SUICIDE SQUAD HARLEY QUINN AND JOKER IMAGINES

Flies and Peroxide

She was chained, still, even though it had been days, even though she had promised that she wouldn't run. The knife was gone, taken during the night, and her fingers were bloody and raw. The floor was an expression of her hatred, painted rotting Crimson by her scraping fingertips, the knife had been taken, and she had tried to claw her way out.

Joker hadn't replaced her food, he wouldn't until she ate it, so it sat on the tabletop, a foul odour emanating from the decay, flies had landed on the third day, now the food was a convulsing mass of unrecognisable food and maggots. He would make her eat that, eventually. Even after the maggots grew into flies, he would make her eat it.

Harley lay on her side, dragging the torn skin of her fingers across the wood, she was delirious, so far gone that she no longer felt pain. She pressed harder and after several heartbeats she felt an echo of the pain.

She needed water. But the bottle he gave her had a broken cap, which meant he had put something into it. She stared at it now, so thirsty that she didn't care. She lifted an arm for it, and the plastic moved as her fingers brushed it.

She stared up at the camera, wondering if he was watching, wondering if he was there at all. Then, bubbling from her throat, she started laughing. Laughing at herself, him, the whole world for all she knew. She rolled over, picked up the bottle, and threw it at the rotting good across the room. She smiled as the plate cracked across the floor, and as the flies swarmed in the air for a minute before landing back on their meal.

She sat up, and stared down at the shard of plate that sat next to her. She picked it up and it was wet with the digestive juices of the maggots, she looked up at the camera again, let another laugh rip itself from her lips, and drew the shard across her wrist.

She sat staring at the blood for a minute, two, then she lay down with her head on the bleeding arm, and stared at the colour against her skin as her eyes closed.

---
Was going to end it but that would be unfair.
---

It was a buzzing that woke her, incessant in its noise, she would hear it for a couple minutes, then it would disappear, then the noise would assault her again. Over and over. Insufferable.
Then she felt something touch her, small, light, and skimming across her arm. Her arm twitched and the buzzing began again.

Eventually Harley opened her eyes, all delirium gone, and pain became known. There was something on her finger, another on her arm, she sat up, then she screamed.

Flies.

On her fingers, on her arm, in her hair. They nested on her, in her. She lifted a shaking arm and when she stared she could see small specks of white between the dead skin of her finger. She hoped she was imagining it but she thought she could feel something moving in the cut.

She screamed.

When a fly landed on her arm she screamed louder.

She looked to the camera, looked into the camera, and called for him. She cried for him. The fly landed on her finger and Harley collapsed.

She woke up to a heart stopping second of white panic. Water, freezing, had been thrown over her body, she gasped awake, instantly jolting from the ground. Her eyes had snapped open and she met his gaze.

"Your hand."

Harley didn't respond, she only shivered and stared at him.

"What happened to your hand?"

"You can't keep me here. Not now. Not while I'm dying-"

"Jesus not this again."

"You can't keep me here, I-I'll kill myself- you know I've already tried. You can't keep me here."

He turned and left the room, face empty, he left the door open, purposely mocking her with an escape she could never master. He came back minutes later, a first aid bag in his hand.

"Give me your hand." He crouched beside her, hand out, welcoming.

"You can't keep me here." She tucked her injuries into her body, away from him, her nostrils flared and Harley tried to ignore the smell of her wounds, they were festering now, days must have passed, within a week gangrene would set in, and then there would be no stopping the death, she stared up at him, knowing that if he made her stay it would be her death.

"Give me your hand."

"You can't keep me here."

"Please," he looked away from her, "just give me your hand."

She could see it on his face, the anger slowly rising within him, she blinked at this, then opened her mouth and repeated her words.

"You can't keep me here."

He was on her in seconds, a knee in the crease of her elbow, he opened the first aid box and pulled out a bottle of peroxide.

She felt the liquid hit her skin only a second before the pain. The liquid entered into the festering wound and began to bubble, to sting, her scream became a gargle in her throat as she choked on her own tears. Pain. Stinging, throbbing. Pain.

She had used peroxide on cuts before, it killed the bacteria, it killed any infection, but this, her body, was more than an infection. This was a festering wound.
And the joker had just poured quarter a bottle onto her hand.

She closed her eyes, gasped for breath against the pain, felt her body spasm as she tried to get away, be he held tight, pushed all of his weight onto her arm. She felt tears fill her eyes and tried to swallow, but then he pulled apart the cut on her forearm and poured another splash straight into the open flesh.

Harley lost consciousness.

When she came too she was warm, and her arm was wrapped, a fly on the gauze, and she blew it away. She could still smell the rot in her body, and she lay still wet on the floor.

She had a fever.

Harley swore.