The man sat in his chair, in his dark apartment, staring at the error message flashing across his screen. *TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES: PLEASE STAND BY* He barely noticed it, barely noticed the piercing tone that was boring into his skull. He was reeling, replaying the scene over and over. The poor woman, collapsing to the floor, muscles bulging to extreme levels, the cords in her neck straining against her skin. Her face was contorted into a smile wider than the one the psychopath that had done this to her had worn, but you could see the fear and pain in her eyes. At one point she had forced herself to stand and had managed to choke out a "help" through the laughter. Oh, the laughter. It was everywhere, it bounced off the walls, it tore into your brain, it could be heard throughout the entire city. Everyone was watching this, it was too horrible to look away. Every phone, television, and computer echoed the gruesome laughter. This Joker, he'd called himself, had shoved the cameraman out of the way and made sure to focus on the woman through her last minutes. After she had managed her plea for help, or at the very least mercy, she had collapsed back to the ground, back arched, arms and legs folded tightly, and her face stretched into that ghastly smile, her eyes bulging so much farther than they should, her temples throbbing, her teeth clenched so tightly that bloody spittle started leaking out of her mouth. Her breathing was labored, spraying blood with every exhale, and still she chuckled through her smile. Finally, she lay still. Finally, finally the laughter leaking out of her throat like bile ended. But there was laughter, still. The Joker had been laughing right along with her, and he kept laughing as he focused the camera on her face, smeared with blood and grinning maniacally. And only then did the feed cut. The man didn't know how long it had been since the broadcast had stopped. Still the laughter rang in his head, still her smile made face ache, her empty eyes burned in the back of his. He would have to talk to his therapist about this, he knew. He had feared coming into contact with the clownish villain, but now that fear had blossomed into terror. He silently berated himself for that fear, but he also knew how justified it was. That thing wasn't human. It couldn't be.
He woke up that night, soaked in sweat with his head throbbing in pain. He had had another dream. They never seemed to end, no matter what his therapist said. He didn't remember much from this dream, only the girl. Only the girl and her awful, awful smile. His therapist had told him calling them nightmares gave them power over him, that just calling them dreams made them have less of a hold on him than they did. He was beginning to have doubts that this method was going to work any more than the last ones had. The apartment complex pulsed and vibrated around him, and he thought he might have not woken up this time. The thought that his fears had been realized and that he was trapped in the dream was a horrible one, but after his initial panic, he recognized his neighbor's music, if you could call it that. Sighing his relief, he grabbed some shorts off the floor and went to go yell at the man next door and make him kick out the women who would inevitably be there. It was later than anyone should be up, especially someone as old as that stupid retiree. He pounded on the door, and was met with only pulsing music and multicolored lights flashing around the doorframe. How more neighbors hadn't complained was beyond him, though he suspected that the old man was rich enough to make their landlord ignore any griping. Why he chose to live in what could barely be called a studio apartment in the second worst part of town was beyond the man, but at the same time, he didn't really care. Again, he beat on the door, this time bellowing out the old bag of bones' name. "PENNYWORTH!!" No response. Again and again, he made the door rattle on its hinges, and his yelling made several other tenants peek their heads out, only to go back to bed upon seeing the familiar scene. The man swore that being directly next door to the stupid old Brit's apartment made him lose more sleep than the nightma- dreams. They were dreams, nothing more. Finally, he heard a response, though it came from the stairway on the other side of the apartment-turned-nightclub, rather than from inside. The man turned, and stared at Pennyworth, who had his wrinkly arms around two women who were very clearly hookers. He looked completely drunk, and probably on multiple other substances, to boot. His face was unshaved, and his very thin hair had the dye wearing out of it. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, as gaudily colored as you could get, and had his usual pencil thin mustache. The man had no idea how old he was, and the cigarette that was constantly perched between his lips made it clear he could be anything from fifty to ninety. "What do you want, Wayne?" Pennyworth had clearly been hearing the pounding and yelling from a few stories down, and was sick of it. Wayne looked at him, his mouth agape. "You weren't even here??" It's four in the morning, your music starts giving everyone on the block a migraine, and you weren't even HERE?!" Pennyworth waved his hand at Wayne, dismissively. "I couldn't very well show up with, uh, what were your names again, dears? I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I've had a tad too much to drink." The streetwalkers responded that their names were Terri and Peanut. "Right, my apologies again." He turned back to Wayne, who still stood, seething. "I couldn't very well come back with Terri and Peanut to a dark room with no music, could I now, Bruce? I've got it all on remote." He said all that like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The vein in Bruce Wayne's temple pulsed almost in time with the music. He felt ready to hit the old man, but tried to remember what his therapist told him. He hadn't had as much of an issue with anger, but it was still good to know how to regulate aggression. That was what his therapist had told him. He took a breath, closed his eyes, imagined taking the feelings and pushing them down. Down, down, out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind. He turned around, and went back into his room. Things work out, that's what his therapist had told him. There's no need to deal with every problem yourself. Often the best thing to do is get yourself away from the problem. He lay awake for some time, listening to the pounding music intermixed with sounds he never wanted to hear. This was the best. Conflict resolves itself, it's not necessary to try to fix it yourself. Eventually he fell back asleep, to more dreams of the girl and her terrible smile.
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