Quinn

Quinn

5:54am

The living room was dull. The brilliant fall light that poured through the windows was diminished as it passed through the decades of tar from her fathers’ cigarettes. She picked empty beer cans and emptied ashtrays, which were always flung around the double wide. Roger and his boys had come last night, which was always a nightmare. The older boy, Lucas, always tortured her; the way young loved often blossomed in the trailer park.

She had approached this morning with care, as she did every dawn, anticipating the worst. She danced around the kitchen with melodies haunting the depths of her abstract mind. Never fully prepared to face her father she felt sick at the sound of the floorboards creaking under his stout flat feet. He was stumbling, which meant he was still drunk from the night before. She braced herself.

“If only you were ten years older and not my daughter… then this would be a happy home” he spit through yellow teeth and a scowl worn only by those most jaded in life. “Even if you weren’t my daughter, you’d still be a bitch just like your bitch mother”.

She dissociated.

….

Her father dragged his legs over to the putrid recliner he sat in like a throne. It seemed like lifetimes she had stood in the kitchen, staring at the recliner, admiring how her father managed to seep a sweat stain in his exact liking, even the curvature of the headrest. Truly impressive. She prepared his breakfast on the dented metal meal tray he had brought home from his stay at the psychiatric ward. One of the few moments of peace, even if it were a mere few days after his return home.

….

She took the tray to her father, but instead of walking behind the recliner, she regretfully treaded in front.

Her father moved with lightening speed as he grabbed the cuff of her nightgown, slamming her into the wall. The trailer shook.

She closed her eyes as he screamed at her with his hands on her neck; tears rolling down her face.

“I never know what’s going on in that silly little head of yours, bitch”

He spat in her face and walked away.

She fell to the ground, staring out the window to see a beautiful barn owl.

How she wished she was that owl, how she wished she could fly away.

….

6:02pm

Dinner was going to be late. She hadn’t fully recovered from this morning’s trauma, but her father had been what he considered kind all day. She looked through the refrigerator hopeful but knew there would be nothing to be found. She grabbed the last two pieces of bread, which were the ends, and a can of beans. Her father had been drinking excessively, he always does after he goes on a rampage but at least this evening he was quiet. She took the metal meal tray over to the recliner, careful not to make the same mistake.

He took one look at the food and before he could open his disgusting mouth to complain, Harley grabbed the baseball bat he kept next to the recliner striking him on the side of his head cracking open his orbital bone, his eyeball bulged.

She smiled as his knees hit the ground, his stare was vacant. Blood trickled down his cheek as she took one more solid swing to his temple.

His body hit the floor.

As his body convulsed, she slowly leaned down and whispered into his ear,

“I never know what’s going on in that silly little head of yours.”

She put blankets soaked in gasoline her father had stolen from the neighbor around his body.

She lit a match and as she walked out the door she wondered if he knew who the bitch was now.

….

17 years later

She snorted a line of cocaine off her favorite antique pocket mirror. She always liked to get her head straight before dealing with her patients. She tied up her hair with an elegant red velvet ribbon with navy satin accents; she had always adored red and blue, it reminded her of the blood strained blue eyes of her fathers as he laid dying.

Reliving that moment was a favorite pastime of hers.

She looked in the full-length mirror, admired her reflection, and put on her lab coat; lab coats were a requirement at Arkham asylum. She had graduated with her PhD the year before and was now the lead psychologist. She was a known prodigy in the field with a knack for unlocking the most tortured and demented minds. She had devised them into naughty and nice, based on her discretion of course.

She had never been addressed by the name Harley, but Doctor Quinn had a special ring to it. She was beautiful, elegant, educated, and dangerous. In fact, it’s what made her such a desirable lead at the asylum. There was something about her presence that was both exhilarant and terrifying.

She grabbed her clipboard and strolled down the hall as patients howled at her, some even masturbating. She didn't mind, in fact she liked it as long as they were on the nice list. She quickly scanned her chart and made her way to room 115.

She whistled to the guard to unlock the door.

She scanned the chart and opened the door confidently, even though Arkham's most wanted was inside. The more high risk, the more it aroused her.

Before she could speak, Arthur Fleck jumped to his feet.

"There are whispers of your beauty all over Gotham, but words can't express the intoxication of your pheromones'."

It was the first time in her career she blushed, the increase of blood flow caused the cocaine to rush through her system.

She caught her breath.

"I thought they said you were a joker, not a romantic. Now let's see what's going on in that silly little head of yours."