Gotham Cemetery--seems to be my new home away from home now. It was just yesterday that I was here, chasing Harvey Dent and his personal demon, Two-Face, through these tombstones, fighting a hopeless battle for his sanity. They say he's in a coma now, and he might not be able to come back. The sad thing is, this is probably the first time he's truly had peace in years.
I shake out the thoughts and continue driving--I glance at the blond woman sitting in the passenger seat.
Harleen Quinnsel, aka, Harley Quinn. In a sense, she's my anti-thesis--a woman who's had her life ruined by The Joker and yet cannot see it or hate him for it.
I was contacted earlier today by Jim, telling me some Arkham doctors wanted to see me. Seeing as how they weren't there already with straight-jackets, I figured it was simply a business call.
The Arkham doctor stepped into a light in a way I was almost envious of. He told me he was the personal psychologist for Harleen, and explained his plan. He wanted me to take her to The Joker's grave, so that she may mourn for him and that she will move on. Can't say I think it will work, but it's worth a try. Suddenly the thought of fighting some one's personal demons appears again.
"Don't you have a radio in this thing?" I hear her ask, shifting in her seat and fiddling with her handcuffs.
"I have a police scanner, but I don't understand why--"
"No no, Bat-Dope, I mean music, tunes! Don't ya have any of that?"
"No."
"Awww, come on, Bats! Don't tell me you don't jam when you're driving this bad boy! I bet you got somethin' blaring when you're in that big, bad cave of yours!"
"No. I don't."
"I think you're lying, Batsy! I'll have to figure it out myself...hmm...use my keen detective skills...jeeze, this is harder then I thought...no wonder you keep catching me!" She laughs in a way that's so close to her "Puddin's" it is disturbing. Hard to believe she was bawling over him for the past few days, as her doctor told me.
We drive practically to the other side of the cemetery. The populace had a field day when they found out that The Joker was dead, especially when it came time to decide whether he should have his own tombstone. Some thought, despite his inhumanity, he should at least have a proper resting place, others just wanted him never to be heard of again. Finally, city counsel decided to give him a headstone--under the conditions that it would be over a thousand meters away from the rest of the departed. It might very well have been best that his body hasn't been found--there would have been serious debate whether to burn him to ash, drop him in a ditch to rot, or have him hanged at Gotham Square, like a modern Mussolini.
We stop next to the grave and I step outside, walking over to Harley's side and helping her out. I grab her by the arm and we walk over to his grave.
The Joker's grave is surrounded by a chain-link fence with barb wire on top. Next to the fence is a guard, sitting on a metal folding chair, reading the Gotham Times with one hand and one of the Frappuccino from Starbucks in the other. He looks at the both of us, either already aware of our arrival, or too tired to look surprised, and punches in the number combination on the door.
This was necessary, because his grave is now probably the most desecrated one in human history. From what I heard, in the three hours of it's placement, the grave was shot at, spray painted, defecated upon, and had a hail of Molotov cocktails tossed at it. Three hours of this, city counsel quickly had set up this bit of security. If only they were normally this quick.
We walk inside and the guard shuts the door behind us. I let go of Harley's arm and put my hands close to my belt, in case she tries to escape. She slowly walks towards the grave, the chains wrapping her wrists and ankles together jiggling in tune. She stands next to the grave and drops on her knees, placing her hands on top of it.
"Oh Puddin'! I can't believe your gone!" She yells, crying. Suddenly, she stops. "No joke, I don't believe it. Body was never found right? I know you're still out there, baby. I know it right in my heart. You're still here, and I still love you..."
"Harley," I say, not sure why I'm even trying, "your 'Puddin'' really is dead. I saw it myself." She stands up, completely straight, staring directly ahead.
"Right. I remember hearing your side of the story. You grabbed 'Wayne' out of the way, and blocked the chamber of his gun. It went off, wounded him, and he happened to fall off the ledge before you could reach him." She turns and stares directly into my eyes, unafraid. "You let him fall, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't. He--"
"Bulls**t, Batman."
"It's not--"
"I've seen you in action, I've seen you save so many people in that same situation."
"But I--"
"But when you saw my Puddin' about to fall off that ledge you just wanted to see him die--"
"So what if I did?!" I yell before I can stop myself. I see her eyes narrow, but I don't see her leap on top of me until I slam into the ground. She slams her fists into my chest.
"So what?! You killed the man I love! I loved that man you MURDERED and he loved me!"
I grab her hands and push her away. She crashes onto the floor.
"Harley, he's dead. You have to realize now that the man did not love you."
"YES HE DID! You don't understand--"
"He forced you to throw your life away--"
"I wanted to--"
"He sold you out to me and the cops countless times--"
"He-he had to--"
"He would beat you to a pulp--"
"B-b-but--"
"He killed your unborn child!"
"He--he...he had to. If we had a kid he would mess with his act."
"Harley, the only reason why he killed your child was because he probably thought it was funny, and he couldn't take you loving anything else but him, to keep you in control." Her head drops to the ground. "He never loved you. I don't think he even knew how. All he knew was how to torture and maim and kill. He killed women and children, he killed...innocent old men and idealistic young men just because of his obsession with death...and with me."
"How...how can you say that? You don't...you don't know him. You didn't see him like I did. How can you say that?"
"Because I looked at him with my own eyes and saw him for what he was: a monster. You looked at him with rose-colored glasses." Her hands go to her face, and she silently sobs. Her hands drop to the ground and she picks herself up. Her face rises and I look into her eyes--clearer, more alert.
"You're right. He was a monster. He would beat the living crap out of me and I would just smile and keep following him. You know why? Because no one else ever told me 'I love you' before him. Dad left before I was born, Mom was too spaced-out to say it, every other man I was ever with only said it to get into my pants. It wasn't until I got to Arkham and met this...homicidal maniac until I heard someone say it."
She turns back to the grave and balls up her fists. She drops down to it and slams her fists into it.
"Son of a b***h! You ruined my life! I trusted you and you ripped me apart! I turned into a criminal for you and you beat me for it! ...I always wanted to have a kid. When I became a famous psychologist I would meet Prince Charming and we would make love and we would create life. I was so close to it, I thought I would have that child with my 'Puddin',' until you shot me. The doctors told me I might never be able to have a child again."
I walk towards her and put a hand on her shoulder. She looks and she leaps again--this time her arms wrapped around me with her face against my chest, crying. I stand there, silently, putting my arm on her back, knowing she's crying for a loss that she can never fully recover from, that will be ripping her apart in the back of her mind for as long as she lives. I know the feeling. She moves from my chest, looking back at the grave and also looking at me.
"You know what the worst thing is? I still love him. Inside there's still this giggling schoolgirl in skin-tight spandex that would jump back into his arms in a second. I hate her. I hate her and...I envy her, because she was always...bright. Laughing. Because of him. He made me happy, and he made my life a living hell at the same time."
"You...you could still find someone," I say, trying to find the right words to continue with. "You can break the cycle now. He's dead somewhere and rotting. You can stop this mad love and take back your life now."
I stare into the tombstone of The Joker, trapped in chain link that will not hold the hate this city has for him. I look down to the face of the weeping woman with her arms around me, for the first time in God knows how long free-thinking and rational.
"You're free."
The Joker is dead. His insanity can no longer harm another human being. He can no longer kill the ones I love or any other life. He's dead. Maggot food. Some vulture has probably eaten his eyes by now. His body was never found, but I know he's dead. I believe he's dead.
I pray he's dead.
"We're free."