What is this? Its a journal. Me scribbling my "thoughts" on a paper. She's making me do it. She's watching me right now. I ask her what the hell to write, and she suggests writing my current actions. That's what I'm doing.
Now I'm out of things to write. But you know what's funny? I can't write that I'm staring at a blank piece of paper, because that would be lying. I can however, write "Fifteen minutes ago I was staring at a blank piece of paper."
I know how to annoy her.
She says that doesn't count. Now I have to sit here for another hour. Nothing is stopping me from leaving. Her glares don't intimidate me.
Hell with this.
She made me write that. If this doesn't look like a journal, now, you're fucking blind.
She should have made me write Attempt Two. I'd kill myself before I waste an entire day giving my hand arthritis and writing my "feelings" down.
I hate therapists.
I REALLY hate therapists.
This crazy bitch is going to get a whipping after this. Mark my words. Writing with one hand is hard, but I've had my left hand tied behind my back before.
Did you know I'm right handed and left handed? Want to hear the story? I'll write down the story. Short version.
When I was a teenager, I was on the run from a gang, I threw myself off a freeway ramp and broke my fall with my right arm. That resulted in a broken arm. I literally couldn't move my fingers to save my life. As a "postman" for the drug gang I worked for, I had paper and pens in my messenger bag. I managed to write a quick letter with my left hand to leave for my "friends" to find, telling them where I discovered the enemies' hideout was.
And what do ya know? My handwriting was actually legible enough for them to actually find the address and save my ass, their main intention of course being to bring down the rivals. I wasn't a hero. In fact, my former "friends" actually became the ones hunting me down next. Thats how life works.
Happy Harley? I wrote a whole fucking novel. Even though you duct-taped my mouth shut and tied me to the god damned chair.
Attempt Three and a Half
She rolled her eyes at my story. She said it doesn't count because it wasn't true. So now I have to write another story. Twice as long. And true.
She's using that as an excuse. She has no proof if it's true or not. She just wants to push me, to make me write more.
So lets get this damned thing over with. I'll write a story that's impossible for her to claim a lie. How we met.
Harleen Quinzel cheated through her career and slept her way through school to become one of the top doctors at Arkham. Little slut. But a goody-two-shoes slut, as impossible as that sounds. Somehow she'd been free of drugs, free of any accidental pregnancies, free of any criminal charges. She kept her relationships with her "boyfriends" (a.k.a. professors) a secret. Somehow, she got away with it. Never got in any trouble, never got caught, never got killed. A genius little cheater.
It's because of her innocence. Her genuine childish smile. Her happiness. Her playful radiance. No one would have guessed the little angel to be such a devil.
She wasn't putting on a mask and deceiving her surroundings from her inner sins, no. She wasn't open about it, but no one ever suspected her enough to give her a reason to classify what she did a dirty secret. She worked hard to get to where she was when I was brought into Arkham, but it wasn't the studying, book-work kind of hard work. It was the bed-rattling action.
I didn't know any of this until after she became Harley Quinn. I was didn't believe her at all when the conversation arose. But then again, she's never lied to me.
In our first therapy session, she was just like any other doctor I'd driven to suicide or insanity. She was pretty, I'll admit. Cute. Petite. Different. A misplaced child in a serious adult atmosphere. Did she intrigue me? No. She disappointed me. I knew my job would be way too easy with this one. I could break her with a single sentence, without her ever opening her mouth.
I was angered at the pathetic excuse of a doctor presented to me. I thought about what I could do to make this one last longer than five seconds. I thought about how to make her fun to play with. No one wants to play with a child that cries the moment you touch it.
It was tedious and painstaking, but I made her last, I gently let her "befriend me", I held back the urge to crumple her up and toss her in the overflowing trash bin and call "Next!" for another challenge.
Just as I was about to give up on the boring game, I saw the sparkle in her blue eyes and the blush on her porcelain skin. She was in love with me. That started a whole new ball game, one that continues to this day.
Now, now she's fun to play with. Because now she is a challenge to break.
I'm still tied to the chair, by the way. Yep. Duct tape still here. My arms have been sore for the past two hours, tied like this. I hope you're happy Harl.