[Arkhman Interview Tape #1]
It's about her. I've not known her for a long time. But it feels like I do. You understand me, right? Everyday, right beside that broken statue of a waxen winged angel, on that stone seat. She sits there all evening, listless. As if in a daze. Her glistening black hair partly stuck to the nape of her neck, the rest drawing myriad patterns behind her summersuit flowing down gracefully in twists and tangles unseen in many revered works of art. Her face was beautiful, exquisitely beautiful, something you'd see in a movie. A hapless chap, dreamily trying to steal a glace of the maiden he set his heart on. THAT makes quite the poignant scene now, does it not?
No. That's not it. You think I'm obsessed with her, don't you? You're just going to fake me a smile and call me a stalker. But, I'm not a stalker. I swear. Everyday I still wait for her now. Yes, it had been years since I saw her. So many seasons have rampaged through my deserted park. But even today, I'm haunted by the watery eyes fixated on some point on the horizon that I couldn't make out. It was always the same. But the last time I saw her, her eyes were dead. Glassy. Dead.
Oh, you thought I saw her everday by the way I was speaking? Amazing. Yes. Yes. That's it! You do understand. I DO see her everday. I stare into her eyes and repent all I said to her. I do. She's in all of my dreams. Sorry, nightmares. I haven't had a dream less sleep in months. And it's always. It's. Always. That. Same. Scene. Tearing. Me. Apart.
The twilight shining on the pale deathline skin and her hair. Her sundress stretches onto her body like tarpaulin due to her sweat. And she's looking at me. She's looking at me walk away. Her eyes are watery. She cried a lot after I told her that. Didn't she? Oh my bad. I haven't told you what I told her right? What's the use of calling forth my nightmares to you?
Okay. You're a psychologist? Wait. I'm here for "correctional behavior analysis" and "grievious self-inflicted bodily harm"? Okay. You will help me? Huh? What now? So, I'm not supposed to scratch her name with my shaving razor my wrist? But I can't do that doctor. I can't forget her name. No no. I think I can't remember a time where I did not remember her name. Her name, you ask?
Omen. Her name was Omen. Does that sound amusing to you? Doctor. Why are you not amused? Why are you not smiling? Did you know that I saw her smile, the last time I saw her. Oh but I did. No no. The park wasn't the last time I saw her. Don't be daft. Oh wait, you knew that! That's amazing. Wow, you're the real thing. Haha.
Hey Doctor, can you not open these restraints? I promise I will use only sterilized blades. You don't understand? Really. Well that's a bummer. Here I thought that I finally found someone who understood. Oh that's right, It's always the same. You won't let me cut my hands because you understand. Haha. What a fool I am. Hysterical. Haha.
Oh, why do I cut myself? Carve her name into every inch of skin? Oh that's because it hurts! It hurts just enough to make me forget that dull throb inside my head. Oh and her face. The blood and the cuts? Yeah those. They distact me from my nightmares during the day. It's best that I don't spend every moment thinking of her. But, doctor, I still do. Don't I?
Doctor, hey you listening? You. I'm talking to you. You know what happened then? She wanted to die. She never wanted to live. I wanted to let her. So, I told her that. Oh, yes. I did know her. She was my love- maybe not. She was my friend? Was she my friend, doctor? Tell me. Does a friend haunt you everynight too? Does she kill you from the inside?
Like I did.
You look surprised. Yeah. Not a bad guess. I DID kill her. It was too hard. I tried too hard to make her live. Maybe I did kill her? Hey, doctor. Did I kill her? Why are you looking at me like that? Why don't you say something. Doctor? Doctor? Speak. Speak. To. Me. Oh that's good. You do understand that I killed her. Finally someone does.
She wanted to die. It wasn't my fault. I loved her. Maybe. I did not want her to die. "Why do you live like this", I said. "Why live for dying in the first place", I said. "What's the use of living like this", I said. And then she killed herself. Correction, then I made her kill herself. That's what happened. That's what I did to her, that's what I've thought of. Every. Damn. Day.
You say you don't understand. But there's that look in your eyes. That little glint of betrayal. YOU think that I did kill her. Good. That's a relief. I don't want pity from you, doctor. I want Asylum. I want to sleep, doctor. Can't I sleep too? Doctor. She was smiling as she hung by the noose. Her pretty little neck was permanently scarred with a band of red.
Sucide? Yeah. More like assisted murder. She hung herself. And she thanked me for it. How, you ask? Well, she mailed me a letter before hanging herself. She told me that I had finally opened her eyes. That I had finally made her understand that there's no use for "living for dying in the first place". She used my words doctor. She told me what I told her. And she thanked me for it.
Her face was drained of colour in the pictures I saw on the newspaper. I killed her. I had done it. And doctor, you know what haunts me even as I bleed inside and outside? That expressionless girl who never really lived. That girl who I never saw smiling. Yes. It's about her, doctor. Her.
She smiled in death.
-Neil Idoyitshi (7th Feb 2018)
Joker's past has never been cleared up completely. And there's much to be undertood, about the Clown Prince of Crime. Insomnically I had some time to draw up a maddening piece about the origin of Joker in a first person view of Joker being interviewed by an Arkham Psychologist.
Thanks for reading. I adore your support and I hope you enjoyed it.