Damaged Beyond Repair (Joker Fanfiction)

Chapter Two: Escape

Over the next few days, I started to get used to the routine around Arkham. The guards came by with breakfast early in the morning, and then they'd come again at lunch, followed by dinner. Then, a few hours after that, came therapy sessions. The man that called himself "J" would be led out soon after dinner was served, and then a few moments later a guard would come to get me.

My therapist was nice enough, although I felt like a caged zoo animal when she asked me questions. It was always revolving around why I killed the man. I told her over and over again that it was because I wanted him to be punished for his crimes, but I don't think she ever believed me. Instead, she seemed to be under the impression that I hadn't been taking my meds and that I had been hallucinating that I'd seen the man I'd dubbed as the "murderer" walking down the street, and that I'd completely lost control and stabbed him to death, under the false impression that he was going to hurt me. It didn't seem to matter what I said to refute this, because her mind was made up and she was convinced that I'd murdered an innocent man. I knew I hadn't though.

After the therapy sessions I'd be led back to my cell, sometimes allowed to shower on the way, and then I'd be locked up again until the routine repeated itself all over again the next morning.

I always tried to glance over at my neighbor's cell when I was brought back from my therapy session, but he was never there. Presumably still in therapy, I guessed. He always returned to his cell a few moments after I had already been secured in my own cell.

As the days passed, J and I began getting along rather well, and I came to find that I considered him somewhat of a friend. I longed to put a face to his name, but there was no way I could ever catch a glimpse of his face, try as I might.

"What do you look like?" I asked one evening, after both of us had returned from our therapy sessions. My question was answered with a laugh, as usual, before he spoke.

"Trust me, you wouldn't want to know what I look like," he responded, and I could tell he was smiling.

"But I do!" I protested. "I've been talking to you for these past few weeks and I still don't know what you look like."

"You'll find out soon enough Cara." I always shivered when he said my name. "Until then, you just sit tight and be patient now, hm?"

"Okay..." I hadn't asked what he meant by that, sensing that he'd tell me when he was ready. That's how things were with him.

And so the routine continued. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, therapy, possibly a shower, and then sleep. Every waking hour I spent talking to J or staring at the wall in silence, both of us listening to the other breathe. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get him to speak much about himself or his past. He seemed content with just asking questions about me and my personal life, which I dutifully answered. There was only one question I shied away from, but of course, eventually, he got me to answer it.

"How many people have you killed?" he asked curiously.

"Just one..." I whispered in a small voice, biting my lip nervously.

"One? Well that's no fun," he chuckled. It made me wonder what his idea of fun was. "Why did you kill him?" He continued, seeming genuinely interested.

"I'd...rather not talk about it," I sighed, not wanting to relive the memory of my brother's death.

"Oh, come on, I'm curious, and plus, you've gotta get it off your chest to someone," he purred, his voice strangely alluring.

"Okay...well I stabbed him to death after he killed my brother. He walked off a free man because the police couldn't find any evidence, so I took matters into my own hands." I explained most of the story, and he was silent, only asking a few questions here and there.