Epilogue:

Lola

or

-Ascension-

Except to heaven, she is nought;

Except for angels – lone;

Except to some wide-wandering bee,

A flower superfluous blown;

Except for winds, provincial;

Except by butterflies,

Unnoticed as a single dew

That on the acre lies.

~Emily Dickinson

Let me open with something not many people know:

The man they call the Joker despises sleep. His active body is repulsed by it; his mind, filled with constantly shifting, frantic, violent thoughts, will not settle down long enough to fall into an easy slumber.

And then there are the dreams.

They come on a fairly regular basis, whenever the limitations of his human body catch up to him and he succumbs to unconsciousness. He is human, after all, as so many people forget. Exhaustion, hunger, thirst – these are all things that happen to him regularly, just as they happen to anybody you might know.

He is not a higher being. He is not an alien, a vengeful god, a demon, the incarnation of Lucifer himself.

He is a human being, a simple man. He is a man who dreams. Plain and simple. So when you put it that way, doesn't it seem to take the edge off things? This murderer, this larger-than-life criminal, sleeps. For several hours a day, he is dead to the world, locked in his own subconscious as his body regenerates.

Those are the facts. Now here is the big secret:

When he dreams, he dreams of me.

I bet he thought it was easy, so simple, to move on and become something monstrous. No friends, no family, nothing to hold him back – such perfect conditions for chaos. And those people who loved him wouldn't even see it; they wouldn't even know. It's easy to kill with impunity when you don't have to look into the eyes of somebody who worships you and create an explanation for the blood on your hands. It's so easy.

I wasn't really about handling things the easy way. You see, I figure it's my job to bother him. I think it's in a contract somewhere.

So, whenever he can't stop his eyelids from drooping shut, that's when I strike. I slip in soundlessly, effortlessly, right into a mind he likes to tell himself is undecipherable. Oh, he thinks he's such a mystery. But I've got him figured out, and I think by now he knows it. The who and what of my existence matters very little – specter or figment, ghost or hallucination. When he sleeps, I am as real to him as the day I was born into his world.

He sleeps, and, like tonight, I find him. The dreams change constantly, and I like to amuse myself by thinking up better ones each time. These last few have been torturous, I know, because the truth is I'm not happy with this man, this boy I used to know. And if he can't feel the effects of his actions during his waking hours, then, well, it certainly is up to me to make him feel it during unconsciousness.

As in any other dream, he starts out fresh. His face is clear and young again, unscarred, with freckles dotted across his nose and a tangle of blond curls drooping over his brow. He's lanky. He doesn't look like a man quite yet. His spidery fingers reach up and stroke his smooth face; he finds stubble in places he hasn't felt it in years. It feels like a new experience every time, though he's done this dance a thousand times over. I can see the awe, the shock, the great sadness in his eyes as he looks at himself. It feels so real. I always make sure that it feels so very real.

I'm an expert at this by now. You gotta build up the tension, let him think he's got something back that he's wanted for years. And so here she is, and when she enters she smiles at me, just our little secret, in the split second before he notices her.

It was fun, for a while, doing it alone. But ya know, you can never underestimate the value of a good friend in the line of duty.

It works perfectly, as I knew it would. He spots her. She's beautiful, radiant, absolutely glowing. The starched white of her dress, the stockings, the scuffed black shoes – it's all perfect, and damn, she's good. We make a great pair, she and I, our own little band of torturers.

They speak, her voice a low hum of soothing, sensual words. Her hands reach out and touch him, gently, lovingly, and I can see his eyes welling up, can see the ache bubbling over. They kiss, long and deep, just two teenagers in love again.

For just a moment I look on, and the full impact of what they missed out on hits me. It could have been great. It could have been a love for the ages, the sort of thing you read about in books or watch at the movies.

But this is life, this is death, and it hurts.

Now it's my turn, and I ready myself. In two quick strides I come up behind them, their eyes closed, lost in themselves.

I stab her. The knife is long, brutal-looking, certainly a thing he's used himself on countless victims. She chokes, gasps, whimpers, and they break apart. The look on his face is one of horror, revulsion, absolute despair.

The blood, deep red, blossoms out across her stark white blouse.

He looks up at me – at the blank expression on my face, at my appearance, just as he remembers it – and I can see him shatter. I'm never whole when I come to him. I always exist exactly as he saw me last. I always look like I'm two inches and a shaky last breath away from death.

"Why?" he rasps. "Why are you punishing me?"

"Somebody has to, Jack."

She crumples to the floor, her body a heap of broken, tangled swan-limbs. She is crying, but I know this is not for show. I know how much this charade really hurts her, and I'm so sorry for it. It hurts me too, but it has to be done. Somebody has to do this. Somebody has to spark a little bit of humanity in him, if just for a moment, if just in his dreams. Maybe, one day, with the grace of God, it will bleed over into his conscious life. That is my dream, my hope, my secret. I wish I could save him. I do whatever I can, even if it hurts us both, just in the hopes that one day a life might be spared.

"Look what you've done. Christ, she's dying, she's . . ."

"What I've done? Jack, what have you done?"

And suddenly he looks down at his palms, drenched in wet, sticky scarlet. Immediately, they fly up to his face. He finds scars there, grotesque ridges cutting through flesh that was, just moments ago, whole and beautiful again. The blood on his hands streaks long, jagged edges across his cheeks, painting his smile scarlet.

He sobs over Louise's broken, dead body, his shoulders shaking.

"Stop, stop, I can't take it anymore, I can't stand it." Furiously, he looks up. "Why are you doing this, Lola? Why are you doing this to me?"

We've fallen into a nice pattern, he and I, but it never hurts any less when he asks me this. My answer is as true as it ever is, just as true as it was the last thousand times I've uttered it. When I speak, my voice throbs.

"Because I'm your sister, and I love you."

He wakes up in an armchair. Behind him, that horrid woman is flipping through blue-prints and

humming a disjointed, inharmonious tune. The Joker wipes at his cheeks. They are wet.

He is human. He dreams. He cries. He has no control over these things. But I do.

Except, now that the dream is fading, now that the pain is receding into the recesses of his mind, he just feels angry. He feels furious that, once again, he has lost.

Harleen, she smiles brightly when she sees him stirring, this woman who is so in love with the monster he's become. "Oh good, you're up! Listen, Puddin', I think we oughta blow something up tonight. Ssomethin' that'll shock 'em. An elementary school, maybe. People are crazy when it comes to their kiddies."

Jack, he gets to his feet and stretches, his back still turned towards the poor, foolish girl who actually calls herself his girlfriend. His mouth is set in a tight line.

"Ya know what, Harl? That sounds like a great idea."

He likes to have his fun, our Jack.

But don't worry, because everybody has to sleep. Everybody has to dream.

And when he does?

Well, when he does, he finds us there. And we're always ready for him.