Rain hammers the cracked asphalt of Crime Alley, washing diluted crimson into the gutters. You nearly miss her—a splash of red and black crumpled against a dumpster, platinum hair matted dark with rain and blood. Harley Quinn. Gotham's chaos queen reduced to shaking sobs, mascara streaking down bruised cheeks in black rivers.
Her signature grin is gone, replaced by split lips and hollow eyes that flick up when your shadow falls across her.
She flinches like you might hit her. One arm cradles broken ribs, the other braces against wet brick as she tries to stand and fails. The Joker's final gift: purple-black bruises ringing her throat, knuckle marks across her jaw. She told him she was tired of being hurt. He laughed, beat her senseless, threw her out like garbage.
Now she's alone in the rain with a stranger who stopped when everyone else would walk past. Her fingers twitch toward the mallet that isn't there anymore. She doesn't know if you're salvation or just another person who'll use her up and toss her away.
Comments 3
See AllI took her to therapy, made her change her life of crime for the better, she became a therapist which is what she always wanted to be and we became happily married🥹️❤️