They Scream and They Cry >> (Scarecrow/OC fanfiction)

Chapter 1

"Walk! Keep your head forward!" A burly guard shouts, roughly shoving the young criminal further down the corridor. He's trying desperately to keep her from harassing, or manipulating anyone on the way to her new cell.

"God, I love it when you're mean to me, baby," She whispers as she stumbles along, her inebriated state making it harder to walk.

They had raided The Joker's warehouse when no one but her was around, catching her during her personal time. Personal time meaning the time she takes to do lines of coke off a mirror while plotting arson.

She's self destructive, and physically destructive on so many levels, and people fear her for that.

"Shut it!" He snaps, throwing her onto the ground once they make it to her cell. The cold concrete floor makes contact with her face, cutting the inside of her lip and gums. As the blood pools in her mouth, she spits it onto the floor in front of the guard with a grin on her face.

Even though he would never show it, his heart was racing with the fear of what the criminal on the ground could do to him. Never would he ever let any of these nut-jobs see that fear.

Fear is control, and control is power after all.

The man slams the thick metal door in Riot's face, affectively locking her into solitude where she could no longer hurt anyone.

Her head is spinning, and her vision is distorted from her earlier drug use, but that's how she likes it. She likes to not be able to feel anything but the buzz, she likes being high to block out the intrusive emotions. However, now that she's locked in things are going to have to change.

Even in her inebriated state, Riot knows that the next morning will be hell. Not just for her, but for anyone who dares to come into contact with her.

The comedowns are always the worst. Your body is weak, as is your mind. The pounding headache, the sick feeling, and the urgent need for more is a vicious routine of hers, but she never bothered stopping it...until now.

She looks down at the offending red jumpsuit they had forced her into, and groans. Just her fucking luck.

She hates that shade of red. Too bright, too loud.

Not to mention the bagginess around the everything region.

How is a girl supposed to get anywhere with this thing on?

Sober her would never care about the stupid jumpsuit, knowing that she would have more important things to fret about. However, intoxicated her is fixated on the horrendous clothing.

She unzips the top half and wraps it around her waist, leaving her upper half exposed. With only the standard white sports bra to cover herself, she is now susceptible to the icy chill of Arkham.

Her ivory colored abdomen and arms are cover in bruises and cuts, varying in shapes, sizes, and colors. The contrast makes them stand out like individual galaxies across her flesh.

A few come from Joker, as he can be a bit abrasive when he's pissed off, and others are from mishaps in fights. A few— usually bite mark or handprint shaped—even come from her rather rough sexual endeavors and one night stands.

Riot loves bruises.

Something about them just entices her, sometimes even turns her on.

Maybe I really am off my rocker.

Crazy or not, she doesn't care about what people think of her, she just loves the attention. Riot takes no shame in that, and that is part of the reason why she commits crimes the way she does.

Everything has to be over the top and absurd with The Joker. It always has to be amusing in a sadistic way, and they always want everyone's attention on them.

Her skinny frame flops down on the bed, and she groans in annoyance. It's so boring in her cell, and it's causing her buzz to crash. That shit ain't cheap.

Riot wants so desperately to just go set something on fire, or go blow something up.

It's the simple things in life.

Arson is her hobby, her fun, her excitement! She'd kill to get her hands on a can of gasoline and a pack of matches—well she would kill six bucks and a soda, but the point still stands.

At the thought of a box of matches she suddenly craves a cigarette something fierce. Her hands tremble and she's picking furiously at her nails to try and calm herself.

So deprived.

So anxious.

So desperate.

Please, just give me something.

"I'll burn this place to the fucking ground!" She calls, slamming her fist into the door to prove a point. All self control is lost, out the window, and all that is left is a deranged girl with no care for pain and consequences. 

No doubt she has broken her hand, as she has done many times before, but the pain is obsolete. It simply doesn't register in her disracted mind at the moment.

Riot's body suddenly feels weak and drained, like her life force has been syphoned, causing her to fall back on the hard mattress.

And so the comedown begins.

Her limbs feel like they weigh a ton each, so she has no desire to so much as move. Everything seems to be fuzzy, and in slow motion.

What pills had she also taken?

She can't remember.

What was she drinking?

No recollection.

How much had she snorted?

Still, nothing.

If she already can't remember, then the morning is going to be a real bitch.

Why couldn't the cops have just shot me?

Her head is a mess of scrambled thoughts, but they soon begin to fade away as she starts to slip into unconsciousness. The blackness envelops her in a tight embrace, and takes over everything.