What: Reveal When: Sins plot Warning/ratings: Recollections of gore
It was very sudden.
He had been floating in the warm, thick darkness afforded him by death. There was no heaven for his sort, but he also didn’t think it was Hell. There were no flames licking at his feet, no naked bitch-girls flaying off his tattooed skin, strip by horrible strip for all eternity. No, this place was soft and comfortable and he sank into it like a luxurious feather bed or a mother’s arms. He could have floated there forever if he’d been permitted, in the dark embrace of death. He might have been a pile of meat and gristle and marrow, but in death he was whole again.
And then he was ripped away from it all, and shoved without ceremony back into the mind of a lesser man. He had been wrong. This was Hell. Forced to share his life and his mind with a pathetic little boy who couldn’t even keep his thoughts to himself. He couldn’t keep the skeleton man out. The skeleton man would always rule. But he wasn’t a skeleton anymore. His skin was scarred but unpainted, rough and aching with the memory of a knife. This was Hell. To be stuffed inside another’s head like a fucking pimento in a rotting olive, alive and still breathing hard with the memory of his skin being removed in inches at a time. To feel the trickling of his blood as it ran over his bare legs and drip-drip-dropped onto the filthy floor beneath him. Nailed to the cross like a dark prophet, at a woman’s mercy and whim. He felt sick with rage.
She would pay. He would find her and he would make her squeal like a half-slaughtered animal at the end of his knives. He would teach her what it was to be a ruined thing, how to try and live with scars that followed you to the ends of the earth. How the scars became a part of you. How they came to define you.
He would find her.
First he had to get back his control. Something was wrong, misaligned in the tether that joined him with his other half and made that foreign body difficult to control. He had to wait until a few drinks had been downed, and then finally he was able to flex and stretch into place, nudging his suggestions to the foreground. As the other man, the lesser man, relented and returned them to the hotel, he was exhausted from the effort. By the time he pushed through the door and stepped into one of the many empty warehouses he kept for his plotting and his schemes, the Joker could barely remain upright. He stumbled a few steps and then he fell onto a pile of boxes, robbed of his breath when he flashed back to the pain and the blood and the wet thud of his severed cock as it hit the ground.
He knew without looking which so-called ‘sin’ had been assigned to him. The other man, that sick puppy on the far side of the door, he’d been pride. How very droll. Of course, everything else paled when pitted up against the blistering heat of pure wrath.