PHOBIAS. the whole, shitty lot of them were irrational. she knew that, she heard that : right in PSYCHOLOGY 101. none of it is real. nick is in prison, he has been for the last ten years. no mirage could change that. let her fingers shape, her knees yank with his every reach, let her breathing quicken & her throat tighten : but none of it is real. HELL is real. it’s not on earth. there are demons name etrigan & the faces of friends long - gone, but there is no nick quinzel. he’s in his own personal hell, & it’s nowhere near to hers. backing up, harley reaches for the bat behind her, bird - boned wrists finding it difficult to carry the weight while severely injured. but she endures, yanking the bat forward & bonking him on the landing strip he calls his head the second her gaze shifts.
❝ HOW DOES THAT FEEL, ya piece a’ moldy bologna, making’-it-hard-for-clowns-t’-getta-decent-livin’-‘round-here, sonuvabitch ! ❞ this is the part where she has does something either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, & knowing her luck – it’s more likely the latter. she lands on two feet, knees bent slightly to provide her with posture decent enough to swing a home run. ❝ i ain’t scared’a you … ❞ a beat, she looks around for a split second as if to recind her statement, ❝ ‘less you turn into a spider or a talkin’ fish or somethin’, but i’m getting over those things ! and i have a bat ! so … screw you ! ❞ her feet steady her, shoulders lifting to give him another solid smack on the head, blood lining the handle of her bat from all the cuts that gathered ‘gainst her palms.
HER TONGUE SWIPES AGAINST HER LOWER LIP, collecting blood and salt & other vile substances on its tip. ❝ i’ve seen all the devils i’ve needed to. you ain’t a devil. you’re jus’ a big sewer rat with an even bigger appetite. EAT THIS, bozo ! ❞ another smack, & she attempts to corner him, fear morphing into something made of flame & ire.
pain twisted it into something new . it felt it , felt as its prey attacked it , fought back , ---no , no , it would not be beaten . the prey was its , its to consume and feast and feed , it would not be denied its share . its mockery of blood spilled from its ear , rising to the rafters , its lips peeling down into a frown , into a pained grimace . it wailed , its fangs growing to stick out through its skin , trying to pierce her . needing to feast . i ain’t scared ’ a you . . . no .
in rage , it lunged for her , seizing her by the throat , curling her down , and onto the sooted floor . it lumbered weakly through the distance between them , its lips now bloody and split by pointed rivets of marred enamel in its mouth . strange how it grinned then , the cotton covering the hand around her throat began to tear , thick and twisted wires of black hair piercing out from beneath . its silken clown suit split , the long and wide legs of an arachnid sprouting from its back , each of them reaching to curl around her body as its clown face came closer . greasepainted skin cracked and splintered , as bulbous , yellow eyes peeled through its forehead and cheeks , its fangs thickening into great wide pincers . it spat a yellow phlegm , words , perhaps . ‘ are you scared , harleen ? ’ surely it would have her , now . surely the fear that seasoned her once would return , and surely it could then fall into its rest , and feast on her for the age to come .
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