Harlequinn

Harley forced her eyes open, fighting against the unconsciousness still lingering around the fissures in her mind. She grunted, reawakening the chords of muscle in her throat and the drums in her ears. Blood thudded around her head, beating against the inside of her eardrums, agitated at being awoken so quickly. Her vision was hazy, but she blinked and driving her pupils to focus, compelling her own mind to cooperate.

She tensed every muscle in her body, willing for it to reawaken from its artificial slumber. As she checked through every limb of her body, she was alert for pain, for places where her skin was broken, places where she bled from within. She felt no pain except weariness and exhaustion…

…and broken pride.

How could she have let this happen?

As the muscles in her face thawed, she frowned and grimaced, feeling stabbing pains rack through her skull. Stabbing pains that originated from a bulge on her temple.

It was the crowbar’s fault.

She sat up straight as her sense of balance and direction returned in a flurry. She felt something cold and rigid against her back and thighs. There was something coarse and tight around her wrists as well.

Her eyes, now adjusted to the dimness surrounding her, took in her setting. She was strapped to a chair, one rope around her waist and the back of the chair, one around her wrists and a further rope around her ankles. She still wore her black suit, but the black makeup around her eyes had run and she felt it drying and cracking on her cheekbones.

Harley’s mind was now alert and ready and thoughts of escape began to emerge. Instinct overruled all and she stretched the rope around her wrists and ankles, to see how far it would extend. She wriggled her hands, trying to pry the rope away from her raw skin with her fingers.

‘I wouldn’t bother.’

Harley stopped. Her head snapped up, staring into the murkiness. Whose voice was that? All was quiet, except her breathing and the distant snarl of traffic.

The voice had sounded as if it was coming from in front of her…but with her mind still a little hazy, she couldn’t tell for sure.

She wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. Slowly, still casting her eyes around the gloom for signs of movement, she began to twist her hands around in their bindings. Her skin was raw from where it had rubbed, but there seemed to be no give. Her long fingers explored the knots, feeling for an escape route. If she could somehow untie them…

Suddenly, there was someone next to her, someone so close, their cheek was pressed against hers. She tried to pull away, but a hand was pressed onto her opposite cheek, keeping her head still. Her breathing quickened as she felt the rough rub of stubble against her face and smelt the faint odour of the other person’s breath.

‘No really,’ the voice breathed and paused. ‘I wouldn’t bother.’ The voice was male and the underlying tone of amusement sent shivers trilling through Harley’s body.

And then he was gone, taking with him the feeling of energy. The immediate space around Harley felt empty and vacant with anticipation. Whoever he was, he would be back and the sense of expectation made her stomach churn.

Now, she began to rip her hands out of the bindings, in vain hope, not caring when they cut through her skin. She felt something warm trickling down her thumb, but she couldn’t tell if it was blood or just sweat.

‘And stop.’

Harley looked up, straight into a face.

She stopped breathing as she stared into her captor’s face, seemingly detached from any body by the murky gloom all around. The face was pale white, with painted black shadows around the eyes and an unruly red gash of paint that stretched from one cheekbone, down to his mouth and then back up to the other cheekbone.

Dark eyes glinted with merciless amusement, shining out from under the dark makeup. The slash of his mouth twitched, as if to talk, as if to just make the game of waiting, all the more vindictive and pitiless.

Her pursuit of liberty was forgotten, as she stared into those infinite, soulless eyes.

‘If you escape, you will have to navigate your way through thirty flights of this apartment block. On your way, you shall meet over fifty guards, armed with rifles, knives and, my favourite…shiny little throwing stars. They’ll crack right through your bones and trust me….my men have a great aim.’

The sarcasm in his voice was unsettling. He seemed to be enjoying Harley’s torment far too much.

‘What do you want?’ Harley said, her voice hoarse and strained.

And now, the laugh, the shivering, trembling, bone-chilling laugh that racked through Harley’s body like the torment of a nightmare.

He came from the shadows to Harley’s right, carrying a chair. He sat backwards on it, swinging his leg over the seat in a movement so quick, so fluid and graceful, Harley’s breath snagged in her throat.

He sat directly in front of her, arms rested on the back of his chair. A smile tugged at the corner of his slash of a mouth and his dark eyes regarded Harley with a degree of amusement. The laugh came again, a deep, throaty chuckle that resonated in Harley’s chest, rattling against her ribcage.

He leant forward suddenly, rocking onto two legs of the chair and the smile and the laugh vanished. He stared out at Harley from under a thick, black-painted brow line. His eyes were cavernous with the depth of his seriousness.

‘You’re mine now,’ he muttered, his voice darkly husky. Then his black eyes softened; some of the darkness was scalloped out with his delight. ‘You might remember me y’know.’

Harley stared at him with horror and disbelief. He began to smile, lifting his head to look down at her. He held out his wrist and drew his shirtsleeve up to his elbow.

‘I’m psycho number 4-0-7, 3-8-5.’