This rain started to bother me. It was raining for almost a month, without a break. It made me melancholic. It made me remember how I became the person I am now. I remember it like it was yesterday.
It happened long time ago, I was only 6 back then. My father was an alcoholic and my mom was on drugs. He often used to beat me when I didn't want to do housework. And my mom? She would just lay on the couch, laugh and tell me that I deserved to be beaten up because I was so disobedient. It's horrible when your own mother doesn't protect you.
At the age of 11 I was beaten up in school by some school bullies because they didn't believe me that I don't have lunch money. I ended up in a hospital for a week, with my right hand and few rips broken. When I came home from the hospital, my father has beat me again, saying that I should know how to defense myself.
When I turned 13, I ran from home. I lived on the streets, hiding from my parents, running away from shadows on the streets. It didn't last long. Some friend of my father saw me in a shop while I was buying myself some food with the last money I had. He followed me and after few blocks he caught me and brought me back home. My father beat me up again.
I confronted my father for the first time when I was 15 years old. When I came from school one afternoon, I saw him and mother furious at me. The school headmaster called home to see if everything is okay at my place because my grades were horrible, even in P.E. although I was pretty fast, and I was always full of bruises when I 'd show up in school. Father yelled at me, and yelled, and yelled and then he attacked. I reacted fast and moved away. He missed. Then he attacked again, and I moved away again. That repeated several times until someone grabbed me from the back. It was my mother. And that's when father's hit landed right into my stomach. Then into my face. Then, again, into my stomach. After that he went into the kitchen and mother didn't want to let go of me. She held me even tighter. Father came back with a sharp kitchen knife and pressed it onto my face and he said: Why so serious?"
I started trembeling.
Are you scared?", he asked.
But I wasn't. No. I was filled with rage and hate.
You are scared, aren't you?", he started teasing. You're scared. You are shaking like a lamb before the wolf makes the killing strike."
He started laughing like a madman. Mother too. I used that situation to hit my mother into the stomach, and run away. The side effect of that was the fact that father cut half of my left cheek with the knife. In the end, I ran into my room and locked myself in. I put a tissue onto my cheek and waited for the bleeding to stop. Father was furious some time after that but then he took another drink and everything was fine, like nothing happened. I went through my room's window out and ran into the nearest hospital as fast as I could. Father knew that, but didn't say a thing about it.
The big turning point happend on my 17th birthday. My birthday was the only day in the year when my father wouldn't beat me. That would be my birthday gift. Anyway, it was early Saturday afternoon and my father was opening his fifth can of bear. i don't know where mother went, but I remember that she wasn't home. Father asked me to go and buy some newspapers. I went, I bought them, I came back home. I gave the newspapers to him and turned to leave the living room when he grabbed my wrist and pulled me onto the floor and started laughing. I realized that he didn't care about my birthday, and that he was going to beat me again. The moment he let go of my wrist, I got up and ran into the kitchen to grab a knife. I've decided to confront him, even if I have to use a weapon. He followed me into the kitchen, laughing like a madman. Then his fist headed for my stomach. I didn't hestitate and recieved the punch. But he payed a much bigger price - the knife was in his stomach. He was in shock. I saw fear in his eyes for the first time in my life. He was afraid of dying. But the things I felt where overwhelming. Power. Joy. Lust for more blood.
I pulled the knife out of his stomach and watched him bleed out slowly. I watched him dying. And I enjoyed it so much that I decided to become a killer. A shadow of Gotham City that everyone will be feared of.
I cut my right cheek and became the Joker. The madman who enjoyed killing.
And my favourite human toy was Batman.
I'm a bit curious. The Joker told multiple stories about his origin in The Dark Knight. What makes you think that version was real while the other was a lie?