Cherry Loola | Joker (2019) cosplayer

WHERE THE SHADOW RESTS

They dragged me through court like I was a cautionary tale. "Fraudulent. Unstable. Manipulative." They used words like that while skimming over the psychiatric notes about trauma, dissociation, medical neglect. They sentenced me to mandatory psych intervention inside Arkham—"not jail," they said. “Treatment.” But anyone who's ever been processed into that place knows the difference is paper-thin. I arrived with trembling hands and a tightly packed bag. No trial. No dignity. Just another inmate dumped into a system that called it care.

Peer facilitator for trauma-informed expressive arts therapy.
Not because they believed in healing—but because my sessions lowered violent incidents by 43% in three months. Because the walls stopped feeling quite so bloody when people had paper to tear instead of each other. Because chaos became something we painted through instead of painting over.

And that’s how I ended up here. That's how they let me trade my jumpsuit for a chance to help others inside these walls find something resembling breath.

The Attack

After Joker Folie a deux, during a workshop i hear a scream. Arthur gets stabbed.

The world around me shifts, the stale air of Arkham growing thick with something heavy, something electric, something wrong. Then—like a crack of thunder splitting the sky—I hear it. A scream, raw and jagged, tearing through the suffocating silence of the asylum’s dimly lit corridors. It’s not just a scream of pain. It’s deeper than that. It’s a sound of pure, unfiltered terror. My blood turns to ice, and my breath catches, my body already moving before my mind catches up.

The walls stretch long and endless before me, flickering lights casting twisted, shifting shadows that lurch as I run, as if the asylum itself is coming alive, as if it’s breathing with the suffering it contains. The cold linoleum floor is slick beneath my feet, my heartbeat hammering in my ears, drowning out everything except the desperate need to get there, to reach the source of that scream before it’s too late.

And then—I see it.

Arthur.

He’s crumpled on the floor, his thin frame hunched over, body curled as if trying to make itself smaller, as if trying to disappear entirely. Blood spills from him in thick, merciless pools, seeping through the cracks in the floor, staining his pale skin like an artist’s brush had slashed red across a blank canvas.

His breath is ragged, his face drained of color, his lips slightly parted as though he’s trying to speak but can’t find the strength to form words.

And looming over him, like a nightmare given form, is Connor, the sick bastard’s grin stretched too wide, his knuckles raw from the impact of his blows, his hand clutching a crude, jagged shiv dripping with Arthur’s blood. The remains of his joke—some cruel, twisted punchline—still hang in the air, the sick amusement on his face twisting my stomach.

Time slows. I can feel my pulse, a war drum in my ears, deafening and furious—I’m already dropping to my knees, already pressing my hands to Arthur’s wounds, already feeling the warmth of his blood spilling between my fingers, wrapping my white shirt around, too much blood, too much, and God, I can’t lose him.

“Arthur! Arthur!” My voice is frantic, thick with something I can’t afford to name, my hands pressing down hard, too hard, desperate to keep him here, to stop him from slipping further into the abyss that already seems to be pulling him under.

His body is limp beneath my touch, his skin cold, too cold, and when his eyes crack open, they’re glazed, unfocused, distant. No. No, no, no, don’t you dare leave me.

The world around us is chaos. Somewhere behind me, the cameraman stumbles, muttering something about “Cut,” as if this is just another scene in Arkham’s grotesque spectacle. As if they wanted him to die in the movie and i arrived in the Truman Show of Arthur.

But this isn’t a show. This isn’t fiction. This is Arthur, bleeding out on the floor while the system watches with empty eyes, people applaud his death. And I refuse to let him die here, forgotten, just another casualty of a world that never gave a damn about him.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, leaning closer, my voice fierce with a promise I refuse to break. “You’re not alone anymore. I won’t let you die here.”. I see him shaking, vulnerable.

Footsteps thunder down the hall, the guards finally moving, but they’re too slow, too detached, as if they’ve already decided Arthur isn’t worth saving. My head snaps up, rage and desperation colliding in my chest. “CALL AN AMBULANCE!” I scream, my voice raw, feral, but they hesitate—because to them, he’s just another inmate, just another broken man in a place built to break people. “DO IT!”

The distant wail of sirens cuts through the heavy air, but it’s still too far, and Arthur is still too pale, his breath still coming in short, struggling gasps. He tries to speak, his lips barely moving, his voice a ghost of a sound, and I lean in, straining to hear him, to grasp onto anything he’s trying to say, because I need him to fight. But his voice is weak, so weak, and I see it in his eyes—he doesn’t believe he deserves to live. I look at him, REALLY look at him, caressing his face and his hair while we wait for the ambulance, as i press a napkin with water on his forehead to remove some sweat. I murmur “I am here, you are safe”.

And that shatters something deep inside me. And him.

"Stay strong for me, alright?” My voice breaks, my grip tightening. “I promise you, this isn’t the end. Not today. Not like this.”

The stretcher arrives. The paramedics flood in, pulling him from my grasp, and the moment my hands leave his body, I feel the crushing weight of helplessness slam into me. The guards move to push me back, to separate me from him, to take him away, but I twist out of their grasp, my body moving on pure instinct, on pure refusal.

“I’m going with him.” The words are not a request. They are a declaration.

A guard’s hand clamps down on my arm. “Step away”

I whip my head toward him, my eyes blazing pushing him hard. And before they can react, I tear free, my body moving before they can restrain me, before they can shove me away. I lunge into the ambulance, my breath coming in sharp gasps as I settle beside the stretcher, my hands finding Arthur’s once more.

The paramedics exchange wary glances, but I don’t let go. I don’t back down.

"You have to save him," I plead, my voice shaking but unbreakable. "You have to."

The ambulance doors slam shut. The sirens wail. The city blurs past in streaks of red and blue, but all I see is Arthur—pale, fragile, barely clinging on.

The Surgery

The ambulance doors burst open, and the world becomes a blur of urgency, cold air rushing in as paramedics haul Arthur’s stretcher toward the ER entrance. The fluorescent lights overhead make his skin look even paler, almost bloodless, his chest barely rising under the oxygen mask strapped to his face. The gurney rattles over the uneven pavement, wheels shrieking, voices snapping commands I can barely process.

“Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen! BP’s crashing—heart rate is unstable!”

A nurse jogs alongside them, shouting updates into a radio. “ETA to OR?”

“Five minutes. We need to move—now!”

I don’t realize I’m running until I feel a hand slam against my chest, stopping me just before the double doors.

“You can’t go any further.”

The words barely register. My pulse is pounding too hard, my body still vibrating from the panic, from the weight of Arthur’s blood still staining my hands. I try to shove past the nurse, try to follow the gurney deeper into the hospital’s sterile maze, but another hand grips my arm, this one firmer, unrelenting.

“Miss, listen to me,” the nurse says, her voice softer now, but no less firm. “He’s going straight into emergency surgery. This is going to take hours.”

I don’t care. I don’t care.

“He shouldn’t be alone.” My voice cracks, and I hate it, hate how weak I sound when all I feel is rage—rage at the world, at the system, at the endless cruelty that’s left Arthur to fend for himself time and time again.

“He won’t be,” she promises. “But you can’t be in there.”

I shake my head violently. “He’s always alone. I can’t—”

The doors swing shut. The gurney disappears. The last thing I see is Arthur’s motionless form swallowed by white coats and masks, his blood leaving a dark, accusing trail in his wake.

And then he’s gone.

The Wait

Time stops existing. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting in this waiting room, my legs pulled up to my chest, my arms wrapped around them like I can hold myself together if I just squeeze hard enough. Hours? A lifetime? The clock above the reception desk blinks forward in sluggish, torturous ticks, but it doesn’t feel real. None of this does.

At some point, a nurse comes by and tries to hand me a cup of coffee. I don’t remember taking it, but it ends up cold and untouched between my hands. A security guard eyes me warily from across the room, no doubt recognizing me as an inmate, probably waiting for me to cause a scene. Maybe I already have.

I should be exhausted. I should be numb. But the only thing I can think about is him.

Arthur, lying on that stretcher, barely holding on. Arthur, who has spent his whole life being ignored, abandoned, treated like something disposable. Arthur, who doesn’t believe he deserves kindness, who probably thinks that if he dies tonight, it’ll just be another punchline to a joke no one finds funny.

But he is not dying tonight.

I don’t move from this spot. I don’t leave, even when doctors walk past, shaking their heads at the sight of a shackled prisoner sitting alone in the waiting room. Let them look. Let them whisper. I don’t care.

Arthur isn’t going to wake up to an empty room. Not this time.

The Aftermath

“Miss?”

I jolt upright, my heart seizing. A surgeon stands in front of me, his scrubs wrinkled, exhaustion etched into his face.

“He made it through surgery,” he says. “We had to repair a punctured lung and significant internal bleeding from a laceration near his liver. We also removed the chest tube, but his breathing is still compromised, so he’ll be on oxygen for now. He’s stable, but critical.”

The words hit me all at once, each one slamming into my ribs like a physical blow. My hands tremble, my throat tightens, and for the first time in hours, I allow myself to breathe.

“He’s going to wake up?”

The doctor exhales. “Yes. But I need to prepare you—recovery from this level of trauma is complicated. He’s going to be disoriented, likely in pain. It’s common for patients in his condition to be confused or even aggressive when they regain consciousness.”

I nod. I already know this.

Arthur doesn’t believe he deserves to live. He’s going to wake up angry, terrified, maybe even cruel—because that’s all he knows. Because the world has never given him a reason2 to believe in anything else.

“What room?” My voice comes out steadier than I expect.

The doctor hesitates, then points down the hall. “ICU, Room 306. But I’d advise—”

I’m already moving before he can finish.

The Boundaries

I don’t go in.

Not at first.

I stop outside the door, my fingers ghosting over the handle, my breath catching in my throat. Inside, I can hear the slow, rhythmic beeping of machines, the soft hiss of oxygen, the muffled movements of nurses adjusting IV drips and checking vitals. But beneath it all, there’s silence.

Arthur’s silence. I see him, and cant help the tears.

A part of me wants to push the door open, to sit beside him, to be there when he wakes up so he knows—so he understands that someone stayed. But I know him. I know that the first thing he’ll do when he opens his eyes is push me away. He’ll be defensive, maybe even cruel, because of course he will. Because this world has never given him a reason to trust anyone.

I won’t do that to him.

I won’t take away the one thing he’s ever been allowed to have—his choice.

So I step back. I let the door remain closed.

I stay.

But I give him his space.

The Breaking Point

I don’t remember falling asleep.

The next thing I know, I’m in the chair by his bed, my body curled in on itself, exhaustion finally dragging me under. The machines beep steadily beside me, and for a moment, everything is peaceful.

Until I feel movement.

Then, after a long, agonizing pause—his eyes open.

I let out a sob, quiet, barely there, but the moment his gaze lands on me, my whole body seizes with fear. His expression is unreadable, heavy-lidded and dazed, but then—then his brow furrows, and his breathing quickens, and I know.

I know.

“Wh-where the fuck am I?” His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper, but the sharpness in it cuts straight through me.

I flinch, my shoulders curling inward, my hands gripping the fabric of my sleeves as if I can make myself smaller, make myself less. “Arthur,” I breathe, my voice shaking, cracking, already thick with the weight of everything I can’t say. “You’re in the hospital. You—you got hurt, but you’re okay, you—” My breath stutters. My vision blurs. I bite down on my lip, hard enough to draw blood, willing myself to keep it together.

His gaze shifts, flickering across the machines, the IV in his arm, the bandages wrapped around his torso. And then, slowly, deliberately, back to me.

His expression hardens.

"You shouldn’t be here.”

The words hit like a slap, like ice water to my already frayed nerves.

I try to answer, try to find something—anything—to say that won’t make this worse, but my throat is closing up, my chest heaving, my fingers shaking as I wipe at my eyes, hating myself for being like this, for being so fucking weak.

He struggles to move, his body stiff and weak, but his voice—his voice—is sharp, slicing through the fragile space between us. “Why the fuck are you here?”

I curl in on myself, nails digging into my arms. I don’t want to cry, I don’t want to cry, I don’t want to—

A quiet sob escapes, and I hate myself for it.

“Because I—” My voice cracks. I can’t breathe. The weight in my chest is unbearable, crushing, suffocating. “Because I couldn’t leave you.”

His breath stutters, something flickering in his expression—hesitation, uncertainty—but then it’s gone, masked beneath layers of anger, of fear.

“You should’ve.”

The words shatter me.

A choked noise slips from my throat, and I press my hands over my mouth, trying to smother the sob that threatens to rip through me. “Arthur, please,” I whisper, voice breaking, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. “Please don’t say that.”

He exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. “Why not?” His voice is lower now, rough and exhausted but still laced with that biting edge. “You think I don’t know what people see when they look at me? You think I don’t know that I’m a joke?”

“You’re not a joke!” The words burst from me before I can stop them, raw and desperate and too much. I press my fists against my chest, trying to keep myself together, trying not to fall apart right here in front of him. But my body betrays me, wracking with silent sobs, my shoulders shaking so violently I feel like I might break.

Arthur stares at me, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Then, barely above a whisper he asks again, unable to grasp why anyone would help —“Why?”

I inhale sharply, my breath hitching, my whole body trembling as I force myself to speak, to tell the truth.

“Because I see you,” I rasp, my voice thick with tears, my hands clenched into fists. “Because I know what it’s like to—to feel like nothing, to think that if you disappeared, no one would notice.” My throat burns. My vision blurs. “But it’s not true. It’s not true for you, and it’s not true for me.”

Arthur doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t move.

He just watches me, his expression unreadable, his fingers twitching against the sheets.

I suck in a shaky breath, my nails digging into my arms. “I didn’t stay because I—I think you need saving, or—or because I want something from you. I stayed because I know what it’s like to be left behind.” I blink rapidly, tears still falling, my breath coming in broken little gasps. “And I—I couldn’t do that to you.”

A long silencse stretches between us.

Then, finally—his throat bobs, and he looks away, his fingers curling weakly into the blanket.

“…You’re crying,” he mutters, almost like an accusation.

I let out a wet, choked laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I do that a lot.”

Arthur exhales, slow and uneven. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t push me away, either.

And right now, that’s enough.

The Walls Between Us

The silence between us stretches, thick and suffocating. Arthur is awake, alive, breathing, but he won’t look at me. He stares past me, at the ceiling, the machines, anywhere but me, his jaw locked tight, his fingers gripping the sheets in weak, clenched fists. I can feel it—the weight of his exhaustion, the tension in his body, the fight still burning inside him even though he has no strength left to fight.

And I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know how to fix this.

Arthur exhales sharply, shaking his head, his face twisting into something bitter. “People don’t just—just stay unless they want something. So what is it?” His eyes snap to mine, burning, daring me to answer. “You wanna feel like a hero? Huh? You wanna—wanna fix me? Make yourself feel better? What is it, huh?”

Tears burn in my eyes, but I bite my lip hard, trying to hold them back. “I—” My breath stutters. “I care about you, Arthur.”

His laugh is cold, humorless. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

His eyes narrow. “Why?” The word is sharp, almost a snarl, and I can see it in his expression—the way he’s pushing, testing, waiting for me to give up, to leave, to prove to him that I’m just like everyone else.

I shake my head, tears slipping free despite my best efforts. “Because I understand you,” I whisper. “Because I know what it’s like to—to feel like nothing. To be treated like nothing. To believe—” My voice cracks. “To believe that you don’t deserve anything better.”

Arthur’s breath catches.

For a second—just a second—his face falters.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the crack in his armor seals.

His lips curl into something mocking, his eyes dark with something I can’t quite name. “Oh,” he breathes, tilting his head slightly. “I get it now.”

I blink, confused, my pulse quickening.

He smirks, but there’s no real amusement in it—just bitterness. “You think we’re the same.”

My chest tightens. “Arthur—”

“We’re not,” he snaps, and this time there’s fire in his voice, sharp and biting and furious. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. You think you do, but you don’t.” He shakes his head, a humorless laugh scraping from his throat. “I know people like you. You—you latch on, thinking you understand, thinking you can help, but you don’t know me.” His hands grip the blanket tightly, his whole body trembling with barely contained rage. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

Because I do know.

I do.

I know that he’s been discarded his entire life, that he’s been beaten down, ignored, left to rot in a system that never cared whether he lived or died. I know that the only way he’s survived is by building walls so high, so impenetrable, that letting anyone in—even a little—feels like a threat.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters, his voice so quiet I can barely hear him. But it’s enough. Enough to make my heart break all over again.

I don’t say anything at first. I can feel the lump in my throat, the ache of knowing that even though I’m here, even though I’m trying, he’s still trapped in that place of solitude. And I want to scream. I want to yell at the world that it’s not fair. I want to tell him that it doesn’t have to be this way—that he’s not supposed to carry everything alone. But the words don’t come.

Instead, I just sit there, my hands trembling in my lap, my chest tight with the weight of my emotions.

And then—

“You don’t have to stay, you know.”

His voice is quiet, but sharp.

I jolt, blinking rapidly, looking up to find his eyes open again, his gaze locked on me now. His expression is unreadable, his face carefully blank, but his fingers are curled so tightly into the blanket that his knuckles are white.

I suck in a shaky breath, my pulse quickening. “I—I know.”

“Then why are you still here?” His voice is harder this time, frustration creeping into the edges of it. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

I flinch. “I—I don’t—”

Arthur scoffs, shaking his head, looking away again. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

His jaw tightens.

His breath shudders through his teeth, his fingers twitching against the blanket. “You don’t know me,” he mutters. “You think you do, but you don’t.” His voice lowers, dark and bitter. “And you sure as hell don’t want to.”

I suck in a shaky breath, my whole body trembling. “That’s—that’s not true.”

Arthur scoffs.

And this time—this time, he laughs.

“You really think this is gonna end any different?” he mutters, shaking his head. “That you’re—you’re special? That you’re gonna be the one person who stays?”

Tears slip past my lashes, hot and relentless.

Arthur sees.

And it angers him.

I don’t know if it’s at me or at himself, but it burns in his eyes, tightens his jaw, makes his hands curl harder into the sheets, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“I don’t need you,” he mutters. “I don’t want you.” His breath stutters, something shaking at the edges of him, but he forces himself to keep going. “So just—just go.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, shaking his head. His voice is low, sharp with exhaustion and something more dangerous. “This again? This whole—you’re not alone, I understand bullshit?” His lips curl into a sneer, his eyes narrowing as they finally, finally lock onto mine. “You don’t fucking get it, sweetheart. You don’t know shit about what it’s like to be me.”

I flinch, my breath catching in my throat.

But he’s not done.

He leans into it, into the cruelty, into the razor edges of his voice, into the bitterness that keeps him standing when everything else has failed.

“You sit there,” he breathes, his voice dangerously low, “crying your little fucking tears, acting like you know what it’s like to be this. But you don’t. You can’t. You don’t know what it’s like to be fucking worthless—to be laughed at, stepped on, ignored, mocked just for existing.” His breath stutters, but his eyes burn with anger, with disbelief, with the desperate need to prove me wrong. “You don’t know what it’s like to be so fucking invisible that the only time people see you is when they’re kicking you while you’re already down. You think just sitting here is enough? You think just saying a bunch of pretty fucking words is gonna change anything?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re just like everyone else. You want to feel like a good person? You wanna fix me?” He lets out a breathless, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Well, guess what? You dont understand me, you cant. I’m not some fucking charity case. I don’t need your goddamn pity.”

My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. My hands are shaking. My vision blurs.

And then—

Something inside me snaps.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.

I grab my bag, my hands trembling so violently I can barely get the zipper open, my breath ragged, uneven, torn straight from my chest.

Arthur watches, eyes narrowing, but there’s something else in his face now—something almost wary, like he doesn’t know what to expect.

Then, I slam the papers onto the bed.

My psychiatric file.

Every single page.

Arthur’s breath catches.

I feel my chest crack open with everything I’ve held in, with everything I’ve tried so fucking hard to swallow down, and before I can stop myself, the words are pouring out.

“You think I don’t know?” My voice is shaking, raw, broken. “You think I don’t fucking understand what it’s like to be worthless?” My breath stutters as I gesture wildly to the papers between us, my vision blurred with tears. “Read it.” My voice cracks. “Fucking read it, Arthur.”

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t breathe.

He just stares.

I let out a bitter, breathless laugh, shoving the papers closer to him. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be nothing? To be thrown away like I never fucking mattered?” My voice breaks, the words clawing their way out of my throat, desperate and wrecked. “I was homeless, Arthur. I was abused. I was—I was fucking kidnapped.” A sob forces its way out of me, and I can’t stop it, I can’t—

Arthur flinches.

The first real reaction I’ve gotten from him since this argument started.

But I don’t stop.

Because he needs to hear this.

“I have DID,” I whisper, my voice shaking violently. “I have fifty-six suicide attempts. I don’t remember most of my life because my fucking brain won’t let me.” My hands tighten into fists, my nails digging into my skin. “I know what it’s like to be so fucking broken that you don’t even feel like a real person anymore.”

Arthur’s lips part slightly, his throat bobbing. His fingers twitch against the sheets.

His eyes flick to the papers.

Then back to me.

He doesn’t say anything.

I wipe furiously at my face, my chest rising and falling too fast, too hard. “So don’t you fucking dare sit there and tell me I don’t understand, because I do.” My breath stutters. “I do, Arthur.”

A long, heavy silence stretches between us.

Arthur’s hands shake.

I see it now—the way his entire body trembles, the way his breath comes quicker, the way his face has lost all its anger, replaced by something else.

Something terrified.

He swallows thickly, staring at the papers like they might reach up and grab him. His fingers twitch again, but he doesn’t touch them. Doesn’t move.

Arthur’s breathing is shallow, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his eyes darting away from the papers like he’s trying to erase them from existence.

At the way my body has curled in on itself. At my hands, clenched too tightly in my lap, shaking like I can barely hold myself together. At the way my shoulders tremble, my head bowed, my entire presence shrinking, disappearing.

And for a split second, I think he’s going to let it happen.

I think he’s going to let me go.

Because isn’t this what he’s always known? That sooner or later, people turn away? That no matter how much they claim to care, no matter how much they stay, they eventually give up?

But then—

Something in his face shifts.

The sharpness in his eyes flickers.

“…You do get it.”

It’s not a question.

It’s barely even a whisper.

The Walls Come Down

Arthur doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

He just stares.

At me. At the papers. At everything that shouldn’t exist.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, his breathing shallow, uneven, like his body is trying to catch up to what his mind can’t process. I can see it—feel it—the way everything inside him is trying to reject this, trying to twist it into something else, something easier to swallow.

I know something inside him has shifted.

I lean forward, my entire body trembling, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. “Arthur, please,” I whisper, desperate, raw, my hands clenched into fists against my lap. “I need you to hear me.”

His breath stutters.

His throat bobs.

Tears blur my vision, my whole chest aching with the weight of this, with the desperation clawing its way out of my ribs. “You think—” My voice cracks. “You think you were just some story. Some—some tragedy that people watched for entertainment, that they chewed up and spat out and forgot about the second the credits rolled.” My hands shake. “But I didn’t forget you.”

Arthur flinches.

Like the words hit him.

Like they hurt.

I press my hand against my chest, my breathing unsteady. “I saw you, Arthur. And it saved me.” My voice is thick, cracking, pleading. “You were the first person in my life who ever made me feel like I wasn’t alone when i watched you

His breath comes quicker, his shoulders shaking.

He’s still gripping the sheets, like they’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

I swallow hard, my voice barely a whisper. “You saved my life.”

Arthur sucks in a breath—sharp, shaking, like he’s drowning in it.

And then—

The dam breaks.

He lets out a ragged, unsteady sound, something between a breath and a sob, something wounded and raw and so fucking small that it makes my entire chest shatter.

His hands twitch violently, like he doesn’t know what to do with them, doesn’t know what to do with any of this, doesn’t know how to exist in a reality where he mattered.

And then—

Finally—

He looks at me.

Really looks at me.

His eyes are red, glassy, wide with something that looks too much like fear—like he’s afraid to believe this, like he’s afraid of what it’ll do to him if he does.

His breath is unsteady. His fingers shake.

And then, voice barely above a whisper—

“…I didn’t think anyone saw me.”

I let out a sob.

Because I know that feeling.

I know it so well that it hurtk

I nod rapidly, wiping at my face, my whole body trembling. “I see you, Arthur,” I whisper, voice wrecked, destroyed. “I always have.”

Arthur shakes.

His lips part, but no sound comes out.

As we stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, Arthur's recovery was noticeably improving. I needed to devise a plan now that I’d managed to break free from the grip of the guards who had kept me captive.

A wave of panic surged through me as the guards grabbed my arms, their hold firm and unrelenting. "What's happening here?" I asked, my voice tight, my gaze locking onto theirs.

"You're in a lot of trouble, prisoner," one guard snarled, his face contorted with anger. "Breaking out of Arkham isn't a small offense, and you'll face the consequences."

My heart pounded, but I refused to back down. "I needed to be there for Arthur. I couldn't leave him to face this alone."

The guard's lips curled into a mocking grin. "Oh, this is going to come with a price. You could be facing solitary, or maybe even a longer sentence. We'll make sure you regret ever challenging our authority."

Arthur's gaze filled with fear as he reached out to me. "Please, don't! She was only trying to help me."

The guard sneered, shoving Arthur aside. "Mind your own business, Fleck. You should be grateful we even allow visitors after your little stunt."

Anger flared within me as I struggled against the guards' grip. "This is unjust! I won't stand by while you punish her for helping me," Arthur pleaded, his voice laced with urgency.

The guard's grip tightened, causing me to wince. "Oh, we can. And we will. She's about to learn what happens when you disobey the rules here."

I locked eyes with Arthur, my expression a mix of remorse and resolve. "It's alright, Arthur. I'll be okay. You focus on yourself, alright? I won't let them break me."

Arthur's forehead creased with worry as he began to protest, but the guards had already seized me, pulling me away as my desperate pleas echoed through the corridors of Arkham.

As I was escorted to the isolation cell, a heavy weight of fear and acceptance settled over me. I'd known the risks of trying to escape, but the idea of abandoning Arthur to face this alone was unbearable. Now, I had to face the repercussions of my choices, my heart aching for the vulnerable soul I’d sworn to protect.

Even amidst the doubt and trepidation that enveloped me, a spark of determination persisted. Though my body was trapped, my spirit remained unbroken. I was prepared to face any consequences they imposed, knowing that standing by Arthur's side was a sacrifice worth making.

As the imposing door slammed shut behind me, sealing me within the cold confines of the cell, I murmured a silent vow to Arthur, promising to find a way to help him, no matter what.

The cold, unrelenting walls of the isolation cell felt as if they were closing in on me, the stifling silence broken only by the resounding clang of the heavy door. Days bled into one another, the passage of time nearly impossible to gauge, as I was stripped of natural light and any semblance of routine. The weight of solitude pressed down on me, suffocating my mind and spirit. The absence of human contact amplified my thoughts, echoing endlessly within the stark confines of my cell. Anxiety and fear took root, as I grappled with the uncertainty of my fate and Arthur's well-being.

Moments of clarity dissolved into confusion and unease as the lack of sensory stimulation and social connection took its toll. I clung to the fragile memories of Arthur's vulnerability, the tender connection we were starting to build, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

The strain on my body was equally brutal. The relentless stress and immobility led to aching muscles and overwhelming fatigue. Sleep was elusive, my slumber interrupted by the haunting reality of my situation.

Yet, even in the face of crushing loneliness and hopelessness, a spark of determination flickered within me. I stood firm against the tide of adversity, fueled by the understanding that my actions, though impulsive, stemmed from a deep-seated desire to support Arthur—a soul who mirrored my own battle against life's harsh realities.

The unmistakable clang of the heavy door being unlatched broke through my thoughts, and I emerged from the confines of my cell, squinting against the glare of the fluorescent lights illuminating the corridor. As I was led towards the backyard, my gaze scanned the surroundings, hoping for a glimpse of a familiar figure.

In the dim light of the room, Arthur stood alone in the corner, his eyes fixed on the ground, his shoulders slumped. A wave of compassion washed over me, prompting me to approach him slowly, each step burdened by my recent experiences.

"Arthur," I called out, my voice hoarse from disuse. He looked up abruptly, a mixture of guilt and worry etched on his face.

"Marjo, I... I'm so sorry," he said, his voice trembling. "I take full responsibility for this."

I shook my head, gently taking his arm. "Arthur, please don't blame yourself. I chose to be here for you, and I have no regrets about that."

His eyes widened in surprise, revealing the turmoil raging within him. "But it's my actions that caused you pain. That was never my intention."

I squeezed his arm reassuringly. "I understand, Arthur. But I'm here now, and I'm not leaving. You're worth fighting for, even if the rest of the world doesn't see it."

Arthur studied my face, and I sensed a flicker of hope igniting within him. Slowly, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and took hold of mine. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. "For everything."

I nodded, my eyes glistening with tears. "We're in this together, Arthur. Whatever comes our way."

Every day, I found solace in the fleeting moments I shared with Arthur in the backyard, our conversations a beacon of hope against the heavy solitude. It was on one of these occasions that Arthur approached me, a letter clutched tightly in his hand.

"Marjo, I... I got a subpoena. I have to testify in court," he said, his voice trembling with a mixture of anxiety and acceptance.

I took the letter from him, a frown creasing my forehead as I read the official summons. "The State of New York v. Arthur Fleck," I muttered, shaking my head. "I don't know what to expect. But... I'm scared."

A thick silence settled over us as Arthur revealed the details of the subpoena. The anxiety and dread were palpable on his face, his hands quivering slightly as he gripped the court notice.

I reached out, gently resting my hand on his arm, squeezing it reassuringly. "Arthur, I'm so sorry you're going through this," I said, my voice soft with compassion.

He looked up at me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I'm lost, Marjo. I... I'm so scared." The rawness in his tone tore at my heart.

"I understand, Arthur. But you don't have to go through this alone," I said, my expression hardening with resolve. "I'm going to do everything I can to help you through this, okay?"

Arthur's eyes met mine, a spark of optimism flickering in their depths. "How? I... I have no idea what to expect in court."

I nodded, inhaling deeply as I began to strategize. "Give me a moment to think about this, Arthur. I'm going to find you the best legal and mental health help I can, I promise."

As he started to speak, I gently interrupted him, squeezing his arm. "For now, just focus on getting better, okay? I'll take care of everything else."

Arthur nodded slowly, a little of the weight lifting from his shoulders. "Alright," he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. "I really appreciate it, Marjo. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Once I was back in my cell, my thoughts raced with potential strategies. I realized that Arthur needed top-notch legal assistance and mental health care to have any chance of a fair trial and a path to healing.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, seeking calm in the chaos. Time was of the essence, but a careful approach was essential. Arthur's fate hung in the balance, and I refused to let him down.

I approached the guards, requesting permission to access the prison library and legal materials. Fortunately, my standing as a model inmate and my dedication to the art workshops I'd started worked to my advantage, and the guards begrudgingly granted my request.

I plunged into the world of legal literature and directories, researching pro bono legal services and mental health experts in Gotham. My eyes scanned the pages, my fingers tracing names and contact details as I compiled a comprehensive list of valuable resources.

Each day, I worked late into the night, immersed in case studies and various treatment approaches, determined to find the ideal support system for Arthur. The solitude of the confined space only intensified my resolve, as I knew that every minute I spent thinking could make a significant difference in Arthur's situation.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I had a comprehensive strategy: a team of volunteer legal experts, a highly respected forensic psychiatrist, and a drama therapist renowned for their work with individuals similar to Arthur.

Gripping the meticulously organized papers, I stood on the edge of anticipation, my heart pounding with excitement and anxiety as I awaited my next encounter with Arthur. This was my chance to provide him with the vital support he needed, and I was determined not to let him down.

As the guards led me back into the backyard, my eyes scanned the area instinctively for Arthur's familiar silhouette. When I found him, I quickly made my way towards him, my face set with determination.

"Arthur," I called out, urgency in my voice. "I've been working on something, and I think I've found the help you need."

🃏

A hush fell over the courtroom as Arthur Fleck faced the judge. I, a prisoner who had dedicated my time to facilitating art and drama therapy sessions at Arkham, took a deep breath and launched into my heartfelt appeal.

"Your Honor, I appreciate the opportunity to speak on behalf of Arthur today. I come before you not as a legal expert, but as a fellow inmate who has witnessed the profound pain and hardship Arthur has faced."

My gaze radiated compassion as I continued. "Arthur isn't just a name on a case file; he is a real person, with a face and a story. He has endured numerous mental health struggles rooted in a history of abuse and neglect, compounded by systemic failures that have contributed to his complex mental health issues."

The judge nodded, signaling for me to proceed. "Could you elaborate on the mental health diagnoses Mr. Fleck has received?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, my voice steady but hesitant. "Your Honor, I must confess that I am not formally trained in mental health. However, I have worked extensively with a drama therapist and a volunteer psychiatrist who have assessed Arthur's mental state."

I presented the judge with a stack of paperwork. "These evaluations reveal that Arthur is struggling with multiple conditions, including schizotypal personality disorder, major depressive disorder, anxiety disorder, borderline personality disorder, and a potential case of dissociative identity disorder."

The prosecutor chuckled derisively, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is absurd. He's just pretending, using mental health as an excuse to avoid responsibility. I assure you, this is all an act."

My gaze sharpened as I leaned forward, my tone resolute. "Excuse me, Your Honor, but I cannot accept such dismissive remarks regarding the mental health struggles of inmates. Research has shown that alternative therapies like art and drama can significantly lower recidivism rates and improve rehabilitation success."

The judge gestured for the prosecutor to quiet down and turned to Doctor Smith. "Doctor, could you share your expert evaluation of Mr. Fleck's mental state and the suggested course of treatment?"

The psychiatrist rose, adjusting her spectacles. "Your Honor, following a comprehensive assessment, I can confirm the diagnoses presented by Ms. Marjo." She paused, her eyes steady.

"However," she said, her voice firm, "I feel compelled to respond to the prosecutor's condescending remarks about Mr. Fleck's mental health struggles. It is utterly inappropriate to suggest that these individuals are simply pretending to have issues in order to avoid responsibility."

With a resolute gaze fixed on the prosecutor, she declared, "Arthur Fleck's struggles with mental health are far from an act; they stem from a lifetime of profound neglect and abuse during his formative years."

The psychiatrist paused, her eyes locking onto Arthur. "When he was only seven years old, Arthur's mother did not protect him from the violence of his father. Even as he cried for help, social services dismissed his claims and returned him to that abusive environment, unwilling to acknowledge the suffering he had faced."

A hush fell over the courtroom, the gravity of Arthur's past palpable in the air. "Given his background, it's hardly surprising that Arthur has developed a complex spectrum of mental health challenges, including the schizotypal personality disorder, major depressive disorder, anxiety disorder, and borderline personality disorder we've previously discussed."

The psychiatrist leaned forward, her tone laced with compassion. "Arthur's potential dissociative identity disorder reflects the profound coping mechanisms he has had to develop to endure the traumas of his early years."

With a steady gaze fixed on the judge, she asserted, "In my expert opinion, Arthur's aggressive episodes stem from the deep-seated trauma and mental health struggles he has endured over the years. He requires a thorough and empathetic treatment strategy to address these root causes."

The judge meticulously examined the evidence, his forehead creased in deep thought. "Having reviewed the evaluations and diagnoses presented, the court finds Mr. Fleck not guilty by reason of insanity. To facilitate his healing and reintegration into the community, the court mandates that he engage in community service as a peer support worker, undergo consistent psychiatric care, and participate in weekly sessions of drama and art therapy."

Arthur's eyes widened with a mixture of astonishment and gratitude, his mouth opening in a wordless exclamation. "I can't thank you enough," he murmured, his voice trembling with emotion. "You have no idea how much this means to me. I don't know how to repay you."

The judge offered a gentle smile, his nod sincere. "Trust me, Arthur, you have earned this opportunity for redemption and a fresh start." He paused, his eyes reflecting deep empathy. "This is your chance to heal, to rediscover your voice, and to reclaim the humanity that resides within you. Let this mark the beginning of a transformative journey."

I rose to my feet, my face radiating optimism. "Your Honor, it would be an honor for me to continue working with Arthur as he engages in his mandated treatment program. The art and drama therapy sessions I've led have yielded impressive results, helping inmates like Arthur navigate their trauma and develop healthier coping mechanisms."

The judge considered my request, giving a contemplative nod. "Alright, Ms. Marjo. I am convinced that your continued involvement and expertise will play a crucial role in Arthur's healing process. Therefore, the court mandates your participation as an essential part of his holistic treatment strategy."

Addressing Arthur with firm resolve, the judge declared, "Mr. Fleck, the journey ahead may be difficult, but I believe that with the guidance of Ms. Marjo and the dedicated mental health experts by your side, you have the resilience to overcome the obstacles in your path. This is your chance to take back control of your life and become the person you were meant to be."

Arthur's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, a spark of hope igniting within them. "Thank you, Your Honor. I promise I won't let you down. I will do everything I can to improve and make amends for my mistakes." He paused, his voice soft and trembling. "This is my chance for redemption, and I intend to embrace it fully."

I moved closer, gently resting my hand on his shoulder. "I'm here for you, Arthur, every step of the way. We'll walk this path of healing and self-discovery together. You don't have to face this alone."

…………………………………………………………….

Understanding

Transformative Justice

Arthur Fleck’s Case

Transformative justice focuses on healing and accountability without punishment or forced rehabilitation. Instead of forcing Arthur to "fix" himself or repress Joker, the program provides a structured, non-coercive space where he can process emotions, explore his identity, and engage in a community-based healing model.

Key Principles of Arthur’s Transformative Justice Pathway:

No Forced Integration – Joker alter is not treated as an illness to be eliminated but as a valid part of Arthur’s identity. Instead of erasing him, Arthur is given space to navigate their coexistence safely.
Non-Carceral Accountability – Instead of prison, Arthur is required to engage with the community he impacted while also addressing the systemic failures that led to his suffering.
Somatic & Creative Expression Over Talk Therapy – Since Arthur and Joker struggle with verbalizing emotions, the program prioritizes body movement, art, clowning, and performance as safe outlets.
Community Healing & Peer Support – Arthur is not treated as a patient but as a participant in a collective process with others who have been abandoned by society.
Reparative Justice Through Performance – Arthur uses clowning and comedy to reclaim his narrative, helping others express their pain in ways that heal rather than harm.

Arthur’s Community-Based Restorative Justice Program

Arthur’s alternative to prison is a radical, community-led healing initiative that focuses on expression, accountability, and safe coexistence.

1. The Accountability Circle: Confronting Harm Without Erasing Identity

Instead of being sentenced to prison, Arthur participates in a restorative justice circle with other marginalized individuals—formerly incarcerated people, trauma survivors, and others failed by the system. These circles allow participants to share their experiences without judgment, creating a space where Arthur can acknowledge his past actions while also understanding the harm done to him.

Instead of being interrogated or condemned, Arthur is invited to listen to how his actions affected others
The goal is not punishment, but understanding—to recognize both the pain he caused and the pain he endured.
Arthur is not forced to "confess" but is encouraged to express emotions in ways that feel safe—whether through movement, clowning, or silent reflection.

➡️ Outcome: Arthur begins to understand that accountability is not about erasure or submission—it is about acknowledging pain and finding ways to move forward.

2. Clowning & Dramatherapy: A Safe Space for Joker

Arthur is invited to teach clowning and comedy to formerly incarcerated individuals, neurodivergent people, and others who feel unseen. Instead of Joker being a source of destruction, he is reclaimed as a tool for expression, connection, and survival.

A Scene from Arthur’s First Clowning Session:

The community center smells of dust and faint greasepaint. A semi-circle of folding chairs lines the walls, occupied by a mix of people—some ex-cons, some trauma survivors, some simply looking for a space where their voices don’t feel like noise. Arthur stands in the center, the only one in full clown paint.

His usual red suit is gone for this number—replaced with a loose, second-hand button-up, sleeves rolled past his wrists. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, fingers flexing, head tilting as he scans the room. A nervous energy crackles around him, barely contained.

"Alright," says Lydia, one of the facilitators. "Let’s start with a simple exercise. No words, just movement. Express a feeling—whatever you’re feeling right now—through gesture."

Arthur exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders back. The Joker inside him is restless. Not angry. Not cruel. Just… waiting. Watching. This is usually the part where he’d let go, let the laughter take over. But here, in this quiet room, no one expects him to perform. No cameras. No violence. Just presence.

Slowly, Arthur steps forward. His knees bend slightly, his hands rising near his chest, elbows tucked in. A cautious clown.

Someone snickers.

Arthur’s lip twitches—not in rage, not in humiliation, but in understanding. Clowns are supposed to be laughed at. That’s the point. So he exaggerates the movement, letting his hands wobble as if he’s balancing on a tightrope. More laughter. This time, it feels… good.

He pretends to trip—arms flailing, his body twisting into a full spin before he lands on one knee, eyes darting left and right like a silent film buffoon. Laughter fills the space.

For the first time in years, the sound doesn’t feel like an attack.

His chest tightens. Not from fear. From something else.

Someone claps. Another person follows. Arthur stays frozen for a beat, then slowly looks up—unsure, unguarded.

“See?” Lydia says softly. “Expression doesn’t have to be destruction.”

His fingers twitch against the floor. He swallows hard, then looks away. He isn’t sure if it’s Arthur or Joker who’s nodding.

3. Building a Future: Arthur as a Community Mentor

Over time, Arthur becomes a mentor to others who struggle with isolation, repression, and identity crises.

He helps others find safety in performance—whether as clowns, comedians, or silent mimes who tell their stories without words.
He continues navigating his dual identity without being forced to choose between Arthur and Joker.
Instead of being feared, Joker becomes a role—something Arthur can step into when needed, and step out of when he wants to.
He is still flawed, still navigating his past, but he is not alone anymore.

➡️ Final Outcome: Arthur is neither cured nor condemned. He exists. And for the first time, that is enough.

Conclusion: A Justice System That Doesn’t Demand Erasure

Arthur’s transformative justice path proves that healing doesn’t mean erasing who you are. Instead of prison or forced rehabilitation, he is given tools to express, process, and find community. He is not asked to choose between Arthur and Joker—but to understand both as parts of himself that can exist without destruction.

And in a world that has always tried to silence him, that is a revolution in itself.

Transformative Justice Action Plan for Arthur Fleck

Core Principles

Restorative & Transformative Justice: Instead of punitive sentencing, Arthur will engage in community-based healing, addressing the root causes of his suffering while also making reparations through meaningful contributions.
Somatic & Expressive Therapies: Using movement, art, and clowning as outlets for his trauma and emotions, providing both release and empowerment.

Phase 1: Safety & Emotional Expression (First 6 months)

Somatic Therapy for Emotional Release

Guided Rage Expression – Sessions focused on expressing Joker’s rage safely through movement:

Punching bags, tearing paper, breaking clay objects (symbolizing old pain).
Intense physical expression (stomping, yelling into pillows, thrashing to music) in a controlled setting.
Dramatic bodywork therapy to externalize internal pain through exaggerated movements and breathing techniques.

Tension-Release Exercises:

Bioenergetic grounding (stomping, jumping, shaking) to release stored trauma.
Guttural vocal exercises to allow Joker’s voice to be heard safely.

Trauma-Informed Clowning:

Redefining the mask of Joker: allowing Arthur to channel this part of himself into performance and controlled improvisation.
Clown embodiment exercises to explore emotions without self-judgment.

Dramatherapy for Identity Exploration

Shadow Work Through Improvised Roleplay:

Arthur is encouraged to have dialogues between his two selves, using theatrical techniques to separate their voices and intentions.
Props and costumes to allow Joker to express himself in a guided, safe way.

Storytelling & Myth Rewriting:

Arthur will create a new narrative for himself—not to erase Joker, but to redefine his role.
Rewriting key past events in symbolic theater, allowing him to relive them with a different ending.

Mirror Work & Identity Affirmation:

Using masks and movement therapy in front of mirrors to distinguish Arthur’s core self from Joker without erasure.
Exploring “Who am I when I am safe?”

Phase 2: Community Restoration & Agency (6-12 months)

Restorative Justice Circles

Survivor-Perpetrator Dialogues

Guided, trauma-informed conversations with those harmed by his past actions (if they consent), allowing space for mutual healing.
Emphasis on acknowledgment of harm without shame-based punishment.

Reparations Through Service:

Arthur will use his talent in comedy and clowning to give back to marginalized communities.
Organizing therapeutic clowning workshops for children in underserved areas.
Teaching stand-up and theatrical improvisation to others facing mental health struggles.

Personal Empowerment Through Art

Clown Therapy as a Career Path:

Arthur will train as a therapeutic clown, helping others who feel invisible.
Develop healing comedy as a structured program for at-risk youth.

Public Speaking & Mental Health Advocacy:

He will speak about his experiences in controlled, non-exploitative settings, helping reduce stigma around mental illness.
Using dramatic reenactments of his past in a way that reframes his pain into education.

Long-Term Vision: Redefining Joker’s Role

Arthur will not be forced to ‘kill’ Joker but instead redefine what Joker means in his life.
Instead of destruction, Joker can represent freedom, rebellion, and creativity rather than chaos and harm.
He will create a comedy troupe for marginalized voices, using humor as a tool for liberation, not violence.

By engaging with his emotions rather than suppressing them, Arthur will find a way to exist without erasing any part of himself—allowing both Arthur and Joker to coexist in a transformative, restorative path toward healing and social impact.

………………………………………………………….

The circle doesn't break

The room smells like sage and scuffed linoleum. There’s a dull hum in the overhead lights, just loud enough to sound like breathing. It reminds me I’m not alone—even when I feel like I am. The chairs are arranged in a circle, like all circles are supposed to mean something. Wholeness. Connection. No one at the head. No one left out.

I sit with my feet planted firmly on the floor, the cheap plastic chair beneath me cold against my thighs. I haven’t spoken yet. My voice feels caught between my chest and my stomach. Across from me, Arthur’s hands tremble in his lap, curled inwards, palms sweaty and red. He hasn’t looked up once since we entered.

They told us this circle isn’t about confession. It’s not about punishment either. No one’s here to lecture or fix anyone. They said this is about *truth*. Not the kind on paper or in evidence folders—but the kind that lives in the marrow of your bones and keeps you awake at night.

I believe them. I want to believe them.

Arthur doesn’t.

Not yet.

The talking piece today is a carved wooden spoon. It’s been passed around this circle for years, touched by hands shaking with rage, with grief, with longing. When you’re holding it, no one can interrupt you. That’s the rule.

It passes to the person beside me. Then to me.

My hands close around the spoon like it’s a relic.

I swallow. My throat’s dry.

“I… I didn’t think I’d be here again,” I say, eyes on the wood, not the faces. “Not in a circle. Not with people who might actually care what I have to say. That used to be dangerous—to speak and be seen.”

I look up briefly, and my eyes flick toward Arthur.

His jaw’s tight. His eyes are locked on the floor.

“I came back for Arthur,” I say. “Not because he’s innocent. But because he’s not disposable.”

Silence. But not cold. It’s like the air is holding its breath for me.

“I’ve seen him break,” I continue, voice trembling. “I’ve seen him bleed and fall apart and come back together again—wrong, messy, beautiful. And I’ve seen the world try to tear him down every time he stood up.”

My fingers press into the spoon’s carvings.

“You don’t have to love what he did. But you can’t pretend it happened in a vacuum. You can’t pretend this world didn’t turn its back on him long before he ever broke the law.”

I don’t say more. I don’t have to.

I pass the spoon.

It makes its way around slowly. Some people speak. Some don’t. That’s the point. Silence is sacred here, too.

And then—it reaches Arthur.

He doesn’t take it.

Everyone’s watching, but no one pushes.

His fingers twitch in his lap.

Then—slowly, like it burns to touch—he reaches out and wraps his hands around the spoon. He holds it like it’s heavy. Like it’s made of iron instead of wood.

“I don’t want to be here,” he says flatly. “Not because I think I’m better than this. I just… I’ve never been in a room where people looked at me and didn’t want something.”

He clears his throat, eyes still fixed on the floor.

“You think I’m going to cry or crack open or say something brave. But I don’t have anything left to give.”

A pause.

“I don’t even know if I’m Arthur or Joker today. Sometimes I wake up and I don’t remember how I got somewhere. Sometimes I forget I have a body. Sometimes the laughing isn’t funny anymore—it’s just noise.”

He looks up. At me.

“And she’s still here,” he says, softer. “Even after all that.”

The spoon trembles in his hands.

“I don’t want to be saved,” he murmurs. “I just want to be allowed to exist without being a threat.”

The room stays silent for a long time.

Then someone across the circle—an older man with burn scars and deep-set eyes—says, “That’s what we’re here for.”

Arthur stares.

“You’re allowed to exist,” the man says. “Even if you don’t know how yet.”

Arthur nods. Just once. Small. But real.

He passes the spoon.

And the circle doesn’t break.

It makes it halfway around the circle again when a woman across from us—short, mid-fifties, with a soft face hardened by years inside—clears her throat.

“I hear you, Arthur,” she says, voice low but firm. “But I gotta say something.”

The spoon rests in her lap. She turns toward him, not unkindly, but direct.

“I don’t think you should feel that way,” she says. “Like you don’t deserve to be here. Like you’re not allowed to exist. That ain’t healthy thinking, and I think it’s dangerous to sit in it too long.”

Arthur’s shoulders tense again. He pulls back into himself, and I feel his body shift beside me like he’s getting ready to disappear.

I straighten in my chair.

“Respectfully,” I say, not looking at her directly, but not avoiding it either. “I understand where you’re coming from. I respect your opinion. But I want to offer another view.”

My voice is gentle, but it carries. My heart’s beating fast, but I don’t let it stop me.

“I don’t think the problem is that Arthur *feels* that way. I think the problem is that he’s *had to* feel that way to survive.”

I glance at him now—his jaw tight, his eyes glassy and locked on some far-off point only he can see.

“I think sometimes, especially for people like us, it’s not about telling someone to stop feeling what they feel. It’s about saying, *‘Of course you feel that way. I get why. And you’re still welcome here.’*”

I pause. The room is quiet.

“If you tell someone not to feel like they don’t belong when all they’ve ever known is rejection, it doesn’t bring them closer. It isolates them more. And Arthur… he didn’t choose this loneliness. It was taught. Reinforced. Beaten in.”

My eyes flicker back to the woman.

“I think what he said wasn’t dangerous—it was *honest*. And I think being allowed to speak that honestly without being shamed is part of what makes this circle work.”

She nods slowly, her eyes softer now. “I can see that,” she says. “Didn’t mean to shut him down. Just hate seeing someone carry that much.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything.

But something in him unclenches.

His hands, curled into fists a minute ago, rest a little looser in his lap.

---

Movement Without Masks

The room is unremarkable—fluorescent lights too bright against cracked beige walls, linoleum floors marked by the scuff of countless shoes, and the faint scent of something like bleach, dust, and paint that clings to the air like old memories. It’s the kind of space that’s seen too much, and still somehow remains. Not sacred, not holy—just present. Just still here. Like us. Like him.

Arthur walks in like he’s entering a warzone, each step reluctant, cautious, the way someone might approach a house they once escaped from. There’s no makeup on his face, no red suit, no greasepaint grin or sharp green dye staining his hair. No armor. And yet I see Joker in the way his hands tremble, in the twitch of his fingers, in the way he won’t meet anyone’s eyes but keeps scanning the exits, his shoulders hunched like he’s waiting to be struck. He doesn’t belong here. Not in a place where he’s allowed to take up space without violence. Not yet. And yet… he stays. That, in itself, is radical.

Lydia, the somatic facilitator, greets him gently—no questions, no cheer, no pressure to explain himself. She doesn’t look at him like he’s a freak or a spectacle. She just says, “Hi Arthur,” like that’s enough. And for now, it is. He stands a little straighter, but not much.

We begin with breath, something so simple it feels like betrayal. How many times have I watched people like us forget to breathe, holding our ribs tight as if oxygen might be stolen or used against us? Lydia tells us to find our feet—find the places where we meet the ground. Arthur shifts like the idea of “his body” is still foreign, like he’s unsure where he ends and the world begins. That’s fair. When you’ve been dissociated for years, touch is revolutionary. Breathing is dangerous. And still, I watch him try.

Then Lydia says it. A phrase so simple it lands like thunder in the room: “Now show me—without words—what it feels like to hold back a scream.” No one moves at first. It’s as if she’s asked us to tear off our own skin and reveal the raw nerves underneath. And maybe she has. I feel it in my own body too—something ancient and locked-up presses against my spine. I clench my fists in my lap to keep from shaking.

Arthur doesn’t move. Not right away. He stands like a tree about to split in half. Then, his fingers twitch, clawing toward his chest like he’s trying to hold something inside—something massive and unbearable. His face contorts, jaw tight, lips pulled thin. He doesn’t cry out, but I can feel the scream in him. It vibrates through the floorboards, invisible but deafening. The scream of a boy left in an empty room. The scream of a man laughed at until the laughter tore through his own throat and turned against him. The scream of someone who’s been told their pain is a punchline. And somehow, he embodies it all without making a sound.

Then Lydia tells us to move—release it without voice. Let the body speak where the mind shuts down. And that’s when it happens.

Arthur’s body explodes into motion. Not violently—not yet. But with precision, like a marionette whose strings have been burning in tension and now finally snap. He doesn’t flail. He performs. Not for applause—but for survival. Every movement is a tremor of truth. His arms stretch then recoil, his back arches, he spins—not gracefully, but truthfully, his limbs telling a story too jagged to fit into speech. He flinches as if struck, doubles over, shakes out his hands like he’s trying to shake off memories stitched into his skin. And then—he becomes still.

He drops to his knees, head bowed, arms limp at his sides. He isn’t pretending anymore. He isn’t playing Joker, or Arthur, or a man on trial. He is just… here. A man whose body has finally said what his mouth was never allowed to. I feel something catch in my throat. I’m not sure if it’s grief or awe. Maybe both. Around us, the room holds its breath.

No one laughs. No one claps. That silence is holy.

Lydia approaches slowly, crouching near him without touching. “You can stop now,” she whispers. “You did enough.” And he nods—barely, like it takes effort to admit that “enough” exists.

Later, after the others have gone and the windows have darkened with early Gotham dusk, I sit next to him on the cold floor, our backs against the concrete wall. My own body still buzzes from watching him move. I sip lukewarm tea from a paper cup and ask, softly, “How do you feel?”

He shrugs. “Exposed.”

Then, after a long silence: “Free. A little.”

I glance at him, careful not to push. His eyes are tired but clear. “I thought if I let him out—if I let *me* out—I wouldn’t come back,” he says. “That it would be all Joker, all chaos. That I’d lose control again.”

“But you didn’t,” I say.

“No,” he replies. “Not completely.”

I nod, because I know what that means. I know what it means to dance on the edge of a breakdown and not fall. I know the victory of staying whole *enough*. Of holding space for the part of yourself that terrifies you. Of letting your body tell the story when language fails.

“You didn’t lose control,” I whisper. “You let it move through you.”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. His hand rests on his chest like he’s trying to feel if something’s still there. And for the first time, maybe he believes that it is. Its r

---

The cuffs click too tightly around my wrists. They always do. It’s not the pain that bothers me anymore—it’s the weight of it. The way it digs into your skin just enough to remind you that even after everything, they still don’t trust your hands. The way metal tells the body it’s still dangerous. We sit side by side in the back of the van, our knees bumping with every pothole. The barred windows let in slivers of gray light, enough to make out Arthur’s profile—pale, worn, drawn thinner by exhaustion than even the hunger strikes we endured last year. He hasn’t spoken since we were loaded in. His head leans against the window like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. I can feel the wear in him, the threadbare kind of fatigue that isn’t just in the muscles but in the soul. He’s unraveling, but slowly, like he doesn’t even notice anymore.

I pull the state-issued notepad from my lap and balance it on my thighs, awkwardly turning a page with cuffed hands. Court-mandated documentation: part of my agreement to serve as Arthur’s peer support during the program. Voluntary, technically. But it doesn’t feel like a job. It feels like the only thing that makes sense anymore. I record the date and time, scribble notes about today’s session in shorthand—body language expressive, emotional breakthrough visible, peer group response positive—but it feels wrong to reduce what I saw into bullet points. You can’t quantify a man cracking open and surviving it. You can’t summarize the moment someone reclaims breath like it’s theirs again. These reports—they ask me to track behavior. But I’m not watching a behavior. I’m witnessing someone learning to live.

Arthur shifts slightly. His wrists twist in the cuffs, his breath shallow. I glance over. His lips are pressed together, his forehead creased with that quiet, exhausted tension I know too well—the kind that says *I’m not okay, but I’m too tired to explain why*. He doesn’t have to speak. I feel it radiating off him like heat.

I lean closer, keeping my voice low. “You alright?”

His laugh is small, almost bitter. “You don’t have to ask that anymore.”

“I will anyway.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, “I feel like my brain’s made of static. Like I keep getting halfway to understanding something and then it slips away again. I feel like…” He trails off, breath hitching. “Like there’s nothing left to process. Just… leftovers. Just noise.”

I nod, letting the silence hold for a second. “That makes sense,” I say gently. “You’ve been burning at both ends for years. That noise? It’s the grief catching up to you.”

He turns his head slightly, not quite meeting my eyes. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” I say. “It’s supposed to make you feel *valid*.”

He exhales shakily, the sound catching in his throat. “I don’t know how to rest,” he admits. “Even when I stop moving, my brain doesn’t. I lie down and the walls start talking. I try to breathe and my chest feels too tight. I laugh and it sounds fake. I cry and it doesn’t help.”

I close my notebook and set it aside. I lean toward him, my shoulder brushing his just enough to remind him he’s not alone. “Arthur,” I murmur, “you don’t have to be functional to be deserving. You don’t have to be healing fast enough or correctly enough to matter. You are allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to be overwhelmed. You’re allowed to just *be*—even if all you can be today is still breathing.”

His jaw clenches, but his shoulders fall just a little. Not in defeat—just in surrender. The good kind. The kind where a body admits it’s done holding the weight alone.

“I don’t know who I am without the tension,” he whispers.

“You’ll find out,” I say, just as softly. “And I’ll be here when you do.”

The van lurches, pulling into the facility gates. As the guards yell for us to prepare for offloading, I tuck the notebook under my arm and glance at Arthur one last time before the doors open.

He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t need to.

I see it in the way he stands—slow, shaky, but upright.

And in that small, battered posture, I see a beginning.

---

Arthur is not a file number

---

We sat side by side in the prison transport van, wrists cuffed, knees touching slightly. I kept the court folder on my lap. It burned to hold it. Every word they expected me to write felt like a betrayal. A report. A measurement. A dissection.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Just looked out the window as if it might open onto a world that wasn’t built to punish softness. His shoulders sagged in that way trauma makes the body fold—not from lack of strength, but from carrying too much of it for too long.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he said finally. Quiet. No drama. Just defeat.

I didn’t answer right away. Because what is there to say when someone hands you the weight of their entire life in one sentence?

Instead, I nodded. And after a pause, I told him the truth:

“You don’t have to do anything right now. You don’t have to prove anything. You’re allowed to just be tired.”

He turned his head slightly, his jaw twitching. His eyes were glassy, but not from tears. Just… overused.

And maybe that’s all this report needs to say.

---

**Court Summary:**

> Emotional fatigue remains significant. Defensive mechanisms still present but not hostile.

> Refuses to participate in structured dialogue—but allows proximity.

> Arthur is not regressing. He is resisting collapse the only way he knows how: through silence, stillness, and guarded breath.

> Recommend continued somatic-based trauma care.

> Recommend discontinuation of labeling him “subject.”

Because he's not.

He is Arthur.

He is the man who once laughed so no one would hear him scream.

And today, he whispered *tired* into a room that wasn’t ready to hear it. But I heard it.

And that, to me, is a kind of progress the court will never be able to quantify.

Milk Cartons and Mr. Smile

The cafeteria hums in that dull, institutional way. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in sickly blue-white. The trays clatter. The food smells like it’s trying to forget it used to be something else. And yet… here we are, sitting across from each other at a scratched-up plastic table like it’s Sunday dinner.

Arthur’s tray is untouched. His fingers are wrapped around a lukewarm carton of milk like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the table. I don’t rush him. Some days are like this. You don’t talk until the ghosts settle.

He keeps his eyes on his hands.

“I used to watch a show when I was a kid,” he says suddenly, his voice so quiet I almost miss it over the din of trays and forced conversation.

I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

He nods once, slowly. “Mr. Smile and Friends.” A pause. “I think it was local. Channel 10. Ran early, like... stupid early. Before the real stuff started.”

Something shifts in his face—not quite a smile, not quite grief. A memory folding in.

“I used to get up before my mom. She’d still be passed out, or pretending to be.” He glances at me, like he’s checking if I’m still here. I am. “I’d sit in front of the TV in my pajamas with cold cereal. And there he’d be. Mr. Smile.”

I nod softly, encouraging him to keep going. He doesn’t need much coaxing—like this story’s been waiting years to be let out.

“He wasn’t loud. That’s the first thing. He wasn’t trying to teach me math or make me clap or whatever. He just talked. Like he was talking *to* me. Real slow. Real gentle. You know the first thing he ever said?”

Arthur’s gaze drifts, eyes glossy with a past that hasn’t aged.

The words hit like a freight train. My chest tightens. I feel the tears press behind my eyes and will them back, because this moment is his. I won’t make it about me.

“No one had ever said that to me before,” Arthur whispers, his thumb dragging across the side of the milk carton. “Not like that. Not without needing something in return.”

He goes quiet again. I watch the slight twitch in his jaw, the way his shoulders curve inward, as if still trying to fold himself into something less visible.

“I used to copy the voices. The way he smiled. I had a notebook. I’d draw all the characters—Penny Doodle, Grumbles, the little cloud who cried rain when he was overwhelmed. They all had these big paper-mâché heads and dumb jokes. But I remembered all their songs. Every line.” He lets out a shaky breath. “I’d pretend they lived in my wall.”

“You needed them,” I murmur. “They gave you something the world didn’t.”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, they did.”

Another pause.

“I used to think Grumbles was me. He got mad at everything but he just wanted someone to hold his hand.” Arthur chuckles bitterly. “Even back then I knew. I wasn’t good at happy. But they let me exist anyway. No one asked me to change.”

I press my hand lightly over his. “You shouldn’t have had to survive that way. But I’m glad you had them.”

He squeezes the milk carton. “They never left. Not really. I still hear them sometimes. When things are bad. When I can’t…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I think that means they did their job,” I whisper. “They kept a part of you alive.”

Arthur looks at me then. Really looks. His eyes aren’t just tired—they’re worn down, like someone who’s walked barefoot over broken glass for most of their life and still hasn’t found carpet.

“I never told anyone about them,” he says. “Not even my therapist. They would’ve locked me deeper down.”

“You’re not deeper now,” I say. “You’re here. With me. And this place—these people—we don’t throw away the parts that kept us breathing.”

He lets out a long exhale. Not quite relief, but maybe the absence of tension. His hand lets go of the milk.

And for a flicker of a second, I swear I see the boy who used to whisper lines from *Mr. Smile* into a cracked bathroom mirror, just trying to feel seen.

—

Arthur leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the chipped plastic table, his eyes flicking around the cafeteria like he's checking for ghosts. Then, his gaze softens—not at me, but at some fixed point in the past.

“You know how they say some kids have imaginary friends?” His voice is thin, a little scratchy from not using it much, but there’s clarity underneath it.

“Well… I think Mr. Smile and the Joker weren’t imaginary. Not really. Not for me. They were... inherited.” He pauses, jaw tight. “Given to me by the world.”

He looks at me then, but not quite *at* me—more like *through* me. “I didn’t make them up. I absorbed them. You ever… you ever soak up something without meaning to? Like a stain in your clothes that never comes out, even after years. That’s what they were. They were stains. Bright ones. Colorful. One smiling to survive, the other laughing to destroy.” His knuckles turn white around the edges of his tray, and for a second I think he might crush the plastic.

“I watched *Mr. Smile and Friends* because I needed someone soft. Someone who said I mattered even if I didn’t do anything. I read Joker comics because they were chaotic. Because he could burn down a room and still walk away grinning. People feared him. I wanted that. Needed it.” He swallows hard. “But it’s not like one day I decided to *become* either of them. They seeped into me. Over time. Mr. Smile taught me to talk to myself kindly. Joker taught me to survive when kindness stopped working.”

The buzz of the cafeteria fades into a blur around us. I feel my body leaning in instinctively, listening like his words are a thread he’s trying not to drop. Arthur rubs the back of his neck, sighs like he’s exhaling a decade. “I didn’t know they were the same person. Not at first. One would come out when I was scared. The other when I was angry. But eventually they started... blending. Smiling when things hurt. Laughing when I should’ve cried. Saying nice things in voices that didn’t feel like mine.”

His voice drops lower, as if confessing something sacred. “By the time I was a teenager, I didn’t know who was speaking when I looked in the mirror. Was it Arthur? Mr. Smile? Or Joker?” He taps his temple gently. “They weren’t just characters. They were scripts I learned to survive. And now… they’re not voices. They’re memories. Reflexes. Instinct.”

I don’t speak right away. I let it land. The honesty. The sadness. The terrifying truth of learning to survive by splitting parts of yourself and calling that healing. My chest aches with it—not pity, not sympathy—but recognition. How many of us learned our survival through borrowed masks?

He chuckles under his breath, the sound dry, brittle. “The shrink at the trial, the one who said I was faking? He wouldn’t last a week with what i went through And Joker?” He looks up at me, eyes suddenly fierce, tear-rimmed but burning. “He didn’t come to hurt me. He came because no one else ever fucking showed up.”

And that’s it, isn’t it? The root of all this. He wasn’t trying to escape reality. He was building one where someone actually stayed.

I reach for his hand, and this time—he doesn’t pull away.

---

Arthur’s fingers twitch, slow and rhythmic, tapping some unheard pattern against the scratched table. His eyes aren’t on me anymore—they’re turned inward now, back to a time he rarely visits aloud.

“You know,” he murmurs, so low I have to lean in to catch it, “it didn’t happen all at once. The Joker... he didn’t just *appear.* He whispered, first. He waited. He watched.”

My breath stills.

Arthur’s voice is hushed, trembling at the edge of memory. “I think I was eight the first time he really *spoke.* I was watching *The Joker’s Laughing Mask.* Not the original. A rerun, grainy and flickering, like it had barely survived the years. The kind of comic-show adaptation they aired at 5:30 when they thought no one was watching. But I was.”

He licks his lips, distant. “I’d pulled the mattress onto the floor that night because Mom was screaming in her sleep again. And the Joker on TV—he was dancing, not like in the comics. He was... theatrical. He looked into the camera and said something like, ‘Everyone thinks I’m the punchline... but *I’m* the one holding the mic.’” Arthur’s lips twitch upward in a broken smile. “And I laughed. Too loud. Too hard. Because it felt like the only thing that made sense.”

He closes his eyes, the air between us thickening with something heavy.

“And then,” he whispers, “I heard it. This... echo. In my chest. Not out loud—not exactly. But inside. A laugh that wasn’t mine. Not all mine. It curled around my ribs, like a hand on my shoulder. Like someone else was sitting there beside me. He said: *‘Now, that’s more like it.’*”

I don’t breathe. I don’t dare.

“It wasn’t scary. Not then. It felt... warm. Familiar. Like someone had finally arrived who understood what I couldn’t say out loud. Like he’d been waiting for me to be ready.”

His hand curls slightly, gripping the edge of the table. “I didn’t tell anyone. How could I? I didn’t even understand it. But he stayed. Not always loud. Sometimes just... watching. Smiling. Telling me when it was okay to pretend, and when it wasn’t. He told me it was okay to laugh when things hurt. That sometimes, laughter was the only thing keeping the pain from swallowing you whole.”

Arthur turns to me, eyes glistening but unashamed. “That was the night I stopped waiting for someone to come save me. Because someone *had.* He just lived in the shadows.”

A beat of silence.

And then, softly, I say, “He didn’t save you from yourself, Arthur. He saved you from having to pretend you were never in pain.”

Arthur nods, barely, as if he’s letting the truth sink into the fractures of a foundation long cracked by silence.

And in this quiet moment, beneath the sterile hum of cafeteria lights and behind the walls that once tried to define him, I don’t see a villain. I don’t see a mask. I see a boy who was never a monster—only a child who survived by becoming what the world could not understand. A boy who learned that if the world won’t protect you, you build someone who will.

---

Flashback: The First Mask

The apartment smells like mold and burnt fabric softener. It’s raining again—water trailing down the cracked kitchen window in thin, nervous rivulets. Penny is asleep on the couch, her body curled in on itself, her face slack in the blue flicker of the television.

Arthur, small and thin, crouches beside the kitchen table, crayons and dull pencils scattered around a water-stained placemat. A single magazine clipping lies next to him: a black-and-white still of The Joker from an old comic. He had torn it from the back of a junk store pulp book, tucking it into his coat like treasure.

He stares at it now. Stares like it’s speaking to him.

“You can laugh even if you’re crying,” he whispers, parroting something Mr. Smile once said in a tone that wasn’t quite his own. “It’s okay to be strange. The world’s strange too.”

He takes a crayon—dark red, nearly gone—and starts to sketch.

Not the Joker from the comic. Something else. A version that lives only in his chest, behind his ribs, where fear turns into noise and no one else can hear it. He draws a face with a painted grin that curves too wide, eyes ringed in exhaustion. He draws the teeth carefully. He gives the face a voice in his head.

**“Now they’ll never know when you’re hurting.”**

The page shakes beneath his fingers. He isn’t crying. Not yet. But his breathing is shallow. Every line he draws feels like armor, like a secret code only he can understand. The more he draws, the steadier his hand becomes.

He doesn’t know it yet—but this is the first time Joker isn’t just a character.

It’s the first time Arthur gives his shadow a face.

And when he’s done, he looks at the mask and whispers, “You’re not laughing at me, right?”

The page doesn’t answer. But the silence feels less lonely.

—

Perfect. Here comes **Chapter 9**, written in your first-person voice, with emotional density and long, immersive paragraphs. This chapter continues from the cafeteria moment—after Arthur reveals the merging of Joker and Mr. Smile, and as we begin peeling back the layers of memory, meaning, and the healing that follows when someone is finally *seen*.

---

You Kept Me Company in the Silence

I can still feel the weight of his words echoing through me as we leave the cafeteria, our trays mostly untouched. The lights in Arkham always feel too bright or too dim, never just right. Today, they’re fluorescent and ghostly, turning everything into theater—the kind of cheap stage Arthur used to dream of being on before the world told him dreams were something other people were allowed to have.

We’re walking back through the halls, escorted by two guards who no longer say much. They’ve grown used to seeing us together, used to our quiet rhythm. Used to the way Arthur keeps one hand near his chest, as though guarding something fragile. And how I walk beside him—not in front, not behind. With him. Like I’ve learned how to move in his gravity.

He hasn’t spoken in ten minutes. But he’s not dissociating—not this time. His brow is tense. He’s remembering.

And then, suddenly, quietly, he says:

“You know what the worst part was?”

I look over, heart already aching. “What?”

He stops in front of the door to the common room, his eyes scanning the floor tiles like he’s searching for something that got left behind years ago.

“After the show ended. *Mr. Smile and Friends.* After it was canceled and the reruns stopped… no one told me it was over. I just waited. Every morning. Same time. Same place. Just… silence.”

His voice cracks on that word. Silence.

And I feel something in my throat tighten. Because I know what it’s like to sit in front of a screen, or a door, or a person who promised to love you, and wait for a sign that never comes.

He keeps going.

“I thought maybe it was my fault. Maybe I missed a message. Maybe they moved the show and I wasn’t paying attention. And for years, I’d hear his voice in my head, trying to guess what he would say next. ‘Hi there, Arthur. I missed you yesterday. But it’s okay. You’re still special.’”

He laughs, but it’s hollow.

“I started making up new episodes in my notebook. Pretending the puppets sent me letters.”

He pauses.

“You kept me company in the silence.”

He’s not talking about me.

He’s talking to Joker.

I know it now—clearer than ever before.

Joker was born the moment that screen went blank and no one came to explain why. He was born not as a villain, but as a friend. A protector. A laugh-track in a world that only knew how to scream.

Arthur turns to me then, and something in his expression softens.

“I don’t think you ever hated him,” he says.

He’s right. I didn’t. Not for a second.

I take a breath and let it out slowly, choosing my words like I’m placing stones across a river of his pain.

“I think… I think the world wanted you to kill him so they wouldn’t have to face the part of themselves that left you behind.”

He blinks. Hard. Then nods, barely.

We sit together in the quiet for a long while after that.

Not to fix anything.

Not to *change* who he is.

But just to hold space for who he’s always been.

---

Stitching Softness

The room smells like cotton stuffing and muslin. The fluorescent lights hum above us, casting soft shadows over the table where a scattered mess of fabric, thread, buttons, and yarn waits. Arthur sits to my left, hunched slightly forward, his fingers tentative as they hover over a small, blank plush form.

It’s lopsided. The ears are uneven, the stitching crooked like a child’s first try—but it’s his. He hasn’t looked me in the eye since we started. He hasn’t said a word since the session began. But his fingers tremble with a kind of reverence that’s louder than language.

I don’t tell him how proud I am. Not yet.

Instead, I guide him through each step quietly, patiently—threading the needle, tying the knot, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure. He asks me, without speaking, if he’s doing it wrong. I answer with silence, just resting my hand gently over his to show him he’s not alone. This isn’t about perfection. This isn’t about performing.

This is about softness.

About learning how to make something safe in a world that’s never felt safe before.

When we take a break, I set my own plush form down—a round-headed creature with long arms and mismatched eyes—and I feel him watching me. Still wordless. Still distant. But the space between us isn’t empty anymore. It’s thick with presence, the way silence gets when it starts holding things.

He finally speaks.

“…Why plushies?”

The question is soft. Hesitant. As if asking might unravel him.

I pause, brushing a thumb across the messy yarn hair of the doll in my hand.

“Because I never had one,” I say, the words catching a little in my throat. “Not a real one. Not one that made me feel safe.”

He watches, quiet.

I continue. “And because when I was little, I used to think… maybe if I could hold something soft, maybe I wouldn’t feel so sharp inside.”

I set the plushie down between us. Its little lopsided smile looks up at the ceiling like it knows something we don’t.

“I think softness is a kind of protest,” I say. “Especially for people like us. For people who’ve been hurt so much that we forget how to be gentle—with ourselves. With the world.”

Arthur swallows. His hands are still now, resting in his lap. There’s something forming behind his eyes, some thought he’s not sure he has permission to feel.

“It doesn’t have to talk,” he says suddenly, gesturing to the plush. “It just… listens.”

“Yes,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Exactly.”

And for a long while, we just sit there. Stitching together softness from the scraps the world left behind.

---

Between the Workshop and the Cell – Secret Work

The workshop ends quietly, softer than I expected. No applause, no words, just the low scrape of chairs across the cracked gymnasium floor, the shuffle of worn sneakers against polished wood that's seen too many years and too many weight classes. The echoes still hang in the air, trapped between the high, faded rafters like old breath no one bothered to exhale.

The community room is empty now except for me—the last straggler, clinging to the space like it might vanish if I blink too hard. The overhead lights buzz low and tired. A picnic table, scarred and splintered, sits in the center like a lone shipwreck, scattered with forgotten art supplies: stubby crayons, peeling construction paper, yarn tangling in a half-finished macrame project. Someone left a tub of fabric scraps under the table, probably thinking no one would notice.

I notice.

I move quietly, feeling the stretch in my muscles from sitting hunched over too long. Across the room, the small stage looms in the corner, sagging slightly in the middle. Someone once hung a curtain there—red, faded almost pink now—stitched together from old bedsheets and velvet scraps. The fabric sways slightly when the air vent kicks on, like it's still waiting for a show that never came.

I pull the tub closer, crouching beside it. My knees crack as I lower myself to the floor, but I don't care. In the hush of this room, in the flicker of dying fluorescent lights, there’s something sacred about the silence. A secret little world where no guards are yelling, no rules are barking in my ears. Just thread, fabric, and possibility.

My hands shake as I sift through the scraps—felt, denim, cheap cotton faded from too many washes. I find a bit of mustard yellow, a strip of faded pink, a handful of worn black buttons. Enough.

It’s not much. But it’s enough.

I steal glances toward the door even though I know no one is watching. This isn't official. This isn't sanctioned. Technically, making anything outside scheduled workshop hours is bending the rules. Maybe breaking them. I don’t care. Some things are more important than obedience.

I sit cross-legged on the old gym floor, my back to the picnic table, and begin cutting. My scissors are blunt, biting the fabric ragged instead of slicing it clean. It doesn't matter. I’m not aiming for perfection. I’m aiming for something real.

I sew in stolen minutes—rough, clumsy stitches tugging the fabric together. I don’t even have a pattern; it’s all from memory. From the way Arthur’s voice shifted when he spoke about *Mr. Smile and Friends*. From the almost reverent way he described Penny Doodle’s soft hands, Grumbles' scowls, Tully’s clumsy songs.

He didn’t know I was watching him as he spoke, how his hands kept unconsciously tracing the air, drawing shapes I could almost recognize.

He didn't know how the sadness wrapped itself around his sentences like ivy, thick and choking, or how his smile looked brittle enough to shatter when he tried to describe a time when the world didn’t hurt quite so much.

And now here I am, needle between my teeth, breath held tight in my chest, stitching the ghosts of his childhood into thread and cloth.

One by one, they start to take form.

A lumpy figure with mismatched button eyes—Penny Doodle.

A stuffed bear with threadbare arms—Grumbles.

A soft, floppier doll with a crooked yarn smile—Tully.

Each stitch feels like an act of defiance.

Each stitch says: *You mattered. You matter.*

I’m almost finished with Mr. Smile when the clock in the hallway chimes for final cell check. My fingers fumble, stabbing the needle into my thumb. I curse under my breath, shoving the half-finished plush into the pocket of my loose prison slacks.

I gather the scraps as quickly as I can, hiding the evidence, pressing the worn fabric to my chest for one last moment of borrowed tenderness before I slip out the side door.

The corridors stretch long and empty as I walk back toward my cell.

My shoes squeak against the polished linoleum.

Every step echoes too loudly.

But tucked close to my heart, in secret, a stitched-together hope beats quietly against my ribs.

Arthur doesn’t know yet.

But soon—

Soon, he will hold them.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll remember that someone stayed.

---

Arthur's eyes swept over the plushies, lingering on each one for a moment as if they were old friends, memories wrapped in thread and fabric. He picked up Tully the Tortoise first. His fingers traced the worn edges of the plush, the soft seams of its slow, stammering expression. Tully had always been the one who worried—always unsure if he was enough. Arthur’s breath hitched as his thumb brushed over the gentle, wide eyes. He had always related to Tully.

*“I’m not good enough, either,”* Arthur whispered under his breath, the words so quiet they almost disappeared into the hum of the cafeteria. His shoulders trembled, and I watched him, knowing this wasn’t just about a toy. This was about everything he had kept hidden for years.

He set Tully down carefully, then reached for Penny Doodle. The little rabbit, with her eager, scribbling paws, had always been a symbol of the feelings Arthur wasn’t allowed to express. The hyperactive energy of the rabbit, the way she threw her emotions on paper without fear, had always felt like a distant dream. Arthur never had the luxury to express himself freely. He took a shaky breath, the familiar ache rising in his chest, then carefully turned Penny Doodle over in his hands, looking at her wild scribbles.

*“I should’ve been like her,”* he murmured, a flash of longing crossing his face, *“but I couldn’t. I had to hold it all in.”*

Next, his hands moved to Grumbles. The fuzzy purple monster, misunderstood by everyone except Mr. Smile. Arthur’s fingers clenched around it, his grip tightening as the familiar ache of alienation filled the space between us. Grumbles was angry, misunderstood, alone—just like Arthur had often felt, especially when he couldn’t even show his anger. *“Anger needs love,”* Arthur repeated quietly, like a mantra he had only ever half-understood.

Finally, his fingers brushed the plush version of Mr. Smile—the clown that wore the mustard-yellow blazer, the plastic flower on his lapel always reminding Arthur of the kindness he never had. Mr. Smile never raised his voice. He never demanded more than what was given. He always smiled, sometimes too widely, but in a way that made Arthur feel like there was someone, somewhere, who would accept him. Someone who wouldn’t tell him to be different.

Arthur’s face contorted for a moment, a flash of grief crossing his features. *“Mr. Smile...”* His voice broke on the name, and the tears, long held back, broke free. They spilled over without warning. His hand shook as he cradled Mr. Smile in his arms, the plushie feeling like a fragile piece of the boy he had once been, a boy who had clung to a screen to survive.

I saw it then—the quiet, childlike tenderness beneath the hardened exterior. It was the part of Arthur that had always been there, the part of him that had needed these characters, these voices, to survive. The boy who had watched Mr. Smile and Friends not just to be entertained, but to feel seen, to feel loved, in a world that had never offered him that.

“Arthur,” I whispered, my voice catching. I didn’t know how to make this easier, how to fix it. But I could see him—truly see him—like I had never seen him before. I could see the child in him, the one who had grown up too fast, who had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders long before he was ready.

He buried his face in his hands, muffling the sobs, but they still broke through, shaking his body with the force of a storm. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled him into my arms, my hands cradling him as he fell apart.

“Arthur, it’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s okay to feel this. It’s okay to need these parts of you. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to hide from this anymore.”

And he let himself go—finally. For the first time, Arthur let himself be the kid he never got to be. The one who had needed reassurance, who had needed to feel like it was okay to be afraid, to be angry, to need someone. He didn’t pull away from me this time. He just let the tears come, trembling in my arms, a fragile boy I had never known, and I held him as tightly as I could.

“You’re not alone anymore,” I murmured, pressing my cheek to his hair, feeling the weight of his grief wash over me. “I see you. All of you.”

And for the first time in a long time, Arthur didn’t pull away. He let himself be seen. He let himself be held. The plushies were more than toys to him now—they were the pieces of himself he had once tried to bury, but now, for the first time, he could let them live in the open.

It wasn’t just the toys he needed. It was the freedom to be who he had always been—the kid who watched Mr. Smile and Friends and found solace in a world that never made room for his heart. And for the first time, I could see it too. The rawness, the softness, the parts of him that were *human*.

I held him tighter, knowing this moment meant something he couldn’t yet fully understand. But maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of healing. And that, in itself, was something worth holding on to.

—------

Somatic Therapy for Emotional Release — Guided Rage Expression Workshop.

This is an intense, non-verbal workshop to safely let anger out — stomping, punching bags, tearing paper — **without words, without judgment**.

---

The Rage Room

The air buzzed heavy as the guards buzzed us in, the mechanical click and whine of the door echoing down the barren hall. I felt Arthur tense beside me as we stepped into what used to be a storage room, now stripped almost bare—just crumbling blue mats duct-taped to the concrete floor, punching bags hanging crooked from rusted chains, and piles of newspaper stacked in the corner like forgotten memories.

The fluorescent lights above flickered once, twice, then settled into a dull hum.

The room smelled of old leather, dust, and something sharper underneath—something like sweat, or fear. Maybe both.

There was a woman waiting for us—a trauma therapist from the outside, clipboard hugged tight against her chest, her eyes soft but unblinking. She wore jeans and a loose sweater, not a uniform. That mattered more than she knew.

“Welcome,” she said simply, nodding to each of us in turn.

“No talking today,” she added, her voice calm. “Just movement. Just feeling. You don’t have to explain anything.”

Her gaze landed briefly on Arthur, then me, before gliding away without judgment.

“You’re allowed to be angry here. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. And you won’t be punished for it.”

Arthur’s hands twitched at his sides. I could feel the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he kept looking toward the door like he was calculating escape routes even now.

I reached out, brushing my fingers lightly against his sleeve—not grabbing, not pulling, just... reminding him I was there.

Slowly, awkwardly, we shuffled into the room, joining a loose circle of others—faces I half-recognized from other groups: a woman with a bandaged wrist, a tall man who never spoke, a teenager who rocked back and forth even when sitting still. We all stood there, broken and buzzing, while the therapist spread her arms wide.

“First exercise,” she said. “Rip something. Anything. No wrong way to do it.”

She kicked a pile of old newspapers across the floor, scattering them like dry leaves.

Arthur didn’t move. His jaw was clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might crack. His eyes darted from the pile to the punching bag to the door. His fists curled, unclenched, curled again.

I didn’t push him.

I just crouched down, grabbed a brittle newspaper with both hands, and tore it straight down the middle.

The sound split the room—a sharp, violent crackle that seemed impossibly loud.

Arthur flinched, his whole body jerking.

But then—slowly—he dropped to one knee beside me.

His hand hovered above the newspapers. Trembling. Hesitating. Like the very act of touching them was dangerous, taboo.

I watched, heart thudding painfully, as he finally snatched one up—and tore it. Not cleanly. Not confidently.

But he tore it.

The sound was ragged. Crooked. Like everything inside him.

And then he tore another.

And another.

Within seconds, Arthur was ripping the papers apart with a ferocity that startled even me. His breathing came in harsh gasps. Pieces flew through the air like shredded feathers. His body moved in jerky, desperate bursts—no rhythm, no control, just *out*, *out*, *out*.

I sat back on my heels, hands in my lap, tears stinging my eyes.

He wasn’t performing.

He wasn’t pretending.

He was *feeling*.

For once, he wasn’t laughing to cover it up.

He wasn’t shrinking, wasn’t hiding behind a mask of humor or rage or indifference.

He was just a human being tearing paper to pieces because it hurt too much not to.

The therapist didn’t stop him.

None of us did.

Arthur finally collapsed onto the mats, chest heaving, face flushed and raw. He pressed his palms against the floor, fingers splayed wide, grounding himself like the earth might disappear underneath him if he didn’t hold on.

I crawled closer, moving slowly, not touching him yet.

"You're safe," I breathed, barely a whisper. "You're safe, Arthur."

His head jerked once, not quite a nod, not quite disbelief.

But he stayed.

In the corner, a single torn scrap of newspaper floated lazily down to the floor.

It landed beside him—a picture of a smiling cartoon clown, mouth open wide in frozen laughter.

Arthur’s eyes locked onto it.

And something shifted behind his expression—something ancient and wounded and impossibly tender.

He didn't pick it up.

He just closed his eyes and let himself breathe.

---

The Space Between Us

The hall back to the cells was dimmer than usual, the long fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead like tired insects trapped in glass. Our footsteps echoed against the old linoleum floors, too loud, too sharp, like the world itself hadn't adjusted to the storm that had torn through that little room just an hour ago. Arthur walked a few paces ahead of me, his shoulders hunched, his arms wrapped tight around his ribs like he was trying to hold himself together with nothing but skin and willpower.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t look back.

And I didn’t rush him.

I followed at a respectful distance, my own body weighed down by the thick, unspoken ache clinging to the air between us. His movements were mechanical, stripped-down to bare necessity—one foot in front of the other, head down, breath shallow. I could feel the way the session had ripped him raw, peeled back layers he'd spent decades fortifying.

When we reached his cell, he stopped.

Not turning to me. Not stepping inside. Just standing there, fists clenched so tightly I could see the bloodless whiteness of his knuckles.

For a second—just a second—I saw his chest hitch.

A half-sob he swallowed down before it could reach the surface.

And it hit me like a fist to the gut: I wasn’t looking at Joker right now.

I wasn’t even looking at Arthur the way most people thought of him.

I was looking at the kid he used to be—the one no one came for, the one who learned that crying only made it worse.

I approached slowly, careful not to crowd him, careful not to take without asking.

I could have said *"You did amazing,"* or *"I'm proud of you,"* but I didn’t.

He wasn’t ready for words like that.

They'd just bounce off, hollow, maybe even hurt.

Instead, I cleared my throat softly, speaking low, steady, like easing a wounded animal out of hiding.

"Arthur..." I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You don’t have to decide right away... but I wanted to ask."

He stayed still, his breathing ragged.

"Would you rather... would you rather be alone for a bit?" I asked carefully. "Or would you prefer if I stayed nearby? Quiet. Just... here."

No pressure.

No expectations.

Just the choice.

Slowly—painfully—Arthur shifted. He turned his head just slightly, just enough that I could see the tremble in his jaw, the tears glinting stubbornly in his red-rimmed eyes.

There was a war happening inside him, I could see it—*Wanting someone there. Wanting to be invisible. Wanting both. Wanting neither.*

His lips parted, working around the words like they were heavy in his mouth.

"...I don’t know," he rasped.

My chest squeezed tight, but I nodded quickly, letting him see the answer in my body even before I spoke it aloud.

"That's okay," I said gently. "You don’t have to know."

Arthur’s shoulders sagged, some of the tension bleeding out of him all at once, like my words had punctured the unbearable pressure pressing down on him. He rubbed a shaking hand over his face, swiping angrily at the tears he couldn’t quite stop, and without another word, he stepped into his cell.

I lingered in the hall for a moment, hand braced against the cold wall, heart pounding painfully against my ribs.

I could have walked away.

Could have told myself he wanted space.

Could have decided for him.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I slid down the wall, settling into a crouch just outside his door, knees drawn up to my chest. Close enough that if he needed anything—*if he even just needed to know someone was there*—he wouldn’t have to call far. But not so close that he’d feel trapped, or watched, or caged.

The hall was quiet except for the occasional buzz of the lights and the low murmur of distant conversations far down the wing.

Inside the cell, I heard the faint sound of breathing.

And then, maybe—I couldn't be sure—a single, broken sob.

I pressed my forehead against my knees, willing all my restless instincts to stay still, stay silent, stay *patient*.

Because healing wasn’t about forcing him to open up.

It was about being there, even when he couldn’t ask for it.

It was about letting him choose—finally, finally—what happened next.

---