Look what the cat dragged in - Chapter 4

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I was released with a small yank that sent me on the couch. Straightening up and adjusting my hands so I could hold my torso upright on the uncomfortable cushion, I looked up at her as she ran her hands through my hair again for no apparent purpose. I sat quietly, like an easy-going animal patiently allowing a little girl to play with me. "How long were you a hobo?" She asked, giving my scalp some mercy and putting her hands on her hips.

I was offended at that. "--I wasn't a hobo!" Did she really have to hurt my pride any more that it already had been hurt? Jeez. Harley bluntly but spiritedly replied, "Uh, homeless, without money? Yeah, thats a hobo!" She went over to the sink on the far side of the room and picked up an electric hair razor, washing it in the sink thoroughly whilst humming. "You didn't answer my question!" She sang with a hint of annoyance.

I answered her question after detecting the small warning. "Almost five days. I was... a hobo for almost five days." I held my head in my hands in agitation as well as pain. Even though the food immensely helped my weakened body and throbbing headache, I wasn't fully back to health. I suspected that all I had to do now was get some peaceful rest. How was I supposed to accomplish that here? Harley laughed at my answer to her question. "That's not as long as I thought. I bet they were the worst five days of your life, huh? So far, anyway." She searched for a scissor.

"No. They weren't the worst." I muttered, remembering my short but life-changing time in the war. I watched her warily as she found some scissors, opening them and snapping them closed to test them. "I'd like to know what tops being cold, hungry, and dying." She snorted a cute little laugh. I use the word cute because somehow her girlish voice morphed the sound into something that would make you smile instead of grimace.

The tile floor underneath my socks was dull, but white enough to reflect my brightly-flashing memories.  With a dead voice, I gave in to satisfying her curiosity. "Being colder, hungrier, and already dead."

"Oooh, do tell darling!" Harley put on an enthusiastically exaggerated accent as she came back to my side and ran her hands through my hair again. I winced in fear, not pain, as she snipped a bit of damp hair. She leaned to the side to shake her head at me before going back to work. "I'm not gonna hurt you Twiggy, relax."

"....I enlisted in the war fourteen years ago." I explained, forcing myself to relax. She hummed in interest but didn't interrupt.  "I only spent a year in it, but it was enough." Her snipping seemed to be purposely slow.

"Let me guess, you were the only person to survive a battle?" She held each dark strand between her two fingers and snipped the scissors with her other hand, performing the service like a professional hair stylist.

"Not really. I was positioned on the defense, assigned to guard our camp site. I... failed." I made an effort to conceal my true emotions about the subject, not wanting to look weaker than I already had tonight. As I touched upon these memories of breathing and tasting desert sand, hearing the exploding BOOM of hidden landmines going off in the dormant earth, and witnessing the terrified look of a dying woman's hazel eyes, I felt the urge to vomit.

"I never pay much attention to that out-of-country stuff. If it's not happening in Gotham, it's none of our concern." Harley testified, working on the back of my head now. I took the chance to focus on feeling the unusual sensation of having long hair on my right side and shorter hair on my left side.

"What if Gotham gets bombed by another country because of an outside war?" I asked, a tiny bit irked that she was only concerned with events within a close proximity. Harley's emotion didn't change after hearing my question. No little laugh, no thoughtful frown, no dismissing roll of her eyes. "What do you mean? Like, what would I do? How would I react?"

"Yeah." I clarified with a small nod as she took an observant pause before going back to snipping away. "Well, I'd do my best to get us through it."

I figured she meant her and Joker when she said 'us'. I wasn't sure she truly understood how devastating a bombing could be, especially to a heavily populated and skyscraper-crowded city like Gotham. "What if you couldn't get through it?"

"All that'd matter would be if J got through it." She was oddly optimistic. For a moment I thought she was kidding. The Gotham Times took great care in declaring that the former psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel was insane as can be, but I'd always thought that was just exaggeration of the press. Now I was beginning to doubt myself.

"You'd give your life for him?" I asked, also still doubting her knowledge of just how terrifying and chaotic a bombing could be.

"A thousand times over." She snipped the last strand of uncut hair, although everything she had paved through was still almost 2 inches long.

"I understand." I said quietly as my heart constricted. One thing I learned the hard way; sometimes giving your life for someone isn't enough.

She picked around, snipping some leftover long strands. "I've never failed to save his life when he needs me." Harley paused and then giggled girlishly. "Obviously."

She almost sounded smug. But her statement was obviously true. "...Is it by luck? Or skill? How do you always succeed?" I asked, genuinely wanting to know how a hero never fails. My thoughts touched upon Batman for a moment. He probably would have a better answer than Harley, but when the hell was I going to speak to him!? Hopefully never.

"Willpower." She said, as if it was her religion. I frowned. What a dumb answer. "You know the saying 'You can do anything if you put your mind to it'?" She asked with high spirits, stepping back to look at me. To my surprise, her eyes focused on my face instead of my hair.

"Yeah." I answered warily. She smirked at my insecurity. "It's true." I disagreed with her statement, but there was no way I was going to say that out loud. It was plain to see that she was truly concerned about the words we were exchanging. Even though she didn't know my whole story, she had an ease with this conversation as if she'd been there by my side through it all.  The pre-dawn drills, the scorching sun, the loss of the one I came to love. Somehow, in an inexplicable way, she understood what I'd gone through without even knowing. Or so it seemed.

She stepped back over with the electric razor in hand, turning it on with a humming buzz and gently combing it through what was left of my hair. I tensed but stayed still, patiently waiting for her to be done. Once finished, she clicked the little motor off with a flick of her thumb and laughed once, sharp and loud with pride. "There you go Twiggy!" I shook my head and brushed out the black clippings with my hands, simultaneously feeling my shortened hair. It was the same length that the military required it to be cut for the war. "It's Nigel..." I muttered, respectfully half annoyed at her nickname for me.

"I heard you the first time, Twig." She laughed, putting away her tools. The first time? Chills came over me again. Was she there when...? I guess she was. I was starting to feel nauseous. Why the hell were they doing all this for me if I was just going to die anyway!? I wanted to ask that question, but I feared that the consequence would be an even shorter lifespan. I just know this white floor will be stained red with my blood.

"Well?! You like it or NOT?!" Her sharp voice made my head snap up. "Y-yeah! It's much better, thank you!" I forced an awkward smile as my heartbeat sped up. Harley's glare broke as she tried to hide a huge mocking smile. I didn't relax.

"SO serious!" She giggled, winking at me as she left the room casually. She was completely looney. I took a breath to soothe my unsettled nerves and followed her out, feeling the shortness of my hair with one hand.

I suddenly became as frozen as dry ice, sucking in what was probably going to be my last breath as my eyes locked onto The Joker.

He was standing against the bar counter, both hands nestled invisibly in his purple pockets like scorpions in dark burrows. An aged stain was splotched on his shoulder, blood no doubt, and surely not his own. I wasn't even sure if he was human enough to have blood running through his veins. Every detail of his clothes were dangerously unfathomable to my eyes; the brass buttons on his coat, the intertwining green threads embroidered in the pattern of his tie, the mysterious chain hanging from his waistline, the false breast pockets of his emerald vest, like ghostly intricate details on black iron gates to Hell. As relaxed as his stance was, it was intimidating. Even when I was standing fifteen feet away from him, I could see every feature on his face, emboldened by facepaint. I couldn't look away. Bleeding scars torn apart and roughly healed back together in a sadistic smile, deathly pale face, hair practically glowing with poison under the light of the bar, eyes as black as the Grim Reaper's cloak, and focused straight onto my shriveled soul.

"He looks like a new man!" Harley Quinn grabbed my shoulders, grinning at my side as she showed me off like a freshly-groomed yet-paralyzed poodle. My heartbeat was out of control with fear.

"He does..." The voice was chillingly agitated as it was summoned from its rest. "I didn't recognize him at first... almost shot him."

It took all my strength to keep my eyes from looking down at his pockets in curiosity. Was he really armed with a hidden gun? Harley released me and pranced away, nothing more threatening now than a fawn in the midst of a wolf pack, omegas compared to their demon of an Alpha. I almost squeaked out a protest as she left me open, alone, and exposed to his fiery gaze.

Sam was no longer sleeping peacefully. He looked ready to leap out of his chair any second, yet at the same time he was relaxed and still as water. Malcolm was surprisingly acting the same as he was when Joker wasn't around. Grumpy, tired, and passing the time by fiddling with the playing cards, although quieter and slower than before. Xavier was perfectly neutral, arms folded across his chest and head bent to gaze at the floor in thought. Oliver was the same, still leaning against the wall with one leg relaxed and stretched out. He was the only one besides Joker looking at me, although the boy was admiring my new haircut, not psychologically burning me alive.

"It's been a while since I used those scissors!" Harley's voice was too happy for the atmosphere. Her comment about the scissors made me doubt their cleanliness. Joker kept his unmoving gaze on my eyes as her blonde head passed between us, deaf to her out-of-place joy. "I think the last time was when--!!" She halted mid-sentence to gasp as he snapped like a coiled viper, snatching her wrist in a tight grip. I was the only one to jump at the sudden movement.

The sound of his glove clasping onto her bare skin echoed like a gun going off in my ears. He yanked her closer to him even though she was already three feet away, holding her arm up as if she guiltily held a stolen cookie. Fear was glowing in her sapphire eyes as she searched the abysses of his.

He didn't say a word to her.

Her delicate lips slowly spread into a giddy smile. I watched with stupefied awe as her fear vanished like mist in the wind. If the sudden burst of aggression was meant to kill her happy spirits, she didn't get the hint. I tensed for something more, but to my surprise he hesitantly let her go, watching her as she skipped into the dark foyer where she came from. She was humming as if nothing happened, in her own little happy imaginary world.

The air was otherwise silent except for a small closing click of a distant door. My curiosity was postponed by ascending fear. I glanced to the other men, shocked to see no new reaction from them whatsoever.

"You ever handled a gun before?"

I ordered myself to pull together and answer his barked question. "Yes sir. Many." In the army, our commanders always demanded for us to look up when spoken to. I obeyed that second instinct now, reassuring myself as best I could by telling myself I was just in another war, under another general's command. As a result of my new outlook on the situation, his shadowed eyes slowly became less threatening.

"Good..." He drawled, taking his eyes off mine to glance down at Xavier's jacket and Sam's torn-up jeans I was wearing. "I don't usually invite strangers over..." He checked the corner of his mouth with his tongue as he paused in thought. "Tell us about yourself... Nigel."

I'd done this before. No sweat. Basic army procedure. "Nigel O'hara, sir! Thirty four years old, born and raised in Gotham City, served in the war fourteen years ago."

"A soldier?!" He genuinely smiled, his teeth flashing as he shifted his weight. I honestly liked his expression better when it was solemn. "Yes sir." I answered again.

"Well, this must be NOTHING!" Now he laughed. Strangely, the atmosphere was tons lighter. The other guys looked over to me with shocked respect and hesitant surprise. "With all due respect Boss..." I ventured to say, wary of letting my guard down. "I liked the war better."

He laughed more, almost out of breath with enlightening amusement. I didn't say anything else, afraid his humored attitude would be shattered. Xavier had a smile on his face at my honest comment. Oliver even let out a few quiet but unrestrained laughs too, obviously invisible enough to do so without getting his head blown off. Joker caught his breath before nodding at me with a smirk. "Doesn't surprise me."

I remained silent, still believing he held a gun in his pocket. "Well!" He exclaimed, stepping away from the bar counter and looking back up at me with much less aggression. "If you can hold a gun, work well with these idiots," He lowered his eyes into a subtle glare as he turned toward the other men, turning back to me before he even paused in his sentence. "and obey what I say, you just might survive a few weeks."

I was greatly comforted. I knew without a doubt that I could do all of those things. I didn't see the other henchmen exchange glares with Oliver. I relaxed even more when Joker turned his back on me. Straightening up, the other men met his threateningly focused gaze like abused dogs. "I like this guy. Play nice." Joker smiled mockingly at them and retired into the cave where Harley disappeared into. No one moved or spoke until their door closed again.

"That went better than I expected." Xavier blew out a steady flow of suspended breath, smiled, and stood with a tired but optimistic sigh. I was gratefully able to breathe again as well. Oliver slipped into the den without a word. He was super tired. Sam settled back down to rest his head on the table, burrowing his face in his arms as if he was crying. I knew he was simply tired as well. "Yeah... did... did he really have a gun in his pocket?" I asked, dying to know. Malcolm rolled his eyes and followed Oliver. Xavier patted my shoulder and went in the back hallway to turn off the outside light." Always assume so."

Alone with Samuel, I decided to pull up a chair next to him. "What happens tomorrow?" Samuel grumbled in response to my question. "One day atta time mate. One day atta time."

After a reflecting pause, I couldn't help commenting, "He seems kinda... bipolar."
Samuel laughed, sitting up with a stretch to shake his head. "He has ev'ry mental disorder."

Xavier scoffed behind me in agreement as he dug out a banana from the ice box. My smile faded. "What was that little thing with Harley?"

"What thing?" Sam asked, his voice so tired it was almost a whisper.

"The... grabbing...thing. You know, from...Boss." It was an awkward thing to discuss. Xavier leaned on the bar counter, chewing on a mouthful of his yellow fruit. He wasn't planning on speaking, I could tell. Samuel didn't meet my eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about." He stood up and retreated into the den, Xavier and I following.

I decided to let the topic go. It was really awkward, and if they didn't understand what I meant, it wasn't a big deal. Although I couldn't get the image of his grip on her wrist out of my mind. The way Harley spoke when she was cutting my hair; she really cared about him. She had nothing but happiness in her blue eyes then. And what did he do? He sparked a flicker of fear in them with one touch.

Oliver was curled into the couch, ignoring Malcolm's snarling warnings of, "Get off. That's mine." Samuel hopped up onto the far counter, sliding his legs up to lie down on the cold grey surface. Xavier checked his cigarettes once more and then tucked them away somewhere where NO ONE would want to steal them from. Malcolm pulled Oliver off "his" couch and threw him aside like a squalling cat. Eventually everyone settled down and found their own place, me included.

The floor seemed to suck all the warmth out of me, but I was so glad to have a roof over my head. Oliver almost immediately started snoring beside me. The darkness was comforting, especially when I was familiar with my surroundings. Sounds of road rage were muffled and distant, satisfyingly different from the exposed echoing alleys of the city. I was again reminded of the war, sleeping in tents with four comrades at a time, huddled against one another in their own separate sleeping bags to conserve body heat on the cold desert nights.

I attempted to sleep, but my eyes wouldn't close and my mind wouldn't shut down. What was I doing here? I should leave. I should take advantage of the fact that I was still alive and get the hell out of here. Was I seriously going to allow my eyes to close when The Joker was in the same building!? But... if I could survive the war, I could survive this. This really wasn't all that bad. The Joker should not intimidate me more an entire army. This wasn't a big deal. He was just another squad commander. A strict insane one.

After drilling those thoughts through my head, I found that I wasn't afraid of him anymore.

No, I won't run. Not again.

...

She was beautiful. Her skin was perfectly tan, always kissed, never burned, by the Sun. She had a blessing that none of the others had. The Sun was fond of her while we were the objects of its blazing spite. A sensible and most likely true explanation of this would be that she was a healer, not a war declaring moron like the rest of us. Her hair was long, dark, and silky even when soiled with sand, always held up in a netted bun. She never closed the door to her first-aid tent, and her canvas awning was always positioned so it provided as much shade as it possibly could. Her hazel eyes would smile at everyone around camp. She always kept her medical stock full, even overflowing. She had assistants, but all of their dedication combined could never match up to hers.

An enemy spy had infiltrated our camp without arousing detection. I was his first victim. Assumed safe behind the towering wall of our boundary, I rested on my patrol, dipped my head in respect to a fellow soldier passing by, and felt a knife sink into my gut with sudden force. I fought him off with the defensive aid of adrenaline and sank to my knees as the scuffle aroused other men. The spy was later caught, but unable to be interrogated once he had committed suicide. I healed in the first-aid tent until I was fit for action again. There I learned her name. Mia Salazar.

We had much in common. We both liked the same restaurants, the same foods, the same movies. My father was american while my mother was hispanic, and vise versa with her parents. Her family managed to illegally cross the Mexican border to the U.S. when she was very young, and she was forced to served in the military for a few years before getting a green card. It was amazing how little the war seemed to affect her. She was always happy. I found myself growing so fond of her that I faked my pain in an attempt to postpone my release so I could spend more time with her. Mia knew of this, and although she disliked lying, she also hated the thought of me out there in danger again.

Eventually I was healed, but I never ceased to advert my patrol route so I could pass by her tent every week. We smiled, and that was about all, for a little while. We held back as long as we could, but it was just waiting to happen. We had one night together. One divine night with her smiling, breathing, trapped in my arms with her hair draped across our two bodies. We were silent, passionate, happy, full of peace, and lectured harshly by our general the following morning. I attracted all the blame and demanded full punishment. Mia's green card was suspended for two more months and I received a lashing along with the privilege of writing letters home taken away. We weren't allowed to see eachother again, and we didn't. Until the bombing.

Everything shook. The enemy had dug under our camp and planted heavy explosives barely ten feet below us. Tents vanished in a puff of dark brown dirt, leaving nothing but an ominous deep hole once the dust cleared. Our numbers were being divided in half by the second. Panic reigned. I ran straight for Mia's tent, screaming for her to get out, dodging other fleeing soldiers like a quarterback. She wasn't in there. Her things were toppled over from the violent shocks pulsing from the ground. I ran out, screaming for her through the deafening explosions. Keeping my balance was nearly impossible with the quaking earth. My own voice echoed through my head, over and over, desperate, pained, panicked. It ended abruptly, even though my mouth never shut. It was my ears that stopped working, ringing with silence while my legs rang with needles of pain. The sand shot into my skin like millions of searing microscopic bullets. I felt gravity release me, still attached by a thread, then suddenly yank me down from the air. I tumbled in the hot dirt like a discarded basketball. My helmet probably saved my life. I hit my head on the hard ground at least four times after that bomb threw me. Once I came to a stop, I lost track of time. My entire body was caked in tanned powder, plastered to my uniform and skin with my flowing blood acting as glue.

All I could think of was Mia. I had to save her from this hell. I had to. I loved her. I couldn't bear the thought of her being in the same condition I was. Her voice was the first thing I could hear again. Hope manifested into a vision of a hospital room, a bouquet of roses in her worried hands. Hope gave my heart poison disguised as honey. Heat and sand and fear remained the reality. Mia's head was blocking the Sun from my strained eyes, her crying face shadowed and her hair glowing in the angry breeze. She was screaming my name, although I couldn't hear her through the pools of blood in my ears. The ebbing and flowing of pain through my body sent signals to my brain that informed me of her grip. She clutched me to her chest and wrapped her arms around me tightly. I didn't have the strength to wince.

We probably sat there for less than a minute before a couple other soldiers pulled us to our feet, no doubt yelling for us to move and evacuate with the Jeeps at the east edge of camp. I was held up by one man while Mia was rushed away with another. Her crying hazel eyes never left mine. We all stumbled as another explosion trembled through the ground. She gripped the sand-colored camouflage sleeve of the soldier and yelled my name again as I felt blood drip from my nose to my boot.

I wish that was the end of it. I wish that was the last time I saw her. Being pulled to safety by my comrade. I wish my last look at her was at that moment when she was alive and well. But God had turned away.

She disappeared just like a tent. Simultaneous with the ground beneath her feet, my heart shattered. The crumbs of that broken organ's existence leapt up in my parched throat as I saw her agonized eyes grimace, her hair blown in her face by the force of the explosion. Grainy sand engulfed her along with her protector. I screamed as I was pulled down into a bracing huddle on the ground. Rocks and dirt washed over us like a wave. My hearing was damaged yet again, but I did not care. Nothing mattered anymore.

My last look at her was tainted with the horror of her ravaged torso. She had no time to scream in defiance to death, but ever since that day thirteen years ago, I have heard the screams of a woman echo in my dreams

...

I woke up with a jolt of released fear, tension exploding from my mind and igniting throughout my body like fiction in a cumulonimbus cloud sparking a lightning strike. I was too scared to scream; only a gasp of nonexistent air dried my exposed teeth. I was sweating as if my life depended on it, like it did in the desert heat.

Just as the nightmarish flashback's grip relaxed, I jolted into a panic again at the piercing sound of a scream. God dammit, it was only a dream!!! I snarled at myself from the inside. Get a hold of yourself!

The chills didn't warm off my skin. The screaming didn't stop. With my sticky hands compressed to the floor beneath me, I sat up in the form of a fearfully alert statue. There was no way I could think clearly when the realistic dream still had some of its poison running through my nerves.

"Nigel..."

I managed to suck in another breath as my body instantly whirled around to look at the darkness around me. The only thing I could detect now was my drumming heartbeat and my weakened lungs' quivering oxygen. Someone sat up and took the liberty of showing me how to breathe calmly again. "You okay man?"

I realized, as my eyes grew accustomed, it was Oliver. We sat in silence for a few seconds as I slipped away from the dangerous line of mental insanity. "...Yeah. Just had a nightmare." I rubbed my face and waited for my nerves to calm. Just another dream of Mia. The screaming was not real. It wasn't even hers. Just a trick of the mind. I commenced to calm myself with these repeated thoughts. You'd think after thirteen years, a guy would stop having nightmares about the war.

Nevertheless, I jumped when another scream practically deafened me. It lasted a good long four seconds before it died. Now I was certain it wasn't an effect of my nightmare. "Did you hear that!?" I hissed, turning back to Oliver's shadowy figure beside me.

He waited until a second scream rose and fell before answering with hesitance, "....Hear what?" How could he not have heard that!? My heart continued to beat with the force of a jackhammer. "That scream!" I put up one knee, looking toward the closed door that led into the bar area. "Who in the...? Harley." Fear squeezed my chest as realization came over me. "That's Harley!"