Harleen
sat rigid behind her brand new desk at Arkham psychiactric ward. She
had only three weeks experience at the facility before she was thrown
into the most difficult case any therapist could have. Of course, the
reasons were obvious. Noone wanted to tackle him and noone knew how.
And it was clear that all of the college courses and extra
preparation for this field could provide none of the sheer back-bone
needed to face him.
Initially, she turned Dr. Arkham down. Harleen
was completely unprepared to deal with such a character and could do
no better than a therapist who had been working with murderers for
years. She was simply too inexperienced. He never let up ,though, and
managed to convince her that this would be the most important
experience of her career, especially if she could break through to
him. Imagine!
If it proved to be impossible then he would
transfer her immediately. No questions asked. Dr. Arkham felt new
blood in the institution with fresh ideas might be just what the
Joker needed. And he didn't have much other choice considering two of
his best therapists threatened to walk out if he wasn't taken off
their hands. Harleen didn't know that and likely didn't realize how
dangerous the Joker was...even though guards were always stationed
outside the door and his wrists were shackled tightly together. The
Joker was intimidating and had close bonds with his outside thugs.
His colleagues were afraid for their families lives and Harleen was
single and lived alone. Her family was all the way on the other coast
and, although that didn't guarantee safety, it made it harder to hurt
them.
Dr. Arkham kept this all to himself as he coaxed Harleen
into taking the case. She was young enough not to question him too
much and more willing to believe in helping the Joker than the
others. She was driven and open minded, graduated at the top of her
class.
He hoped this would work.
Harleen fiddled with the
paperwork arranged neatly in front of her. There were newspaper
clippings she'd collected of some of the Joker's robberies and
murders. Each article depicted him as a cold hearted lunatic with no
emotion beyond a hideous sense of humor. The DA had even sent her a
few photographs on Monday of some of his victims. Nameless men and
women stared back at her with crude smiles carved on lifeless faces.
Their eyes remained wide in horror, though clearly dead. She
shuddered and pushed the papers away, focusing on steadying her heart
rate and breathing.
She could do this, it wasn't so bad. He was
only a man after all...not a monster. No matter how horrific his
killings it didn't make him anything more than a man. One with a sick
mind that could certainly be treated.
Harleen repeated that little
mantra to herself a couple times before there was a sharp rap on the
door. Without waiting for an answer it swung open as two large guards
hustled a man between them. They placed him rather roughly onto the
leather couch at the head of her desk and left without another word.
She knew they'd be standing right outside the door, ready if anything
went wrong but it didn't make her feel better. The Joker slumped on
the seat with his wavy shoulder length hair hiding his eyes as he
stared at the floor. The cuffs dangled between his knees as his hands
were clasped together. Harleen was shocked to see that he was allowed
to still wear the greasepaint and slightly tinted green hair. It took
away from the average patient image and fed into the demonic outside
persona he had. It all served to unsettle her that much more.
She
cleared her throat and he looked up, his green/gold eyes piercing
through her. It surprised Harleen to see how clear they were and not
foggy like most of Archams patients. Medicine ws usually given to
everyone to keep them calm and that was the general effect but it
didn't show in the Joker.
"I'm Dr. Quinzel and I'll be your
new therapist." She started.
He said nothing and made no
attempt to be friendly, only slouched back into the couch and tilted
his head slightly.
"I'd like to keep this first session as
more of a...'get to know you' type of process. No quizzes, word
association or deep questions for now."
His tongue darted at
the scars on his mouth in that trademark fashion before speaking
up.
"You know what really makes me happy?" He
asked.
"What?"
"To look at those guards out
there..." He motioned to the door, cuffs clinging together, "and
remember how many of their friends I killed last week. And to imagine
how many more I'll kill this week." He smiled and continued
looking at her, unwilling to let go of her eyes.
"Well,
that's a strange thing to be happy about."
He shrugged, "I'm
a strange person."
"So if taking lives makes you happy
then what makes you unhappy? What makes you sad?" Harleen asked,
trying to sound as casual as possible and make sure her voice didn't
shake under her rapid heartbeat. She was starting to question taking
this case if after only a few minutes of discussion she was ready to
jump out of her skin. Maybe this field wasn't for her after all.
Maybe she should have studied to be a teacher like her friends, or
take her mother's advice and be a lawyer. Both seemed much safer than
this. Much safer than a tiny wooden desk and some handcuffs the Joker
was known to easily escape from separating them.
"I don't get
sad and there in lies the problem, Doc. I don't get unhappy because I
always get my way. And I don't get sad because I just don't care. You
can't fix that." He said, matter of factly.
"We all get
sad, whether you chose to acknowledge it or not. We all cry. We all
get frustrated."
"Boys don't cry." He smiled
again.
"Boys, men...serial killers. All cry sometimes."
"Do
you want to know how I got these scars?" He asked the familier
question.
"I highly doubt you'll tell me the truth. You see,
we have at least a dozen different versions from you about that. A
drunken father, an attempt to please a mutilated wife...even Batman."
She said.
"Which do you believe?"
"None. They're
what motivate you which make it extremely personal. Not something
you're going to tell just anyone."
"Very good. Very
very good. What's your name?"
Instinct told Harleen to keep
things on a professional level but she wondered if being more open
would allow him to let his quard down a bit. Open up.
"Harleen."
She said.
"Harleeeeeennnn." His voice echoed in a purr
that sent chills up her spine. "Can I call you Harley?"
"You
can call me Dr. Quinzel."
"Harley Quinn." He
stated.
She smiled for the first time. "Dr. Quinzel will
do."
"But you're too young...and pretty for that
name."
Harleen felt herself blush and was confused at the
conflicting emotions. First she was scared out of her mind and now a
simple compliment was making her shy. How odd.
"I suppose
whatever you feel comfortable calling me. It couldn't hurt."
The
session ended twenty minutes from that point. It wasn't a meeting
that brought great discoveries or even really helped. Again, it was
only set up to be an introduction and Harleen felt like they had at
least broken the ice. That was important. Their conversation flowed
freely like two friends who were merely having lunch together, not a
convict and a psychologist talking in a mental ward. Harleen found
him to be witty and charismatic. Funny at times with a thin layer of
hostility that one could almost forget when in his presence. She had
to remind herself numerous times just who she was dealing with.
Once
he was taken back to his room, Harleen cleaned up her desk and
glanced at the clock. It was time to leave for the day and she felt
emotionally drained. She was thankful to lock herself inside her
little studio apartment and relax with a movie. Something to take her
mind off of the patient that she couldn't stop thinking about. His
face, his mannerisms, his voice. Everything. But the question was why
she thought about it? Was she just so engrossed in her work with him
and determined to help or was it something else altogether?
When
her boyfriend of two years called she let the machine pick up. For
the first time in their entire relationship she just didn't feel like
talking to him.