First Attempt.
Title: Mister Moon Chapter One
Pairing: Joker/OC (original character), and minor Joker/Batman
Summary: Abbie doesn't remember ever having a nice life. Her mom tries her best, but her dad just hates them all. One day he pushes that limit, totally injuring her mom and sending her to Patty, a family friend. When Abbie sneaks back home the next day to grab her things, she's in for a little show. Turns out Papa owed some money, and then this strange man shows up. A man who's going to have a lot to do with her life, and probably not in a good way, either.
Rating: PG-13 - R, for language and violence. I don't think I'll be doing any naughty stuff with this "pairing", if that's what you want to call it.
Author's Note: The spelling errors for when Patty is talking was made like that on purpose, since I wanted to put emphasis on her accent. Criticism is taken in with open arms!
The moon shone over Gotham like a candle in a dark room; it was that bright, that intense, that intoxicating. I couldn't keep myself away from the window; couldn't stop myself from needing to breathe that fresh air, to get away from the smell of alcohol and cigarettes illuminating around my parent's house. I wanted to get away, to escape from this place I call Hell, but I didn't know where to go, so I stayed put on my window sill high above the alley ways full of bums. If you take away the crime, the city, and the gross people in it . . . only the moon was left, and god was it beautiful.
Not even Batman could save me from my life of torture. He was just a human, too, just like the rest of us. The Hero of our city, a mere human, and weren't we all? Couldn't any of us put on a mask and be called a Hero, if we were a human, just like him? It didn't make sense. What was he other than mortal? What was he other than a cell, with tissues, organs, and organ systems? With bones covered in meat and flesh. He was just like the rest of us, other than his strength and instruments of killing. Underneath the mask and armor . . . he was just a human at heart.
Behind my door, behind my shelter, behind my protection - my father's violent yells filled our small apartment, with the echoes of my mother's screams entangling with his butchered yells. He was drunk, again, for his sentences made no sense, at least the one's I could hear. Looking at the door, the light peeking from under it, shadows moving back and forth in quick movements, I knew they were fighting. It hurt. My mother wasn't the enemy in this house; it was him, my father.
This time, though, it was getting a little more violent. There were loud bangs and clatters of glasses shattering on our rotting floor, of bodies being shoved against the thin layers of walls, and god I didn't want my mother hurt again. The last time . . . she was in the hospital for a month, and I was left alone to the suffering and pain of my father's fatal blows.
But what was I supposed to do? A mere teenager, a mere human, with no strength or weapons to help me, what could I do? I wasn’t Batman. I was Abbie Terrer, not him. I was the lowest of the low, the poorest of the poor. I am nothing itself, and as nothing, I do nothing, but write my nothings out. That is me, as a person, as a nothing.
The noise has stopped. My eyes widened in their sockets, waiting, patiently, for something to happen, for any kind of sound to comfort me. But the silence screamed like torture in my ears, and I could only wait, until it was too late. It's happening again. He was at my door in a matter of minutes, his breathing staggered and the smell emitting off his body making my nose wrinkle in disgust.
"We're gonna play a wittle game," his voice slurs out, the smile spreading on his face, full of broken promises, of smugness, of dirty intents. It was in that moment that I knew I had to run this time, and the only exit was the window behind my frozen form.
"Dad . . . I refuse to be a victim anymore," I spit out at him, taking a step back, my foot brushing against the window frame as I knelt down to fit out of it. Right when he makes his move, I fall, slipping on the edge without a single warning. The air pushing against my body doesn't slow me down, and I'm looking up at him through horror struck blue eyes. When I land, it's in the trash can, on the bags full of left over food scraps and other smelly items. In my case, this is a miracle, even if I now smell like the pits of Hell.
I don't look back a second time as I scramble for something sturdy to support me, and I find the lid of the trash can, and pull myself up. Within seconds I pull myself over the top, falling on my side with a painful thump. I can hear the crack of bones, none broken, but all damaged and bruised from years of pain. My legs carry me away, bare feet beating against the concrete alley way, broken glass shards and sharp rocks poking at the palms of my feet. It hurts, but not more than my heart, that aches in my chest. Not more than my mind, that was slowly shutting down on me.
I took a turn, finding the side-walks, the city of Gotham under my toes. It's almost welcoming, even the shards of glass I'm stepping on that are scratching and cutting away at my tender skin. My lips twist into a smile, because this was what freedom was. I was so happy to be out of that house, to smell the hot dog stands, the ashy remains of fires in pits to warm bum's hands, cheesy pretzels, and so much more that I just couldn't describe.
The bodies shoving against me couldn't stop me or the angry shouts that escaped their lips. I wasn't paying attention to any of it. I was busy dashing toward a new alley way, where I finally settled down into a nice walking pace, and gazed upon the faces of the poor. A cringe was on my face in a matter of seconds. I was a vulnerable teenager, and could be taken advantage of. I'd have to sneak back into my house to gather up my belongings.
Licking my lips, I turned back around, and scanned the area. Where was I supposed to sleep for the night? My frown was deep and concentrated as I searched for a nice area to rest my head. Pursing my lips, I knew exactly where to go. I made my way toward Patty's house, my mum's friend, who would gladly give me a bed or couch to sleep on. I'd have to tell her about my mother too . . . Patty would need to know, in order to do something and help me get out of that house.
I could feel the curious, the drunken, the perverted eyes all on me as I walked down a new slum infested alley way. Ignoring the people laying against the walls I found the door labeled 132, and knocked twice in a calm manner. She answered almost immediately, her familiar voice like an angel in my mind. When her leather brown eyes caught site of my bruised and battered form, she gasped, and was on me like a hound dog.
"What happened to ya', little nymph," she asked, her Irish accent smoothing out my wrinkly mind. "You look like a trash can gotta hold of ya' and beat ya' with bags of food scraps till you were black and blue, and ya' smell like it too."
It didn't really make sense, but in my mind I liked to think it did. She stopped in the kitchen, grabbing some bread and shoved it into my hands. "And yer as skinny as ever. Yer mum and pop aint' feeding you none, are they? A wee little nymph you are."
Her term 'nymph', meant in my mind, a tiny child. I don't know why she called me that, but I was the only one called 'nymph', and it made me feel so much better than the nothing I was. It gave me a bit of a meaning, it did.
I bit into the bread, letting its stale flavor run down my throat, but it filled me up just a bit even so. Her wry smile was on me in a minute, yellow and snarled teeth shining through her mouth. "Take a shower and lather yerself up. I'll set up a bed in Brandon's room for ya'. Meet me in the kitchen when yer done, nymph. I'd love to talk!"
She shoved me into the bathroom without another word, and I was left to gaze around me. The room was small, and dingy, but it was just like mine at home. When I turned the water on, it took a few minutes before it spurted out of the faucet, and it took a moment to become nice and hot. But when it hit my body, I knew I was in heaven. All of my pores emptied out, and when I soaped my hair and body good and clean I could feel the grease leaving my skin, and the blood seeping from my battered bare feet, mingling in with the water and stinging against the soap-y suds. Even with the pain, it was nice to feel at home somewhere.
Turning off the water, I was done, and I grabbed a towel off the rack, not caring if it was dirty or what. I dried myself off, and wrapped my hair up, and proceeded to the mirror. My reflection gazed back at me with tired eyes, my skin pale, my eyes worn, my features dull. I was nothing special, just a scrawny thing. I didn't think I'd ever have a boyfriend at all, even though I'd like one. A determined look settled in my eyes as I opened up the small cabinet and rummaged through it for the medical supplies. Grabbing a few bandages and other things I set out to work on my wounded feet, carefully cleaning them off with alcohol drowned swabs and placing the bandages neatly over each scrape and cut. When I finished up, I smiled proudly at my work and stood, grabbing a towel and wrapping it close to my body and exiting the small bathroom, each step burning from the pressure against my wounds but I ignored it all and pressed on.
Patty was cooking in the kitchen; I could smell the beginnings of breakfast in the air. My nose led me to her, and she smiled at me when I entered the room, but it soon fell into a frown. "Oh, nymph, we don't want ya' walking around nude all day. Brandon, get my Abbie some clothes, would ya'?!"
I glanced shyly at the boy who grumbled under his breath as he scrambled for his room, and then turned my attention on Patty. "My mom is hurt again. He did it. I don't know if she's okay, Patty, we have to go help her."
I knew I was getting frantic with my words, but I was worried, and it didn't help that with those tiny words Patty was kicking down her door with a shot gun right after. "That bastard is going to get his balls blown off this time, he is!"
I jumped, fright coursing through my veins as I watched her stalk out the door. I was speechless, completely and utterly, until a wadded up bundle of clothes was shoved into my line of vision. "Here. It's a bit big, but I think you'll be fine." He walked over to the door and closed it, turning back to face me with what I considered a comforting smile. "Don't worry. Patty will get yer mom and beat the shit out of yer father fer sure. In the mean time, I'll finish this stew and you get dressed and get yerself comfy."
He wasn't always, but he was the nicest boy I'd ever met. Brandon knew when to be polite, quiet, serious, and goofy. His mum taught him courtesy after all. "Thanks," I whispered back, leaving to find an empty area to put the clothes on that he'd gave me.
As he had said, they were huge on me, but I didn't complain any. I silently slipped back into the living area and plopped myself down on the floor, watching Brandon stir with a curious gaze. He must've known I was looking at him, since every once in a while he'd shift his eyes in my direction. "So, what happened?"
Brandon was older than me, by three years. "He got drunk again." And he wasn't gorgeous, but his personality was.
"You get used to it after awhile," was my nonchalant reply. His eyes permanently rested on me, catching me in a trance for a very long moment, until the front door suddenly burst open.
"Ay! Brandon, help me get her in here," Patty shouted from the door, startling us out of our trance. The young red-headed boy zoomed over to his mother and hoisted one of my mom's arms over his shoulder; the two of them heaving her limp body into the living room and setting her on the couch. I was standing, aware of the situation, aware of the fear in my eyes and the anxiety rushing through my veins.
"Is she okay?!"
"Ay, she be fine. She just is unconscious. Needs some rest, she does. The little fairy went through a rough beating, she did," Patty exclaimed in a motherly tone, releasing my mom's body onto the couch.
My mother was the fairy, another one of Patty's little nicknames. I almost smiled at that, but I was too worried to so, and instead fell to my knees and crawled over to be by my mom's side. The salty liquid called tears stung my eyes, and I desperately tried to wipe them away, but they fell in a steady rhythm down my cheeks. I listened to my mother's slow and labored breathing; watched her stomach rise and fall with each breath; knew I didn't help her when she needed me the most, and felt even worse about myself. The tears fell harder from my eyes with this knowledge.
"Oh, little nymph, don't cry none. Yer mum is fine, just needs some rest. Yer dad, on the other hand, is going to have some difficulties for the next few . . . years." I couldn't help the laugh that escape my throat, like a forced and needed gasp of air.
"What did you do to him?"
"Ay, Abbie, I did what I told you I was going to do. I shot his nuts off." She smiled curtly at me, and her tone was serious. And Patty never did lie, only told tall tales. "He won't be makin' no more babes, that's fer sure." A smile flitted over my face as I looked up at her soft smile, and she patted my back in a friendly gesture. "Get up and go to bed, little nymph. Yer mum will be fine. It's you that needs some sleep."
I gave her a hug before I followed Brandon into his room, and he curled up on the floor, confusing me as he beckoned to the bed with his hand. "Ya' take the bed. A gentleman never lets a lady sleep on the floor."
I couldn't contain the smile or blush that spread over my face like weeds. "Thank you," I whispered quietly, gingerly crawling onto the bed and cuddling under the covers. I opened my eyes up just as he turned off the lights, and began to stare into the darkness, letting thoughts consume my mind.
My mom's going to be okay . . . I'm going to be okay . . . Everything's going to be okay. I let my gentle words of comfort show me to sleep, and the darkness was like a beautiful blanket warming up my soul. If you take away the crime, the city, and the gross people that live in it . . . only the moon is left. He’s the witness to my pain, and sorrow, and suffering.
He’s the witness to every feeling I’ve ever felt.