Joker Imagines | Heath Ledger

Alone in the Dark

They were close enough now for you to tell that their masks were just as bizarre in nature as their laughter. They were Halloween clown masks, almost like they'd been purchased at the supermarket. The sharp lines of the clown makeup cut through the darkness like a knife and your legs shook as you fought the urge to run. If you ran, they'd shoot you dead. But if you stayed put, you faced the same fate only slower. You grimaced and tried not to cry. You had to make a decision. No one could help you now. You bitterly realized that you had never once felt so utterly alone than in that moment. You'd been alone most of your life it seemed like, but not once had you ever noticed. Not until now.

The fire escape ladder groaned in protest underneath the extra weight of a person walking down. As horrific as it sounded in your own brain, it sounded as if there were a spring in their step as they descended. The silhouette glided off the bottom step and turned around. Their coat fluttered in the frigid winter wind but this newcomer seemed unfazed by what Gotham's weather forecast had to offer, "seems a wholelot of trouble justfor a few thousands, wouldn't everyone agree?"

From their voice, it was clear the newcomer was male. It was that very voice that could make people irreversibly sick the longer they heard it. Nothing in your wildest dreams, well nightmares, could conjure up a sadistic drawl like that. A tone so lighthearted and almost jovial that it became sinister, backed up with sharp, cutting syllables and flicks of the tongue at each exaggerated word.

The light just barely reached the toes of the man's boots. His goons had been nodding at his words, one of them still clutching the duffel of cash. It was vile how they cackled, sharing a laugh like one you might share with close friends after one of them had told a particularly funny joke. But the laughing was cut short by the sound of two piercing gunshots and both goons fell backwards onto the cold pavement. You put a hand over your mouth to silence your gasp of surprise.

Three more goons appeared from the shadows, surrounding the man who had just shot his own cronies in cold blood. From point blank range. You didn't want to be here witnessing this.

You waited. Waited for your chance. You just needed a small enough of a window in order to run. Wait for them to get distracted and run. Run. Just run.

The man took one step, the light revealing the leg of his purple trousers now spattered with little red flecks of blood. His presence was menacing. He must've been at least six feet tall, but was thin and lanky, like he hadn't had a good meal his entire life. The long trench coat he wore bulked up his figure, but the way his muscles jumped and bunched together showed a difference in his body-type that he was quite possibly trying to hide. Perhaps it wasn't his body-type at all. Was that blood coming from beneath his coat?

You stuttered out a gasp as he came into the light. His greasy, cheaply-dyed green hair reached his shoulders and hung in his face, bright against the stark white greasepaint on his face. Unlike his goons, he wore no mask. His face was painted, like warpaint, but warped and cracked in places from the applicant's poor choice of redoing it over the old stuff, coupled with the sweat and grease that threatened to take it off on its own. The creases in his forehead were void of the white paint and it was beginning to come off at the sides as well. His eyes appeared sunken in like a skeleton where the area had been painted black; a smokey eye gone horribly, morbidly wrong. Those piercing eyes shifted and he turned. His lips were a crude red color, cut sharp across his face and coating the terrifying scars at the corners of his bloody lips. A bloody smile...

Your pulse throbbed and your heart was in your throat. Whoever he was, he meant business. You just hoped he had no business with you at all.

He inhaled and set his jaw, picked up one of the assault rifles the corpse at his feet had dropped and held it loosely at his side, "now," his blood-red mouth split into a maniacal grin and those wicked fingers twisted on the gun. He could play that weapon like it was a piano, "get me that girl."