If you pick it, it will never heal.
Every mental patient has their good days and their bad days. That's just the way of things. Patient I-44, however, seems to have bad days and 'unreasonably terrifying days'. On the one hand, it's fortunate they can medicate him now. And they do. Heavily. The medication makes him sleep, at least a few hours of the day, and that allows for some peace in the hall. Only some, though. Once the sedatives wear off enough for a real and natural sleep, that leaves him to dream. When he 'dreams' it's more of a 'screaming, madly cackling, violent night terrors' situation.
He wakes into a blurry drug induced confusion. His usual hallucinations and racing thoughts are beyond what he can tolerate. The clown crouches on the floor in the dark. There's no one to talk to. Harvey isn't awake too, this time. There are no distractions. He beats his head against the glass, wishing for silence, but there are always orderlies in the building moving. Always the buzz of fluorescent bulbs nearby. Always the screams of the insane. The sounds of breathing and the dreams of the insane.
He reaches his hands up, his nails trimmed too short but still enough if he dedicates himself. He picks and pulls, concentrating at loosing one of the staples holding the skin closed over open skull. The Joker carefully and completely pulls one of those staples free and picks the scab away. He opens some of the wound and leaves his scalp bleeding, running in a stream down his skull and behind his right ear. He rubs his fingers in the warm flow and draws a thick, wide smile over his lips and scars. He smiles wide as he works to straighten out the staple. Tiny bit of metal. Tiny weapon. He laughs and starts drawing on the glass. Stick figures and faces. Bats and blades. And he waits.
He wakes into a blurry drug induced confusion. His usual hallucinations and racing thoughts are beyond what he can tolerate. The clown crouches on the floor in the dark. There's no one to talk to. Harvey isn't awake too, this time. There are no distractions. He beats his head against the glass, wishing for silence, but there are always orderlies in the building moving. Always the buzz of fluorescent bulbs nearby. Always the screams of the insane. The sounds of breathing and the dreams of the insane.
He reaches his hands up, his nails trimmed too short but still enough if he dedicates himself. He picks and pulls, concentrating at loosing one of the staples holding the skin closed over open skull. The Joker carefully and completely pulls one of those staples free and picks the scab away. He opens some of the wound and leaves his scalp bleeding, running in a stream down his skull and behind his right ear. He rubs his fingers in the warm flow and draws a thick, wide smile over his lips and scars. He smiles wide as he works to straighten out the staple. Tiny bit of metal. Tiny weapon. He laughs and starts drawing on the glass. Stick figures and faces. Bats and blades. And he waits.