A Three Jokers Orgin story. So there's been a lot of Joker in the news lately. Lots of debate about giving him an origin story. Should he have one? Should it be multiple choice? Should it be a mystery? Well I'm curious by nature. I love the origin s...
I was once a promising psychiatrist. I loved my job, and I was great at it. I've seen cut wrists more times than I care to remember. But it always seemed as if I was detached from the suicidal patients. I didn't go through the events that led them to think that death was the only option. But right now, with Mistah J, I don't feel detached. I felt very much involved.
But with all my training, all my experience, I don't have a clue what to do or what to say. All I know to do is comfort him and stay at his side, on full suicidal watch. I didn't understand why he did it. We had made love. I thought he was happy. He seemed fine. What had turned it all around? What had I missed?
His sobs were intense. I could feel his bloody hands clenching my shirt in his fists. I could feel his tears soaking through the fabric.
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He was in pain, and I had no clue what it was. To tell you the truth, I was scared to ask. Whatever it was, if it made the Joker cry, it had to be horrific in nature.
I held him. I rocked him.à I pet him. We were both covered in his blood. It was sticky and uncomfortable. I needed to get us cleaned up. His wounds needed to be cleaned so I could get a better look at them and bandage them up.
"Puddin, baby, we need ta get ya cleaned up," I say.
Slowly his sobs die down and he pulls away from me. I can see the tears in his bloodshot eyes. He looked exhausted and broken. This wasn't the Clown Prince of Crime that Gotham knew from the news. This wasn't the man who laughed at tragedy. I had no idea who this internally damaged man was.
"Come on," I say and rise up on my knees.
I put my arm around him to support him and help him up. He was weak and shaky. I got him to the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the jacuzzi bathtub and stared blankly at nothing. I turned on the water and adjusted the temperature.
I kneel before him, "We gotta get these pants off puddin."
He rises to his feet slowly and allows me to unbutton his pants. He just stares down at my hands. I unzip them and let them fall to his ankles. I looked up at him as I gently shoved his boxers down off his hips. I couldn't understand the look in his eyes. Despair? Grief? Pain?
I helped him into the tub and he lays in it. His eyes close and for a second I worry that he's lost consciousness.
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