The first time Clara was introduced to the world of sex when she was eight, by her own grandfather. Unlike her parents, the old man was not involved with drugs, had a reputable life teaching English Literature at Harvard, projecting the future that she could have had if Clara's mother had never met her husband and followed the steps of an addict.
Granddaddy loved his little rebel, that's what he kept constantly saying. She was such a great, good girl. She would never follow her mother's steps, would she? No, the girl would never do that. Not a chance, right, sweetie?
Clara's grandfather used to take her to his house every weekend, where she was treated like a little princess, the future queen. His maids looked after her when Clara played in the garden, or when she did her minor experiments in the kitchen, never interfering, just smiling brightly and cheerfully when the girl threw a look their way. But Clara was not an actual royal, and the old man kept saying that if she wanted to pretend to be one, there was a price to pay. A tiny, irrelevant price for her loving granddaddy.
He explained how a girl can satisfy a man in the simplest way. Move your hand up and down, honey, and squeeze occasionally. Caress them like the greatest treasure. Good. Good, honey. Such a talented girl. A quick learner.
By the time when Clara was ten, she and her grandfather had an established routine. The girl would be at granddad's on Friday, Saturday and Sunday every week. He would pick her after school. Clara ate lunch with the old man sitting next to her, occasionally asking questions about school, friends, never about his own daughter. The little girl, despite growing in a hardly reputable house herself, knew what being polite meant to the outer society, and had developed her artificial manners. When she would finish her meal, the old man took her to his huge library. It smelled like wood, leather and books. He would sit on a large leather armchair, motion to Clara with his large, long-fingered and elegant hand, and wait patiently till the little girl neared him.
After two years, she already knew what to do. Lowering herself down in front of her granddad, Clara would loosen his belt and with cold, controlled face free the old man's organ, which had already started hardening. Then, just like he had taught her, the girl moved her small hand up and down with an occasional gentle squeeze until grandfather started grunting with his penis vibrating, continuously being stimulated by the granddaughter's hand. With an emotionless face, she would watch and endure it, and only in those steely, cool eyes the disgust, aversion shone when thick, white spurts escaped from underneath her bony fingers. Good girl. You did so well. So good. Granddaddy is so proud of you, honey.
The same routine would last the whole weekend. Every day at three P.M. Clara would patiently wait in the large library, stiff but determined, for her grandfather to pay his little lady a visit.
One day, wandering around his large property, the girl noticed something laying on the ground, small and nearly invisible, piping silently underneath a large oak.
Nearing the place, Clara found a baby bird, fallen out of his nest. Too tiny to fly, it was doomed to die in the mouth of a predator - a cat, a hungry rodent, predatory bird or any other small fry. Following some weird voice in her head, the girl picked up this pathetic creature, holding it gently between her long fingers. The bird was covered in soft, fine feathers, its little wings, too weak to hold his own body weight in the air, fluttered aimlessly against Clara's hands. The girl stared at it, cold eyes not giving out any emotion, just following the movement of her own fingers in concentration. Little after little, she started squeezing the creature in her hands, peeping increasing with every second, grip tightening, steely orbs watching.
She didn't hear a snap, didn't feel a burst of the bird's tiny organs. No, the only thing that the girl felt was a vibration. A warm body in her hands, vibrating, giving out, relieving itself, twitching slightly, providing the same feeling as her grandfather's penis, when his semen seeped out of its end. Closing those freezing orbs of hers, Clara allowed herself to pretend that it was her granddad, who she squeezed the life out of. A gentle, clean death, no violence, just... A vibration.
Laying on her stomach, back half-covered and warm fingers tracing the patterns of a crocodile on her back, the present Clara stared through the window at a dark, starless sky, deep in thought. The Joker was silent the whole time, simply listening to the woman telling a story and mindlessly following the inked lines of a reptile, occasionally reaching a scar, which disfigured the large piece in some places.
"Did ya, uh, materialize your thoughts, little assassin?"
"No. And it paid off, as he provided the money and relations needed to study in Harvard." The clock on her nightstand showed three A.M., explaining the lack of light outside.
"No-t even later, afterwards, huh?" Disappointment could be heard in Jack's nasal tone, warm finger putting a little more pressure than before. He was not happy, she could tell.
"I don't have the murderous nerve in me, Joker. At least not... Well, not always. Not now."
"So ya le-t a, uh, paedophile live. I expected mo-o-ore of ya, toots." The man didn't notice her momentary inner struggle. A large hand was placed on the small of her back, right above the lumbar vertebrae. Slowly it sneaked upwards, cupping the back of her neck, going even higher, ruffling Clara's black, straight hair in its way. The woman closed her eyes, letting out a tired breath.
"Sorry to let you down." A sarcastic response escaped her lips, making the clown behind chuckle lowly.
Since the supper a few hours ago, they had a vigorous beginning of the night, completely devastating her bedroom. Strong, flexible bodies allowed enough room for experiments and animalism, wearing both Jack and the woman off. At that time, drunk with pleasure and lust, she didn't pay attention to their actions. But now, when Clara's head cleared up, it started hurting just thinking about all the cleaning that had to be done in the morning. Thankfully, it was early Saturday morning, a sea of free time ahead.
"Are ya, uh, on the pill?" A question came near her ear, warm breathing could be felt on Clara's skin.
"Makes me emotional." The woman felt him stiffen up, harsh breathing becoming the only indication of someone alive.
"Did I knock ya u-p? Was this, uh, a womanly tra-p?" Notes of exasperation could be heard in his tone, his suspicious nature coming through. Clara rolled her now opened eyes. Although it was a foolish assumption, she had to admit that Joker had a point. Still, she could swear that sometimes he was more paranoid than herself.
"No, you didn't impregnate me, and I have no intentions to trap you anywhere. Free to go, whenever and wherever."
"How could ya be so sur-r-re, toots?" She felt him relax once more, starting to comb her hair with his fingers.
"I have my ways."
"How, uh, trustworthy are those ways?"
"Very reliable, J."
"How much reliable?" The man had no intentions of giving up, apparently, and it started to annoy Clara. "Don't wanna, uh, little clowns runnin' around, little assassin. Jus-t you and me-e-e."
"Women rarely get pregnant when they have no organs to carry children in, Joker." The irritation could be heard in her husky tone. Clara rolled on her back, her breasts bounced free from the pressure of her body, immediately drawing Joker's eyes towards them. "Not there, boy. A little lower." She tapped an ugly, jagged scar on her lower abdomen, just above the covers that sat on her hip bones. Leaving a pair of jiggly boobs alone, Jack followed the lines of segmented torso, reaching the indicated place. Hooded eyes took in the slight curve of it, moon providing enough light to notice its abnormality. Just like his own Glasgow smile, the scar probably didn't heal well in the first place, resulting not in a thin, white line like the majority of Clara's past wounds, but an ugly, deep, rosy hollow.
"No-t very pretty, huh? Explains your obsession with my smile." He tapped it lightly. "Couldn't move your mouth off of them. Doe-s it make you relate to me a little, uh, more?"
"Don't put your words in my mouth."
"Tha-t, or the fact that we've had something, uh, similar happen in our pasts, toots?" The woman turned to him, serious eyes seeking his own amused ones.
"There are a few flaws in your hypothesis, J."
"Really?"
"Hmm. The first one being the fact that you actually have no idea whether or not our pasts have any similarities. At least in terms of those." She motioned towards his mouth, noticing the way they constantly moved even without him talking.
"Le-t it be. And the second one?"
"Well, if I understood correctly, you are implying that my... Let's call it attraction, shall we? My attraction towards you is based on the fact that we're somewhat similar. But," Clara let out a small yawn. The night has finally started to catch up with her. "that would mean that couples create relationships that are based on their similarities when in reality it's hardly the truth. Extroverts attract introverts. Cholerics seek for phlegmatics. You might not want to admit it, but we unconsciously look for a balance."
"I'm no-t sayin' we're the same. I said we have something in common. A, uh, speck. A tiny fraction. I, uh, wouldn't survive if I were as crazy as ya, toots."
"So it's me who's a lunatic now?"
"Yeah." Silence enveloped them for a moment. Clara started to doze off, sweet slumber in hand's reach. Except, the tiresome man had other plans. "So I fucked someone who's not even a real woman then, huh?" She snapped her eyes open, throwing him a murderous look. Joker grinned, exposing his white teeth. The makeup had worn off, leaving the man barefaced, whilst her pillows were stained with white, red and black paint.
"My ovaries are inside, idiot. I still maintain a normal level of estrogen, get periods, experience PMS moodiness. Also, I have a real, non-artificially made vagina. The only thing that can't happen is an embryo develop in my non-existing uterus."
"You're gettin' brave with names again, little assassin. Careful with them." He licked his lips, caressing the bare skin. "Don-t get angry with me, if the actual problem lies somewhere else, toots."
"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There is a difference." She lifted one eyebrow, following him as Joker started tracing the lines of her tattoos once more. "You know, it's relatively useful to recognize your own emotions. Eliminates the confusion that comes with them. Easier to maintain logical mind when you know what's your trigger and what you actually feel."
"You spend too much time with, uh, Scarecrow. Too much self-reflection." His fingers reached the intricate ornament of a ship in a stormy sea above her left breast, a rather large area of inked skin, covering half of her chest and shoulder. "What's this-s? Black Pear-r-rl, huh?"
"Are you serious?"
"A man can't know. Especially when the topic involves, uh, you-u." Another deep breath, just so she could control herself and not punch the grinning face looming above her.
"The Flying Dutchman."
"I thought ya aren't, uh, religious, little assassin."
"You mean, the ship's in Christian mythology reference to Noah's Ark? Although there are some speculations about the analogy between the Flying Dutchman and Noah's Ark, these ships in modern symbology tend to be separated."
"Then what's the, uh, myth behind i-t?"
"Well, there are a few. My favourite one - about a German ship called the Flying Dutchman, captained by the evil Hendrick Van der Decken, who decides to travel towards the Cape of Good Hope."
"Doesn't seem too, uh, intriguing to me-e, toots."
"Well, you haven't heard the whole story, J. Don't judge a book by its cover."
"Okay, so what happene-d then? To the, uh, evil captain? Why is his ship on your tit?" Clara rolled her eyes, feeling Joker's gaze on her chest.
"Captain Van der Decken was famous for being a rough and violent man, who had no fear of anything or anybody. While approaching the Cape of Good Hope, a storm stroke the ship with high waves, hard winds and lightning. The captain yelled against God and invoked the Devil, promising that if he allowed him to pass the Cape, he could take his soul. It's said that the Devil accepted his offer, but when he came to take his soul, the clever captain asked for one last wish. He wanted to play chess with him. To taunt the Devil himself." A slow grin tore through Clara's chapped lips, showing Joker a predatory smile, accentuate by those unusually sharp, almost animalistic canines. "If the Devil wins, he can take his soul. But he didn't, and Van der Decken was able to postpone the day on which the Devil would eventually take his soul."
"Have you postponed the big day, little assassin? That's why the great captain is constantly caressing your boo-b?"
"I never said so. There are many more legends about the ship. But this one fascinates me the most."
"Weirdo."
"Clown." He pulled a strand of her hair painfully, showing his displeasure. "Joker!" The woman slapped his hand away, at the same time kicking him underneath the covers. Hearing Jack hiss lowly, she smirked a little, moving away, to the very corner of the bed so he wouldn't reach her to get his revenge.
"Sadist." The word was meant to infuriate her, except the mirth in his voice told an entirely different story.
"You have no idea, boy. Will experience only a glimpse of my sadistic tendencies in the morning." They both went quiet, the man continuously tracing some weird ornaments on her skin. A few minutes went by, neither of them uttering a word.
"I, uh, wanna attend the funeral service for Commissioner Loeb. Tomorrow." Clara jerked her head towards him immediately, staring at the man with unhidden seriousness in her steely eyes.
"What the hell are you intending to do now, Joker? The ceremony will be heavily monitored by security on all sides, in case you decided t show up."
"Yeah? Wha-t about becomin' a part of security myself?"
"Are you suicidal?" Clara went silent for a moment, looking at him with unwavering, cold eyes that were glinting slightly in the moonlight. "If you want to leave this world, you could have asked me."
"Nah, no-t leave, little assassin. Ya don't get me." Annoyed, he made a weird sound with his lips. "The Mayor. He causes too much trouble. Needs to be, uh, removed."
"You're not suicidal. You're delusional. Manoeuvring into a crowd of security guards with clown's makeup and hope that nobody will notice you?" The woman let out an unamused bark of laughter.
"Y're basically callin' me stupid. I'm no-t. Tell me, toots. Would ya, uh, call me dangerous if y'would see me barefaced? Huh?" It made Clara narrow her eyes, staring at a rather handsome man laying on his side. Truth to be told, those scars of his could not hide a sensual curve of his lips, strong, angular face, a well-pronounced jaw and deep brown eyes staring back at her.
"No."
"If this, uh, gorgeous man became an honour guard, with the whole attire and a stupid cap on his head, would ya see something suspicious about him?"
"Probably not."
"Then think, little assassin. With your hea-d, and not your little, black hear-t." Holding Joker's gaze, Clara allowed the last part about her heart slip through her ears, paying attention to what was important. Examining the surgeon's expression, Jack knew exactly when the realization finally hit her, analytical brain cracking the puzzle that the Joker put in front of her. A weird look made its way on Clara's face, something cold and completely detached from the emotional impact. Those steely eyes suddenly looked more blue than grey in the dim light, and the man felt as if something ancient and gloomy stared at him through the small windows that were the weird woman's eyes.
"Do what you have to do, clown. Except for this time I will not be able to save your unprepared ass." Joker grinned, hearing the accent of her roots coming back into her voice. Usually, it was well-hidden behind a facade of perfectly pronounced r's and lack of schwas, only fraud of the woman's true identity.
"Uh, so-o-o attached already, little assassin?" He grinned, inching closer to the creature with frigid eyes that took his sweet, murderous woman's place. "No-t that I don't feel honoured, toots. Don't, uh, get me wrong." Joker got even closer, seeing the ice slowly melting, familiar orbs staring back at him. "Let's sleep. Tomorrow is a huge day for me. Don't wanna, uh, the lack of beauty sleep ruin my gorgeous appearance."
"You're an idiot."
"Nah. You're just no-t as smar-r-rt as I am, toots." Clara could see his face clearly now as he was so close to her own, dark abysses closed, facial muscles relaxed and peaceful. She knew that he would drift off to sleep any moment now, Jack was that efficient at controlling his own body. When she was sure that he was already in a deep slumber, the woman slowly inched forward, examining intently that handsome, disfigured face, at the same time silently murmuring a quote of Poe underneath her breath that she remembered reading a long time ago.
"The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The crew glide to and fro like the ghosts of buried centuries, their eyes have an eager and uneasy meaning, and when their figures fall athwart my path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I have never felt before..."
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Song of the chapter: Tool - Parabol + Parabola