[I own nothing. Please enjoy]

The Joker was going mad (the irony did not escape him). He watches his face in the mirror twist and contort itself into it's familiar expression: eyes like the strike of a match; cheeks hollow, gutted like bodies in a morgue, pale as bone. His mouth stretched and gaping like a wound...His fist darts out and now he's staring at his reflection, multiplied by a million as the mirror cracks and becomes faceted like a diamond. It was all her fault. He couldn't even admire himself in the mirror nowadays without imagining his face reflected back at him in her eyes, blue as a corpse. It was all her fucking fault.

He had been feeling peculiar lately. He woke up that morning with his sheets around him like a forlorn lover; restraining him, begging him not to go. The irony was too much (really). He couldn't even remember falling asleep, not that that was unusual by any means. And he couldn't remember if she had curled up against him, one slender, pale leg (not as pale as his; never as pale as his) draped over his own in some sort of perpetual drive toward sex. He couldn't remember.

He remembers pig tails and discovering all sorts of interesting new uses for bubble gum and he remembers tickle fights that always ended with her panting beneath him; their pale bodies meshed together, convulsing and slick with sweat and blood and tears and God knows what else (although he remembers those particular incidents, he never really remembers why he let them go in that direction. He's positive that they must have played some sort of role in one of his many Grand Schemes...)

He remembers his fingerprints so vivid around her neck they were like fine jewels. He remembers his cackling when the bruises first appeared, "Look on the bright side, Harls! If I ever forget your birthday, I'll just make it up to you by giving you some new jewelery!" (He barely remembers the crease between her eyebrows as she struggled to figure out what he meant; he vividly remembers showing her). He had her dripping in bruises in no time.

Bits of broken mirror are embedded into his hand. He stretches his fingers, watches the push and pull as the glass makes its way deeper into his skin. He's so enthralled by the sight (pushing and pulling and slicing and splitting and shredding and he just wants to pound his fist into her fucking perfect little face until the glass is so deep into his flesh that it sinks into his blood stream, pulls apart his veins) that he doesn't notice the bathroom door creak open. Doesn't notice the water (he doesn't remember turning it on) getting turned off.

His blood mingles with the stagnant water pooling in the dirty sink. He watches it slip down the drain and realizes vaguely that he will never see that part of himself again. She takes his hand and slowly, slowly begins plucking out the splinters of glass. He doesn't remember the tinkling sound of the blood-stained glass making contact with the blood-stained porcelain of the sink. She cleans his hand (with soap and everything:"Wow, Doc! You really do care!") and (tenderly gently sweetly nauseatingly) kisses each of his knuckles before placing a smiley face patterned band aid over each and every one of his boo boos (he hopes he remembered to pretend like the smiley faces didn't cheer him up).

She whispers that she loves him. He remembers her having to stand on her tippy toes in order to reach his ear (he tells himself he doesn't remember his answer to her sentiment). The band aids make his skin feel tight and restrained and although they irritate him, he convinces himself that an infection would irritate him a lot more (it is his gun hand after all). "Come back to bed, Puddin,'" he hears her say.

He doesn't remember much after that, but he's certain he's going mad.