Harleen Quinzel still remembered the day she killed the Joker.

It was burned into her mind like a brand on her forehead.

Before she changed her name and fled to Canada with all the belongings and money she could fit in a small red Subaru. Where she then spent three months working her butt off as a waitress until she scraped together enough money to buy herself a cute one-room apartment. After about three years of waitressing and abiding by the law, she was finally accepted as a psychologist at a small quiet mental institution specifically made for children and adolescents.

She remembered the way his blood stained the carpet.

The way the smoking gun dropped from her hand.

How his psychotic laughter just suddenly... Stopped. Like a phone call cut off before you could say goodbye. She remembered his skin, draining from the little color it had.

She remembered it all.

The gun was hovering just an inch above his forehead, the night was silent. The moon shone through the cracks in their tinted windows.

She watched his sleeping form, his soft breaths, his closed eyes.

He would never see it comin'. He would never realize.

But he knew.

Harleen tightened her grip on the wheel on her red Subaru, her eyes—blurry with tears—focused on the road. She was heading to the docks near her small apartment, overlooking the midnight blue lake.

It reminded her of the docks back at Gotham City. The ones Harley and the Joker used to sit at in the middle of the night, his pale hands clutching a bottle of booze and her head resting on his shoulder. It was perfectly quiet then, the only sounds were the lapping waters and the soft chuckles that occasionally escaped Joker's lips.

It was too quiet now.

His green eyes snapped open to her shaking form. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't even afraid. There was acceptance in the shadows that danced in his irises.

"Do it," he whispered, his voice barely audible as he stared at Harley's tear-streaked face, "Free me."

Harleen parked her car along the curb and stepped out, her red converse slapping on the pavement. There was a little part of Harley Quinn she would never truly be rid of.

The night air was cold and the fall leaves scattered around her form. She pulled her jacket closer to her chest as she made her way to the edge of the dock. Quietly, she sat down, letting her feet dangle over the edge, nearly touching the calm waters.

Harley's throat was raw, her eyes wet. The muzzle of the gun was pressed to his forehead, his green eyes were locked with hers as she stared down at him.

"You were never good to me," she rasped, "You never asked me how I was. You never apologized. You never took me out on a date. You pushed me away, threw me out. You told me I didn't matter. You told me you didn't need me." Tears streamed down her red cheeks, her heart in pieces as her thumb hovered over the trigger.

The sky was the darkest shade of navy blue known to human-kind. Harleen wanted it to swallow her up on nights like these, when the grief grew too strong, when the guilt became too fierce. She felt it in the echoes of her soul, in the marrow of her bones. Like someone had just inserted a syringe of ice into her veins, into her bones, into the very essence of her being.

Her breath caught in her throat, "What're your last words, Puddin'?"

"Harley Quinn, I love you." Then the Joker laughed. 

And Harley Quinn pulled the trigger.

She remembered it all. But above all, she remembered the letter.

To my harlequin,

I always knew you'd be the one to kill me.

That was how I wanted it. That was how it was supposed to be.

The harlequin kills her joker. Everytime.

Of course, I deserved it. How can I sit here, translating madness into ink, and lie to you in what I believe will be my final words? There is not enough paper, not enough ink in the world to express my feelings for you.

I cannot shape them, nor put them into words. I've tried many times, but they never come out right. Somehow, I love you turned into I hate you, stay here turned into go away, I need you turned into good riddance.

I still see the good in you, even when you can't find it. It's in the way you give our spare change to homeless strangers, or the way you helped that lost little girl find her mother.

You might be Harley Quinn now, but you are also Harleen Quinzel.

Once I'm gone, do me a favor, dearest one.

Find her for me.

For so long, I thought the life I have led was freedom in its purest, most insane form. But now I see what you for so long tried to explain to me. Chains disguised as keys, entrapment disguised as freedom.

So, free me, my dear Harley. End this twisted dance we've been doing for so long. And with my final act comes your encore. No longer bound by my hand as you bow out of the stage.

You might be setting me free, but let your final act be the one that sets you free.

And know that, no matter what, from the deepest, blackest part of my heart

I love you, Harley Quinn.

Harleen Quinzel sat in the quiet of the dock, each heart beat a memory, another jagged piece of Joker.

She did not regret her choice.

But Harley Quinn would always, always, love her Joker.