Personal Narrative Essay On The Joker

There was a loud clunk as some bright white lights flashed on and broke through the darkness under the canvas sack. I could make out a few shadows, but other than that the material was too thick to see through properly. Did I mention my mild claustrophobia? Either way, I was scared. More than scared. If it was one thing I’d leant in my profession, it was exposure to fear didn’t always create tolerance. Dr Crane had kindly proven that. I could hear Alexandra breathing harshly to my right, but the other figures in the room were mostly silent. I tried to regulate my breathing, but the canvas bag smelt of sweat and petrol making me gag. I couldn't help but feel that I'd brought this upon myself. Had I dragged Alex into this mess? Or had she dragged me into hers? As the daughter of a mob boss, it was safe to assume that she was in more trouble than I was, but she hadn't met the Joker. Maybe I was flattering myself; why would the Joker still care about me? But I knew better than to assume things about psychopaths. I'd learnt that the hard way.
"Alexandra Kosov?" I heard the clink of metal toe capped boots on a lino floor as a gruff voice broke the silence.
"Kosov? No. No that's not me." Alex replied, though her accent seemed to give her away.
Toecaps sighed and clapped his hands together.
"Vasily Kosov's daughter?" He rephrased his question through gritted
At first, I could only hear panicked breathing, but then a thin, hoarse voice resonated in the almost empty room. The sound was tinny and a little distorted, but there was no mistaking the man’s fear. He was speaking quickly and disjointedly in what I could only assume was Russian, but he’d occasionally break off into a coughing fit followed by half-deranged sobs. It was pitiful to witness. Was it live? I couldn’t tell. There was a sound like a gun being fired from the speaker, and for a moment I though the man was