It was 10pm and Harley Quinn sat on the couch in the sitting room watching one of her favorite movies, Titanic. She loved the romance and wondered if her Puddin' would've stayed with her, had they been on the enormous ship.

Speaking of Mistah J, he was normally home by this time, plotting and scheming, or ranting to her about his problems. Not his real problems, his mental problems. Problems about Batman, problems about the government, problems about not being able to rob a bank without going to Arkham. She didn't even think he knew he had mental problems, but she loved him anyways. Did he even know she loved him?

Finally he came home. She could tell he was upset by the way he slammed the door and threw his gun at the wall. Harley sank in her seat. She knew how this would end: screaming, blood, and tears. Or at the least, red marks on her face again.

He stomped over to the couch and flipped it with his angered strength. It would've landed on top of Harley and crushed her small form if she hadn't moved an inch and flattened herself out. He grabbed her arm and pulled her out from under the couch and slung her against a wall as she screamed. He stalked toward her once more and pinned her to the wall and glared at her. His hand struck her face with all the force he had, which knocked her off her feet and into a table. A vase that was atop of the table tumbled down and hit Harley in the head, cutting her cheek when it shattered.

He grabbed her by her 'I LOVE MY PUDDIN'!' T-shirt and pulled her up, then slamming her against the wall again. She whimpered and tried not to scream. He turned around, as if he were done. Harley tried to assess the damage: a swollen eye, a bloody cheek, a bruised everything. The worst scars were the emotional ones. Oh, but her 'lover' wasn't done.

He picked up the gun he had thrown at the wall and shot at her. Once, he missed. Twice, a close miss. Thrice, it hit her in the leg. Harley let out a blood-curling scream and placed her hands over the gushing wound. Just as he was about to shoot again, Harley screamed out, "Please, Mistah J! NO!" Tears were streaming her face and he suddenly saw what he was doing. Rather than admit his wrongs and call the ambulance, he simply retreated to his room to sulk.

As she writhed there in pain for the third time this month, she wondered if it was really worth it to give him another chance. To smile and kiss him and say, "All's forgiven." After all the marks and scars and words yelled; all the times she wanted to end it all. Would this be the night she did?

She practically bathed in her own blood and tears as she tried to decide whether or not to call for help, whether or not to live. She muttered his name softly, wanting him to decide for her. If he helped her, great. If he ended it, better.

He somehow heard her and grabbed her hand, promised her it would be okay, and called for an ambulance. At the hospital, he gave her the "Speech of Regret", as she called it. "Forgive me?" he asked her when they were alone in the cold hospital room.

"Not this time, Puddin," Harley said with a smirk, pulling out a gun from under her pillow that she had smuggled in. She pointed it at her Puddin's shocked and terrified face, blew him a kiss, and pulled the trigger. No more pain, no more problems, and no more scars.