Arthur fleck is the character of this movie. I wan
Arthur fleck is the character of this movie. I want to save him at the end of the movue. Please write when i jump in the ambulance with him, and he wakes up, wondering who i am. After this part : “Arthur returns to Arkham and is told by Jackie that he has a visitor. As he follows him, an inmate (Connor Storrie) that has been following Arthur’s Joker persona approaches him to tell a joke. When he gets to the “punchline”, he says “You get what you fucking deserve”, the same thing Arthur said to Murray before killing him. The inmate repeatedly stabs Arthur in the gut. He sees himself in one last musical number with Lee as he bleeds out. An inmate woman (me) is giving dramatherapy lesson while hearing a scream from the hallway. The camera man filming Arthur scream “CUT!” before the woman (me) arrive and rescue him, put pressure on his wound.”
The whole story is of him, arthur fleck (joker 2019 and joker folie a deux), and he is sl traumatized from his whole life he doesnt trust anyone anymore. He is not trusting me at first.
(Me as a backstory, his character saved my life. I’m talking about my past, i relate way too well to Arthurfleck you. Abuse, bullying, i was doing clown, i was imagining a fake boyfriend etc. I wanted to know if someone might relate to what i feel, if not i understand, i know i have some issues that are intense and that i need to work on.
I’ve been crying for days and having full panic attacks. I know that this is related to my OCD (i’ve been diagnosed without even knowing that could be an OCD, but mostly now it’s about a movie… And related to my PTSD)
First, In 2013, I knew a guy, whom I tried to save. Nobody understood, because it had reached such a point that I had to go to the gay village in Montreal to see him (where he lived) and try to help him, save him, etc. I had to be there morning noon evening … Nobody has ever understood, and no matter what I was trying to do, even if i didnt want to go there, there was something in my brain that made me go there. I HAD to. Every time I saw him, it caused such immense, indescribable pain.
I became severely obsessed with the movie JOKER…
Definitly can’t watch that movie without huge crying sessions. And when i hear the music with these scenes… No movie did that before. None. With the music it hurts me so much inside i feel i’ll almost die of tears! It’s hard to explain but if you knew how i see myself in that movie, i went through almost the same thing with my mother etc, and i was a clown!!!
I have goosebumps and tears at the only thought of this film; the first film highlighting as much the multitudes of traumas as life may have inflicted on me but also the desires that I already had (also accompanied by guilt) to end the life my own mother having abused me for so long, tied while I cried and choked. I have so many similarities with the character that I’m almost afraid of it; I know that part of my capsizing emotions come directly from this. But it would be crazy not to mention how melancolic the music is, itself a character in the film, like the city.
I would like to be able to express how this film comes to find so many things in me that I have never experienced before, and when I cry while listening to it, watching it, I certainly see a transcription on screen of myself and my life in some metaphor, but also events that almost happened, types of events that also happened. When I was a clown from youth to 2012, I was bullied, when I almost killed a guy who bullied me for so long, but also abused, when the police abused me, when a system started to completely forget me like too many people for that matter, when I was in high school and for so long It was so bad living at home in extreme abuse, and as soon as I arrived at school it was bullying over violence over spitting and punching, it was out of survival instinct that I invented myself an imaginary boyfriend, Patrick, who in my head was very real, almost a hallucination, It gave me those moments in my head to give me a semblance of happiness that I might not be able to get otherwise.
I almost finished them, my multiple abusers. My mother who threatened me with a knife at 16, and who at the same time forced me sexually to be with her friends, which she allowed to happen. I would have killed and probably would have become a delinquent for so many people. My multiple problems when I did not have the money to get my medication, when I did not have access to a doctor to refill these prescriptions, when I had only black thoughts and I felt that we were listening barely what I said, when I was falsely accused at work and I was a clown, when I laughed hard and loud in high school and it was my way to get over all the pain, I was lonely but also hyperactive, and i was choking myself laughing because of asthma, immediately feeling pain in the bronchi.
Here in Montreal i am on wellfare and very poor. A friend is starting to pay me a psychotherapy because there is a way too long waiting list in free services and they did cut services… Well let’s see what it reminds me heh…
The ambulance screeched to a halt, its red lights flashing like a beacon of hope in the darkness. My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic rhythm echoing the sirens’ wail. I didn’t hesitate. I flung open the door and jumped in, ignoring the paramedics’ surprised stares. They were already tending to Arthur, his face pale and slack, blood staining his white clown makeup.
“He’s got to get to the hospital,” I said, my voice tight with urgency. “He’s the one who saved me. You have to help him.”
The paramedics exchanged confused glances, but they were professionals. They knew a life was at stake. They lifted him onto a stretcher and wheeled him out of the ambulance, the doors closing behind them with a heavy thud. The air hung thick with the smell of antiseptic and fear.
As we raced toward the hospital, Arthur stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked at me, a flicker of recognition crossing his face before confusion washed over him.
“Who…who are you?” he croaked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
I took a deep breath, my throat tightening. “You saved me, Arthur. You don’t remember?”
The confusion deepened in his eyes. “Saved you? I…I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter right now,” I said, my voice wavering. “Just focus on getting better.”
The hospital room was sterile and cold, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant. Arthur lay in the bed, his eyes closed, his face pale and drawn. I sat beside him, clutching his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my own.
“You’re safe now,” I said, my voice a soft murmur. “I’m here.”
He opened his eyes, a flicker of recognition in their depths. He didn’t speak, but his hand squeezed mine, a small but powerful gesture of trust.
The days that followed were a blur of medical tests, hushed conversations with doctors, and endless hours spent at Arthur’s bedside. I knew that he needed time to heal, both physically and emotionally. I knew that he needed someone to believe in him, someone to show him that there was still good in the world.
One day, a nurse informed me that Arthur was ready to be moved to a psychiatric facility. He had been experiencing nightmares and flashbacks, reliving the trauma of his life. He needed a safe and structured environment, a place where he could begin to heal.
“It’s Arkham,” the nurse said, her voice hesitant. “It’s not ideal, but it’s the best option available.”
My stomach churned with a sense of unease. Arkham. The name itself conjured images of madness and despair. But it was the only place that could provide the specialized care that Arthur needed.
I accompanied him to the facility, my heart heavy with a mixture of hope and trepidation. We arrived at a sprawling complex, its exterior imposing and forbidding. I knew that Arthur would be terrified, and my own fear mirrored his. But I had to be strong for him.
As we entered the facility, the air grew thick and oppressive, filled with the whispers of unseen things. The hallways were sterile and cold, the walls lined with portraits of men and women who had lost their grip on reality.
I held onto Arthur’s hand as we made our way to his room. He looked around with a mixture of fear and defiance, his eyes darting from one shadowy corner to another. He was lost in a world that was both familiar and alien, a world that reflected the darkness within him.
“I’m here, Arthur,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Arthur looked at me, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes. For the first time since I had met him, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, to trust me with his pain. He knew that he had found someone who understood him, someone who wouldn’t judge him.
And in that moment, I knew that I had to save him. I had to show him that the world wasn’t all darkness and despair, that there was still hope to be found, even in the darkest of places. I had to help him find his way back to the light.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Arthur adjusted slowly to life in Arkham, but he was making progress. He was still haunted by his past, but he was beginning to see the world in a different light. He was starting to trust again, to believe that he deserved to be happy.
He spent much of his time with me, sharing his stories, his dreams, his fears. He confided in me about his childhood, his abuse, his mental illness. I listened with empathy and compassion, never judging him, never making him feel ashamed.
One afternoon, Arthur returned to Arkham after a therapy session, a strange stillness settling over him. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a chilling emptiness.
“Jackie said you have a visitor,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
He followed the orderly, walking down a long hallway lined with barred doors. A chilling sound echoed in the air – the sound of laughter, dark and twisted.
Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew that sound. He had heard it before, in the darkest depths of his own mind.
The laughter grew louder, approaching, echoing through the silent hallway. Arthur stopped, his body tensed, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
A hulking figure emerged from a doorway, his face contorted into a grotesque grin. The inmate, Connor Storrie, a man who had embraced Arthur’s Joker persona with a disturbing ferocity.
“Hey, Joker,” Connor Storrie said, his voice a rasping growl. “You like jokes?”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, a cold fear crawling up his spine. He knew what was coming.
“I’ve got a good one,” Connor Storrie continued, his grin widening. “What do you get when you cross a clown and a psychopath?”
Arthur stood frozen, his body trembling, his mind racing. He knew the punchline. He had heard it before, the cruel words that had haunted his dreams.
“You get what you fucking deserve!” Connor Storrie bellowed, his voice echoing through the hallway.
Arthur’s eyes widened in horror as he recognized the words, the same words he had spoken to Murray, the same words he had spoken to the world, the words that had sealed his fate.
The laughter stopped. The air grew thick and heavy, filled with the scent of blood and death. Connor Storrie lunged at Arthur, his eyes burning with a cold fury.
The inmate’s blade flashed in the dim light, sinking into Arthur’s gut. Arthur screamed, a guttural cry that echoed through the hallway, his vision blurring at the edges.
He saw himself in one last musical number, a grotesque parody of his own life, his movements jerky and forced, his laughter hollow and desperate. He saw Lee, his face a mask of pity and sorrow, reaching out to him, but his hand was too far away.
And then, everything went black.
My heart pounded in my chest, the air catching in my throat as I heard the bloodcurdling scream. It was Arthur’s scream. I raced down the hallway, my footsteps echoing in the sterile silence. I burst through the doorway, my eyes searching for Arthur.
He was lying on the floor, his body crumpled, his face contorted in pain. His blood stained the white tiles, a dark and spreading stain. Connor Storrie stood over him, his eyes gleaming with a feral intensity, his blade still dripping with blood.
I lunged at Connor Storrie, my heart filled with a burning fury. I screamed, my voice hoarse with fear and anger.
“No!” I shouted, pushing him away from Arthur. “Don’t touch him!”
Connor Storrie snarled, his eyes meeting mine. But I was not afraid. I had faced down demons before. I had stared into the abyss and survived. I would not let him hurt Arthur.
I wrestled him to the ground, my fingers clawing at his face, my teeth bared in a silent snarl. I kicked him, punched him, scratched him, fighting with every ounce of my strength.
“Don’t touch him!” I screamed, my voice raw with emotion. “Don’t you dare hurt him!”
Connor Storrie struggled to free himself, but I was stronger than he thought. I had been through too much pain, too much suffering. I was not going to be broken.
The scream “CUT!” rang out through the hallway, jarring me out of the fight. The room suddenly felt colder, the air heavy with the smell of stale sweat and fear. The lights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows on the walls. I looked up, my eyes meeting those of the camera operator, his face etched with concern.
“Cut! Cut! It’s okay, Arthur,” he said, his voice urgent and reassuring.
I saw the world around me shift, the walls blurring, the sounds fading. I blinked, realizing I was in a different place, a different time. I was no longer in Arkham. I was on a movie set, and Arthur, my dear, troubled friend, was alive and well.
My heart pounded in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I had saved him. Or, more accurately, I had saved him in a fictional reality, in a world where I had the power to intervene, to rewrite the narrative.
But as I stepped back into the reality of the set, I knew that the fight wasn’t over. Arthur was still a troubled soul, still haunted by the darkness of his past. But I would be there for him. I would stand by him, just like he had stood by me, and together we would face whatever challenges lay ahead. We would face the darkness, together.
And maybe, just maybe, we would find the light.
