complaints against the mob.
Complaints against the mafia.
Complaints against me.
Ha, ha, ha.
Sometimes life is very funny.
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Post by Nikki on Mar 16, 2009 23:02:24 GMT
There's the thoughts, his haunting me, and the voices.
But there's also fatigue, and after a while of thinking, my body shuts down.
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Post by boo radley on Mar 20, 2009 8:11:08 GMT
(sorry it took so long)
Now I'm struggling not to sleep. I can't afford to have the nightmares that keep me up. But what can I do? I already hear screams in the distance. They're all a bit too familiar. I wonder.......
Of course.
They're my screams. A collected unit from mixed parts of my past.
Laughing usually always helps.
This time it doesn't.
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Post by Nikki on Mar 20, 2009 21:55:32 GMT
Something shakes me out of sleep.
He's giggling quietly to himself in the chair.
I tremble and hug my knees to my chest.
Men stiffening on the kitchen floor.
"Bad dreams?" I whisper to him, if only to get that laugh to stop.
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Post by boo radley on Mar 22, 2009 18:06:10 GMT
I shake my head. Tears are coming fast, but they're not like a whimp's tears. They're just a triggered reaction to laughing so hard.
As I said, laughing doesn't help.
I hear the screams get louder. All at the same time, hard to distinct between them, but yet I know exactly what each one says:
"Daddy, daddy please! Daddyyyyy! DADDY PLEASE, NO! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"Please, please, don't, please don't make me leave! I need this job, I need it, don't kick me out! You have no idea! My wife, my wife, she's pregnant, she needs the money, we need the money..."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! SHIT! IT'S THE BATMAN! What the FUCK is HE doing here? Why's he screwing around with MY plans? No one screws with the Red Hood... NO ONE!"
"OH, PLEASE, DON'T PLEEEEEASE DON'T HURT ME, STOP IT, STOP! STOP, I HAVE A WIFE TO GO HOME TO!! PLEASE!"
"Don't leave me, please don't leave me, I love you, I love you, I love..."
The pain dissolves sometimes. But when memories attack you, there's no going back.
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Post by Nikki on Mar 22, 2009 23:27:17 GMT
"Oh, God, hey. . ." My bare feet hit the carpeted floor in response to his choked laughter, and I fumble my way over to him in the dark, kneel next to him, and place a hand on the side of his cheek, feeling the stickiness of his make up mixed with his tears on my fingers.
I'm disoriented and not thinking straight. If I was more awake, I would have held this back, but at this time of night it felt natural. .. instinctual, if you will. As if it were my job to do this. Like it was right.
I wasn't thinking about whether he thought of me in any way at all, whether my touch would anger him or not. And my heart pounds a little harder as this registers.
I don't expect him to be mad, though. I don't know what's going through his head right now.
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Post by boo radley on Mar 26, 2009 0:58:21 GMT
In the darkness I feel a touch to my scar. It's warm, it's soft. It's.... almost like a little touch of sweetness.
It had to be Harley.
And Harley was touching my scars.
I sniffled as I stopped my crying. "You're really in for this, aren't you?" Is she?
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Post by Nikki on Mar 27, 2009 3:13:39 GMT
I've been waiting for a bruise, but this is what he gives me instead. And there isn't a verbal answer to that question; nothing strong enough, anyway.
It's unclear to me how many times I've thought about doing this in the past eight hours, but my heart knows. And it's thrashing violently, trying to escape my chest.
I'm in this for you, boss. But hell, am I sure in it deep.
My fingers gently trace the scars on the right side of his mouth- the skin rises and falls in awkward little bumps, but it is almost silky. And I lean dangerously closer to him, so our lips are almost touching.
Make me the shape of anarchy.
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Post by boo radley on Mar 30, 2009 2:42:58 GMT
I move my face. Not ready for this right now. "Get me a gun."
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