She used to look light Joni Mitchell. Now she’s got comets coming out of her eyes, and gappy teeth that keep getting played like piano keys.

Sometimes it hurts.

Just enough to make her hiss instead of laugh—and this look crosses her face while she’s looking from the place where she things her eye sockets used to be. They’ve been replaced by ground beef, and no, that won’t do, will it? She can’t use these to see. 

Harley wheezes out a laugh when the fist connects with her jaw again.

“Stop laughing! You think this is funny?” The man doesn’t think it’s funny. No, no, no. They never think it’s funny. These men after her funny honey bunny. No sir, they don’t! 

It only makes the wheezing come faster; “oh, it’s a ball, sweet cheeks! I’m havin’ the time of my life. There ain’t nothin’ better than this, I’m tellin’ you. Wanna have a go? Want to see how hard I can hit you? Not very hard, see. I’ll take it easy on you. And it’ll make such a fun game. Such a fun, fun, super fun game. Come on, don’t be a chicken! Have fun!” She puts emphasis on the word because it really is fun; really does get her adrenaline pumping. 

She likes looking at the bruises, pressing her fingers down into the violet flesh that will ache for weeks. These are her badges of courage; badges of honor; badges her puddin’ will be proud of. Everything is going according to plan.

He grips her arms. “Just tell us where he is!”

“Oh, I can’t do that.”