Crazy For You ∆Under Construction∆

4.Sing The Body Electric

Opening my eyes is like fighting through a thick fog, my eyelids are heavy, difficult to force open and when I do, my vision is badly blurred. From head to toe I ache, down to the marrow of my bones. Shaking my head, I blink several times to clear away the mist and attempt to raise myself to a sitting position. The key word here being attempt.

Something holds me, weighing me down like an invisible force to the surface beneath me, my arms and legs feel heavy as if my bone marrow aches because it's been replaced with mercury. My heart rate picks up, driving the organ against my chest like a jackhammer on concrete, my breath becomes shallow and I fight desperately to break free. But my struggle is useless, whatever binds me is strong and unyielding.

Raising my head requires more effort than it should, but I push that thought to the back of my mind, all my energy devoted to the task. When my head is finally high enough to assess the situation, the sight I find is heart wrenching, terrifying, absolutely terrifying, Thick leather straps encircle my wrists and ankles, binding me to what appeared to be a operation table.

An operating table . . . ?

It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. The only place you find operating tables now a days are hospitals, emergency rooms, places where the sick go for treatment. And if I'm right, this place hadn't seen a patient in decades.

There were just two small windows crusted over with dust and grime, blocking out all forms of light from the outside. Everything wears a thick coat of dust from the ancient cabinets that line the wall to the decaying radiator by the door. I strain to see the checkered tiles, broken, scratched and littered with bits of plaster, glass, and debris; but it's not long before my strength fails me. Forced to lay back, I heave a fatigued sigh and stare at the water stained ceiling.

So I've been hospitalized . . . in an abandoned hospital, strapped to a table as if I were about to go under the knife. It all added up to a very clear picture of something gruesome in my immediate future. I'm not left with my thoughts for much longer.

Minutes later, a haunting, familiar laugh echoed from down the hall, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end and my breath to hitch. And with that sound I remember, I remember everything prior to this moment, the events that lead me here.

That stupid red light

The hill overlooking the chemical plant

Leaving my car door open

His chilling laugh

And his hands that cutting of the flow off life force

I am in the hands of Gotham's Clown Prince and whatever the man had in mind wouldn't be good.

Craning my neck as far back as I can, I angle my head to face the door, doing so is nearly painful but I ignore it. Why I felt the need to see the person enter is beyond me, it isn't like I didn't know who will emerge. Even now, my hair annoys me, the wild curls finding their way into my eyes. I blow the strands out of the way just in time to see him, The Joker, standing in the doorway.

He arrives shirtless clad in just some low hanging black sweatpants and a pair of purple latex gloves. I swallow, staring at the crocodilian smile that greets me above his waistline, for a span of time I don't keep track of. The Joker clears his throat drawing my eyes to trail over his name stamped across his torso to his pectoral with the words Ha scrawled over and over like a flock of ravens. Above the flock, a deck of cards lay across the space of his shoulder and neck, the spade at its center holds the image of a skull. Finally, my gaze settles on his face, with his lips pulled back in a sneer.