The Schemer

The Game of Mind

"FUCK!"

It was that time of the month. The waxing day. Despite being a part of a bank robbery earlier that day, Clara was still a person of plans, and she followed her routine whenever she could. Being stabbed was definitely not a reason to change her day. Therefore, when evening came, the woman took her torturous tools and began removing every tiny hair on her body, skipping head and face, but attacking everything bellow. Wax was something that ensured a comfortable existence for a relatively long time, thus in Clara's eyes worth the pain that it delivered. Besides, the woman saw such experience as a weird challenge that tested her ability to endure high-pressure situations. In reality, when it came to waxing, it was not really the ripping - physical - part that was scary. It was the mental battle between your logical and instinctual sides, one reasoning to just do it, another encouraging you to run. 'To rip, or not to rip?', a question that had the same weight as Hamlet's philosophism in the tragedy, when he debated with himself whether to fight the injustice or commit suicide and end the sorrow of his heart. During moments like this, global questions decrease to the size of an average person's problems, and those problems become more important than wars and the fate of thousands.

Nevertheless, Clara still felt a relief when the last stripe was gone. "One more session is done, only around seven hundred left to do." If only she happened to live another sixty years. Relaxed, she took a long shower, cleaning any possible remaining of the sticky substance. The woman hissed as the hot water hit newly bared, sensitive areas, and immediately lowered the heat. "No need for another emergency."

Stepping out and drying herself, only a black robe on her shoulders, Clara wandered towards the darkened living room, the only source of light being a lit fireplace. She preferred it this way - the less artificial light, the higher melatonin production occurs. Sleep was definitely something of great use for her now, so it was a tactical move to stimulate the release of sleep hormone. Due to the lack of light, Clara could clearly see Batman sign in the night sky. "Someone's having some serious trouble, huh?" 

When it came to the topic of Batman, she was not particularly intrigued by this stupidly heroic man. The woman wondered how well-pronounced Narcissistic Personality Disorder was inside this creature, one and only. Living in Gotham, it was impossible to ignore what was happening inside. Copycats were something that the Batman despised as much as criminals, apparently. The only force that could control those thugs, mobsters and thieves, had to be him. And it was fine with Clara, as long as it didn't involve her. Men could run around dressed in bat suits, Halloween costumes, hidden behind clown's makeup. 

The night matured, but for some reasons Clara's inner clock decided to protest against sleep, mind too focused on analyzing Gotham's Dark Knight's potential personality crisis, and then another man's behaviour. Yes, the clown, Joker, was still on her mind, permanently implemented there together with her throbbing wound. Like a teenage girl, she lost her sleep over a man with warpaint and a disfigured face. Except, instead of drooling over the mental picture of him, her brains vigorously painted various scenarios of him being carved up.

In fact, Clara was rather familiar with the Glasgow smile. She was not Scottish, from where the wound originated, but still, the surgeon had to stitch up a fair amount of them. In her opinion, the Glasgow smile was one of the most macabre ways of hurting someone. Gangs would often use it on others as a warning not to mess with them, and the smile typically was made with cut-throat razors, utility-knifes, glass or bottles. Something dull enough to prolong the torture. The victim would often open the wound even further while screaming, tearing his own cheek in half. Later, English street gangs followed Glasgow's street crooks' example, and the vile torture technique spread outside Scottland. This was especially popular among the Chelsea Headhunters, a London-based hooligan firm, therefore such a smile in England got a name of 'Chelsea Grin'.