Half Sound, Half Drowned Ch. 2

Pete

I wake up slowly, my head throbbing. For a few terrifying seconds, I can’t remember where I am. I get that plunging feeling in my stomach that you get when you’re walking up the stairs in the dark and you think there’s one more step than there is, and your foot goes flying through thin air and for a few seconds it’s like you’re freefalling through the darkness.

In most cases, however, your foot tends to hit solid ground eventually, and you just kind of stand there for a few moments and wait for your heart to stop pounding. Things don’t turn out so well for me; I just go on freefalling as the memories flood back. Clear as day, I see the policeman holding a gun to Patrick’s head; the blinding headlights of the oncoming car that almost kills us; the Joker’s leer as he pokes his head back at us; and poor, battered Tricky being beaten down by the Joker’s nightstick. Last of all, I watch myself scramble clumsily out of the patrol car and launch myself at the Joker with an animalistic roar that’s quickly cut short by that black nightstick. No wonder my head hurts so badly.

As consciousness returns further, I start to take stock of my situation. I’m unable to move my arms at all, and my legs are pretty much entirely constrained as well. I’ve been forced into a sitting position, which probably explains why my back and neck are so sore. Now, for what’s holding me here…

Tilting my chin as far down as it’ll go, I get a narrow look at what the Joker used to bind me to this chair. For a few seconds, I can’t believe it. But after some more examination, I’ve come to an indisputable conclusion.

A straitjacket? Are you kidding me? What kind of sicko is this guy?

Obviously much more of a sicko than I previously thought.

Craning my neck, I take a look around the room I’m imprisoned in. Small, dark, and dingy, the narrow room is barely lit by the faint winter sunlight pushing its way past the grime coating the room’s only window. To my not-very-great surprise, the window’s barred. The floor is made of some kind of wood that was once stained a cool purple-blue color. Now, the warped old wood has lost most of that color and faded to a dark gray-purple bruise hue. Grease and grime have clumped and hardened in the grain of the buckled wood, and it gives off a hopeless, dusty smell.

The floor is mostly bare, and the room is sparse and empty of furniture. The walls are stark and bare of paint and wallpaper, and the crumbling brick is pathetically disguised with cheap, flaky white plaster that’s fallen off in large chunks.

The only signs that the room has been inhabited in the past few years are the tattered yellowy curtains that hang feebly beside the window and the large, grotesque stuffed moose head mounted on the wall opposite me. I can’t shake the creeping sensation that the moth-eaten thing’s watching me with its cracked glass eyes.

That’s about it for the small section of the room that the stiff collar of my straitjacket allows me to see. The whole half of the room on my right side is out of my line of sight, and I have an inkling that it holds something important. Gritting my teeth, I wrench my body sideways as hard as I can. With a painful grinding noise, the heavy chair I’m strapped to turns a few measly inches to the right. A few more excruciating efforts later, I’ve turned about forty-five degrees to my right, and I can see the rest of the room.

What catches my attention immediately is the other chair in the room. It holds my partner in crime, my innocent little kid, my gentle guardian angel, and my best friend. Riddle all these into one adorable body, and you get the boy slumped unconscious in the chair beside me.

“Patrick,” I murmur, chewing anxiously at a piece of loose skin on my lower lip. He doesn’t respond; he’s still out cold. In this faint light, I can see the full extent of the damage that’s been inflicted on his innocent little baby face; one eye has swollen and turned a myriad of shades of pain, a deep cut in one of his chubby cheeks is crusted over with blood, his lower lip is split and swollen, and dried-up trickles of blood lead from his nose, the corner of his mouth, and his forehead, where his fine blond bangs are matted with blood.

“Jesus god,” I mutter, unable to tear my eyes from the sight before me. Suddenly, a thought strikes me, and I go cold. He’s looking awfully pale…is he breathing under that straitjacket? Jesus, what if he’s…

I can’t even bring myself to think it, but the falling sensation in the pit of my stomach overtakes me again. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without Tricky…he’s my guardian angel, my safety net. He’s what keeps me going half the time, and his naive disapproval is also what makes me stop and think every once and a while. He’s my cure for growing older, and he’s, to borrow thoughts, my wonder wall. I don’t think I could make it without him. In fact, I decide, I refuse to make it without him. If this Joker asshole’s killed my Patrick, so help me, I’ll do everything I can to get my revenge. If Tricky’s dead, I’ll kill the Joker, and I’ll go with him. And if by some miracle I make it out of here alive, I’ll throw myself off a bridge. Life without Patrick is implausible.

“Well, hello there, Petey,” a familiar, unwelcome voice oils. I look up to see the Joker standing in the crooked doorway, a grin spread over that greasepaint-covered face. “You’re looking awfully anxious there, my friend. Why so serious?”

I jut out my jaw as the fiend sweeps towards me, still in his purple overcoat and suit. The chemical stench of cheap makeup follows the bane of Gotham into the room, and I can’t help but scrunch up my nose in disgust at the stink.

“What’sa matter, Petey?” the Joker demands smoothly, slithering and jerking across the grimy floor towards me. “I asked you a question…you’re normally the mouthy type, now aren’t ya? So why don’t you answer me? Afraid I’ll cut out your tongue if you say the wrong thing?”

“It seems fairly likely,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice even.

“Oh, really?” He slides closer, interested. “And how would you know, my angsty little friend?”

“I’ve heard,” I say coolly.

“Hmm?” He cocks his head, a darkly sardonic expression on his painted face.

“Rumors get out about people as batshit crazy as you.” I lift my chin defiantly, daring him to lose his temper.

He draws away, shaking his head disappointedly. “Language, language, my boy,” he clucks disapprovingly. “You wouldn’t want me to get angry, now would you? I might just do something terrible to your little friend here…”

He reaches out with a lazy hand and slaps Patrick harshly across the face. To my horror, Patrick doesn’t respond; his head lolls on his shoulders, unsupported by his neck.

“Oops,” the Joker giggles, a dangerous grin flickering over his face. “Looks like your chubby buddy is still sleeping. How silly of me to try and wake him.”

“If he’s dead, I swear to god…” I growl, straining uselessly at the straps of the straitjacket.

“Oooh, I’m so scared,” the Joker titters, dancing backwards facetiously. “Please, don’t hurt me, Mister Angry Eyeliner Man.”

I glower at him as he’s consumed by giggles at his not-very-funny joke.

“Uh oh,” he says suddenly, turning his head to one side, pursing his lips, and looking at me through narrowed eyes. “You’re giving me an angry look. Does this mean I’m in trouble? Should I be worried for my safety? Am I in danger?”

“If you’ve killed Patrick,” I snarl, leaning as far forward in my chair as I can, “You’ll be in danger until either of us dies.”

“Ohoho!” the Joker laughs mockingly, destroying whatever significance my words may have held with an anticlimactic giggle. “What a pronouncement! I felt my blood run cold for a second there, I did!”

I bite my tongue as he sweeps across the floor towards me, a mask-like grin on his face.

“Don’t you worry your…greasy…head about your friend,” the Joker says mock-comfortingly, patting the top of my head condescendingly. “He’s not dead.”

I purse my lips and spit as hard as I can on the Joker’s puke purple shoes. “Right. Like I’m gonna believe you.”

“Ouch, Petey,” the Joker frowns, drawing away again. “That…probably wasn’t a smart thing to do. It’s not a good idea to spit on someone who’s got your best friend strapped to a chair…”

My breath catches in my throat as he slithers over to Patrick.

“…and a knife in his hand,” the Joker finishes, pulling the switchblade in question out of his pocket, flicking it open, and waving it dangerously in Patrick’s direction.

“N-no,” I gasp, jerking at the straps of the straitjacket around me. “Don’t-you-dare-touch him!”

The Joker chuckles, not moving his hand. “So protective. So useless. Do you really think that growling at me and making a frowny face from across the room would stop me from turning your friend here into flubber pâté if I really wanted to do so?”

I fall silent in the face of his stark, oddly logical madness. To my relief, he lets out another chuckle and puts a bit of distance between the gleaming blade of that knife and Patrick’s pale face.

“I knew you’d see reason,” the Joker smirks, snapping the switchblade shut and stowing it in the far recesses of his overcoat. “As it is, I have no intention of knifing your friend. Yet.”

A giggle escapes his red-painted lips at the look on my face that greets his last word.

“And, because I’m feeling especially kind today,” the Joker continues, “I’ll even prove to you that I haven’t already killed…uh…Frederick, is it?”

“Patrick,” I snarl, angered by the amused light flickering in those black marble eyes. “As you bloody well know, you-”

“Easy, easy,” the Joker cautions me smoothly as he draws closer to Patrick’s limp form. “I can wake…Patrick…up nicely, or…not so nicely.” I bite my lip as his hand strays to his pocket.

“I see you’ve figured out when to shut your mouth,” the Joker says approvingly as he bends over Patrick and unbuckles the straps binding him to the chair. “That’s a useful thing to know, my friend. Saves you and others a lot of trouble.”

Taking the hint, I keep silent as the Joker drags Patrick’s unresisting body up out of the chair. I’m not sure if it’s wishful thinking or reality, but I swear that I can hear Patrick breathing softly.

“Good morning, sunshine,” the Joker grins, drawing Patrick up by his bloodstained collar. “Time to wakey wakey and see what this day’s brought you!”

Sadistic freak, I think bitterly, shifting slightly in my chair.

“Come on, Patrick,” the Joker giggles, shaking the kid roughly. As Patrick’s head flops back and forth helplessly, I want to scream at the Joker to stop it, to stop hurting him, to stop touching him. But I know that if I open my mouth, Patrick will be in even greater danger.

“Wake…up…Patrick,” the Joker growls, grabbing Patrick by both shoulders and shaking him, shaking him, shaking him so hard that I’m terrified that any second I’ll hear the snap-crack of Patrick’s neck breaking. But I hear nothing, and the Joker stops shaking him, to my intense relief.

“This chubby bunny’s quite a heavy sleeper, isn’t he?” the Joker titters, glancing sideways at me. “Maybe he really is dead.”

I bite my tongue to hold back the angry retort that rises in my mouth like hot bile. Giggling like the mentally unstable freak he is, the Joker turns back to Patrick. After regarding his soft face thoughtfully for a few seconds, the Joker raises a greasepaint-smeared hand and draws it back. In a moment of cowardice, I drop my eyes to the floor and cringe at the resounding smack of the Joker’s hand colliding with Patrick’s face.

“Ah, I think he’s coming round,” the Joker’s satisfied voice says smugly. I look up to see him deliver another ringing slap to Patrick’s other cheek.

My heart leaps as a faint groan finds its way past Patrick’s swollen lips.

“There we go,” the Joker says happily as he smacks Patrick yet again.

“Uuuhn?” Patrick grunts, blinking slowly up at the Joker through his skewed glasses.

“Good-” the Joker breaks off to slap him again, “Morning-” another slap, “Sunshine!” He finishes his sentence with the loudest whack yet.

“Who…what…don’t…” Patrick gasps, helpless and confused. “What’re…”

“Come on,” the Joker growls, striking Patrick yet again. “Are you stupid or something? Maybe I hit you a bit too hard with that nightstick last night…”

I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood in my mouth as the Joker delivers another powerful blow to Patrick’s battered face. His delicate nose has started bleeding again, and the blood’s streaming down his face in a river of crimson. He tries to stammer out words between the Joker’s vicious wallops, but he’s having trouble getting through the combined forces of his swollen lip, the Joker’s hand, and the blood pouring from his nose and getting into his mouth.

Finally, I can’t stand to watch anymore. “Stop it!” I scream, jerking at my bonds so hard that the chair I’m strapped to jolts forward a bit.

The Joker pauses in the beating he’s dealing out to shoot me a disappointed look.

“And you were doing so well in keeping that naughty mouth of yours shut, Petey,” he sighs. “Just for that…” Suddenly, his fist darts out, dealing Patrick a vicious blow to the stomach. Patrick goes limp again, groaning in pain. The Joker drops him to the ground like a dirty rag, and he tries weakly to push himself up onto his knees, arms trapped by the straitjacket.

“Stop it,” I mumble weakly, watching Patrick retch through my watery eyes. “Don’t hurt him anymore. Hit me if you want; he hasn’t done anything.”

“What a little hero you’ve turned out to be,” the Joker observes mockingly, strolling over to Patrick’s side. Glancing up at the Joker’s leering face, Patrick rolls over and tries desperately to get away, wriggling pathetically on the floor.

“Stop that,” the Joker orders, giving him a swift kick in the ribs. “That wormy crawling doesn’t become you, kiddy.”

“You’re sick,” Patrick gulps, spitting bitterly onto the dusty floor. To my horror, his spittle shows bright crimson against the dark wood.

“Who isn’t?” the Joker asks evenly, not missing a beat. “Now, sonny, let’s have a look at you.”

He reaches down and scoops Patrick up off the floor in one smooth movement. Tiny Patrick has to stand on his tiptoes to keep from being strangled by the collar of his straitjacket as the Joker pulls him up close to his face. Anger flares up in my stomach as I watch the Joker’s calculating gaze rove over Patrick, my Patrick.

“Hmph.” The Joker narrows his eyes shrewdly. “You’re not much to look at, now are you? A silly little face, a bit too pale for anyone’s good, I think. Your eyes aren’t too interesting…big enough, I’ll grant you, but not a particularly arresting color…you’ve got a bit of a weak chin, now don’t you? And I haven’t even gotten to your body yet…”

Patrick swallows hard and tries to look away, flushing bright red. I’m surprised that he has enough blood in him to muster up a blush of that color, considering the amount of blood he’s lost in the past twelve hours.

“C’mon, don’t be bashful, Patty,” the Joker grins, reaching out and shoving Patrick’s chin sharply back towards him. “You’ve gotta face the facts, don’t you know? I mean, there’s no escaping that you’re…well, quite short and just the tiniest bit fat. Though,” he adds thoughtfully, “I really think a couple days without food would help you shed that puppy fat of yours.” His hand darts out and pokes Patrick’s soft stomach, much too hard to be the teasing gesture it should be.
Asshole, I think sullenly, my unspoken words swirling inside my head. Patrick’s not fat. Don’t make fun of his baby chub, you dick wad. It’s adorable, anyway. Seriously, Patrick wouldn’t be Patrick if he wasn’t a little chubby. That’s part of the appeal.

“So, quite frankly,” the Joker finishes, smirking at Patrick, “I can’t quite see what your “friend” Pete sees in you.”

Patrick’s cheeks redden even further as I grit my teeth and glower at the Joker. The quotation marks around “friend” are almost visible. He can tell. That asshole, he can see it! He can see that my protective attitude towards Patrick isn’t entirely a protective-older-brother-type thing, or a you’re-my-best-friend-and-I-won’t-let-anyone-fuck-with-you thing. No, he can see past that fourth wall I’ve put up for Patrick, for me to hide behind. He can see that I’ve got a…a thing for this pudgy, innocent kid, and he’s going to use that to make me miserable.

“But, then again,” the Joker muses, eyes never leaving Patrick’s battered face, “Maybe there’s something in that puppy-dog look of yours…or that nice, plump mouth you have…”

To my horror, the Joker reaches up with one hand and starts to—to touch Patrick’s face, to stroke the soft skin and caress the wounds that he inflicted. Patrick flinches at his touch, but he can’t escape. Fury, pure white hot fury flares up in my stomach as Patrick squirms uncomfortably. That Joker is touching Tricky, my Tricky, in ways that I’m only allowed to touch him. Patrick is mine, and no one else is allowed to touch him like that. Several of our close friends have found that out the hard way; Gabe and Travis could testify to the point.

But the worst part of it, I realize as the Joker traces Patrick’s features with a gentle touch that would be loving if it belonged to anyone else, is that he’s not doing it for the right reasons. The Joker’s not touching Patrick for the pleasure of it, for the softness of his skin or the perfection of his face. No, he’s touching him because he likes to watch poor Patrick squirm and try helplessly to escape. And especially because he likes watching me stew in my corner, unable to stop him and get his damn hands off my Tricky.

“Yes, I think I might be able to see why,” the Joker says thoughtfully, tracing a circle on Patrick’s chin with his greasy fingers. “Though, really, I think you’d look better smiling…you need to smile more often.”

My heart leaps into my throat as the Joker reaches into his pocket and pulls out his switchblade, flicking it open with malicious pleasure.

“Yes, I really think you’d look better with a smile on that pudgy face of yours,” the Joker says smugly, tracing the edges of a Glasgow Smile around Patrick’s trembling lips with the tip of his knife.

“Say…” The Joker leans in closer to Patrick confidentially, “You wanna know how I got these scars?”

Patrick doesn’t reply, only swallows hard, his eyes fixed on the knife the Joker’s waving around erratically.

“Look…at…me,” the Joker orders through gritted teeth. Patrick closes his eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink, then looks up at the Joker’s face.

“I used to be a pretty boy like you,” the Joker says smoothly, running his tongue along his painted lower lip. “Oh, yes, I was quite the charmer in my youth. But…well, I fell in with the wrong crowd, you know? And one day, silly little Jack here decided to double-cross his dangerous friends. Well, when they found out, they didn’t like that at all, don’t you know. So they got me in a room by myself, and took a knife, and they put it in my mouth, just like this-” Patrick lets out a faint gasp as the Joker slides the knife into his mouth, “And they said, ‘Jack, we’re gonna make you smile, kid, like you’ve never smiled before. You’re so pretty, Jack, when you smile.’ And then they took the knife, and they went like this-” Patrick twists and turns his head away, trying to escape the blade of the knife moving inexorably towards the corner of his mouth. Terror swells in my chest as knife meets skin, and Patrick lets out a cry of pain as the Joker starts to slit his cheek.

Then, just as I’m about to scream, regardless of what will happen, the Joker pauses in his demonstration to thoughtfully stroke Patrick’s cheek.

“You’re so pretty, Patrick, when you smile,” he breathes, a rictus grin twisting his features. “So smile.” With the last word, he digs the knife into Patrick’s cheek, and Patrick lets out a scream of pain as blood beads on the knife blade.

“Stop it!” I scream, twisting myself in my chair and trying as hard as I can to get out, get away, get to Patrick and stop the Joker, stop what he’s doing to my baby. What really happens is that I manage to knock over my chair and fall to the ground with it on top of me, pressing my head into the dusty floor.

“A-hah,” the Joker says in satisfaction. Out of the corner of my eye, I can just see him drawing the knife away from the edge of Patrick’s mouth. “I was wondering how long you’d hold out, Petey. Seems that you can’t stand to see your Patrick hurt. Well, I don’t think I need to make his smile any bigger. But…oh, dear, it’s not even, is it?”

To my horror, he slides the knife to the other side of Patrick’s mouth and cuts a slit there, just long enough to match the one on the other side of his face. The cuts aren’t big, about half a centimeter long each, but they’re spilling even more blood onto Patrick’s chin and straitjacket.

The Joker drops Patrick to the ground with a bored look, and Patrick curls up into a tiny ball of pain, shuddering in abject terror. But the Joker turns his attention to me now, looking down at me with a sadistic smirk.

“You stupid little anti-hero,” he giggles, putting his hands on his hips. “So protective of your little friend. And where has that protectiveness got you? I’ve disfigured your pudgy love. Will you still love him now that he’s a freak like me?”

I’ll always love Tricky, I think desperately as the Joker takes a menacing step closer. Always.

Then the Joker’s got his foot on the chair above me, and he’s pressing it down on me, harder and harder, and it’s crushing me, crushing me until I can barely breathe, and then I can’t breathe, and the worlds starts to go dark at the edges, until the blackness swallows everything and I pass out.