Is this what it felt like to crash through the fragile layer of a frozen lake? This sudden and strident strangulation of air from his lungs? Overwhelming, prickling, his skin like an unforgiving Winter tempest, the feeling both made him know he was alive and yet as if he had been thrust into a dream.

Air was denied him, his chest frozen. His ears were deaf to all other sounds, save the

pricking for a gasp, a whimper, a word. Anything! All he could think; the only coherent thoughts that wove themselves as cold, numbing, and frosty white as the season that surrounded him were, 'No! It can't be! This isn't happening, I'm dreaming! I'm dreaming! I have to be! Wake up! Wake up! This isn't happening! She's not--no! I have to be dreaming! Wake up!'

But he couldn't wake up; he wasn't dreaming—no of course not. The pain was too unbearable and shock-inducing (or it had been) to be a dream. Tepid crimson painted his face, fell down his chin, gushed from the sides of his mouth like a waterfall. A cascade of blood, that he couldn't stop, he didn't want to either. He felt the torrent of the warm fluid drain from him, secretly praying for his end as he stared down at an angel, a broken angel that his blood was blemishing as it stained her light clothes.

She was still warm, his fingertips felt it, delved into the fabrics so tightly. She was still warm, as if-as if...she was just sleeping.

His chest jarred, a sound ignited his system.

A gasp. His gasp. He was gasping. His heart began to pound in his head. He could hear it shattering like a crystal orb, a precious vase that fell to the floor, breaking; broken like the nymph he held...She was so small, so fragile.

He was allowed breath again, but all he could muster were gasps, strangled ones, and distorted hiccups. He felt his eyes burn and blur as tears filled them and then fell, mixing with the blood, coating his wounds, irritating them.

Pain, more pain. He deserved it.

He held the angel closer, rocking as his tears streamed. He rocked in a seated position, back and forth cuddling his precious, broken jewel. The ground was cruel and the alleyway only seemed to mock its inhabitant.

She was gone.

He shook his head in denial, vehement that it wasn't true! It wasn't! But all the while aware of how real it all actually was. His eyes fell to her face, took it in, all the minute details, all of it. She looked at peace, not in pain; finally she had been released from such physical constraints, but she had left him. She had left him! He smoothed back her matted hair and stared at her eyelids. Never again would they flutter and reveal those brown orbs of hers, so accepting of him, so naively accepting. He felt sick, but he couldn't move, he could only hold her closer as his tears gained gusto.

He had been a horrible man, sin marring him as sickeningly and putridly as the blood on his face—his own blood this time—causing the same intensity of pain to others that he was now experiencing, that he now felt in more ways than one. His thumb attempted to wipe away a fleck of his blood that had landed on her face in his agony, but it only smeared, tainting that almost flawless skin. Scarlet marring, her pale, porcelain...cooling...skin.

He had been a horrible husband. She had deserved so much more than he had given, than he was. And he deserved this tragedy. How many men and women had he caused this intensity of loss, anguish, and pain to? Her clothes were tattered where they had dared touch her, tainted her—he felt sick again, hands quivering. Her blood was still sticky, its scent in the air as it too painted her now rags. Her face, almost perfect was marred by two strident marks, cigarette burns. And he could do nothing about it. He could only bury his gaping face into her hair, and sob harder, closing his eyes.

'They're dead, they're all dead. They'll never hurt you or anyone again.'

That was the only comfort he could give her. He took her hand, such a small thing, and held it tightly in his own, rough grip. Music filled his ears: the last time they'd danced; laughter erupted within his mind: a nice moment. His name echoed in a passion-filled whisper.

His eyes flew open and he stared away from her figure a moment. Guided by an unseen force, not his vision, his hand strayed to her stomach coated in blood. He felt the bulge, just now noticeable. Another lost life. He'd been too late.

Despite all his diabolical flaws she had loved him, offered herself to him. And he had loved her, to the point that it was breaking his heart now, leaving him forever cold to everything else. Wife, mother, and daughter all lost, ended. He it was his fault. He would never kiss her again, never make love to her again; he would never be able to playfully pester her again. He would not get to see her further glow in motherhood, hear her curse him as she gave birth. He would not get to know her as a mother and he would never hold his newborn daughter.

Alicia Jeannie Napier.

Catherine Alica Napier.

Both lost to him.

He had never deserved them, but did the Fates have to forcibly pry them from his fingers as they had? Was this agony necessary? He was sorry! He was sorry! What else did they want?! Had he been so horrible that he was to be robbed of his happiness forever, left to always question, what if?

He had been too late. Too late save her, to save his daughter (she would never get to see the light of a sunrise or sunset). He had failed. When they had needed him the most, desperately cried for him—he heard her voice screaming—he had failed! Failed miserably!

'This wasn't suppose to happen! We were suppose to be happy, Allie! Don't you know that?! And Cat would have been beautiful! Everything would have been normal! Allie, please wake up! Tell me, April Fool! Tell me this is a joke! I can take it! Just wake up! Please...Allie...What am I going to do?! You have to get up! You have to! We have a daughter to raise and spoil! God, please wake up! You have to wake up! You have to! YOU HAVE TO!...Why aren't you moving?! Allie, we have to go home!'

Only silence replied as he stared desperately, ravingly into her face. Not a breath left her lips, and the arrow embedded itself in his aching heart. With each pulse he felt as if it would be his last, and his heart would stop altogether. Oh, how he wished it would!

But it didn't. He was left to moan and sob until his body shook; raved in his mind what his mouth could no longer produce in its state. Strangled, gurgling he screamed and cradled his wife's body to himself.

Bloodloss eventually overcame him. It made him weak and light-headed and he hoped it would be the end. When he lost consciousness and hopefully, blissfully fell into the darkness, he slumped over his wife, mid-mourning.

A man would find him minutes later, a good Samaritan.

Jack Nathaniel Napier would awake in a sterile, white hospital room, in a hospital bed with no Allie, no children; and despite his robbing agony, depression, and inner torment, he would be smiling thanks to his disfigurement, a Glasgow smile, we would come to discover. His gift from the mob.

Funny side of life?

There was none.

And he was alone...always smiling...always grinning...grinning...even as he screamed in an unbearable anguish, that nothing could heal.

(A/N): Inspired by the Play, "Wake Up...?" in Chapter 4 of Nezzy Rat's fanfic, "All the World's a Stage: Wanna Hear a Joke?" for the The Dark Knight. This is loosely based on "The Killing Joke", really loosely based. It would not exist without Nezzy and her awesomeness! I'm very glad she enjoyed it and I hope you do as well.

This is what happens when I want to write something depressing...XD