Jasmine sat crouched behind the wall of some forgotten building, breathing ragged but steady as she sat there on her haunches. Not panicked, just...tired. She'd just gone a few rounds with the Joker again. Even here, behind the building, she could still hear the clown's cackle. The screeching laugh echoing in her head like a parasite.

She hated it. She hated it and would tear own ears off, or better yet the Joker's face off if it meant being able to get that damn voice to stop being so loud in her head.

But she couldn't move.

She was vaguely aware of the pain blooming under her skin. The old wounds flaring in pain and the new ones leaking blood down her body. She was bleeding out yet not fully aware of it. And don't get her wrong, not because she didn't care (okay she kinda didn't care). But because she was also vaguely aware of that fact that she was disassociating. Her brain nopeing out and leaving her like a puppet with its strings cut. Lovely indeed. So much for killing the Joker.

It was the same song and dance every single time. Find the current joker incarnation, go toe-to-toe until her body gave out or her mind broke, probably both tonight. Rinse and repeat until collapse. Lovely indeed.

The worst part? She was expecting it at this point. She expected her mind to go "hey, you're done," and completely shut down.

But her thoughts were only half in it as she sat there. The world around her flickering and fuzzy like an old VHS tape around her. Unable to focus on anything. The only things truly grounding her being the throbbing ache in her joints and the raw pain from the new wounds, apart from that, the rest of her felt like she was floating. Floating in vast nothingness.

If someone found her in this condition, killing her would be easy. But honestly? She didn't mind all that much. Death seemed better than this bullshit. It would be better than the aching joints, the Joker-shaped nightmares, the flashbacks, the burning insatiable rage, wondering if today she'd finally snap, all of it.

So she stayed put unmoving with her breathing uneven. Even as she could feel the crimson oozing from her wounds and seeping into the cracked concrete under her. Her limbs too heavy to move, eyes glazed and unfocused to see anything. Although if it was blood loss or the disassociation, she couldn't tell. She didn't care either.

That's when she heard something–footsteps. Slow, measured, closer. She would look, but she couldn't. She couldn't lift her head. All she could do was sit there, and hope they were there to kill her, it was okay. Just make it quick.