#pnpstories

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 11: A Heavy Decision

Warnings: Eating disorders, Mention of self harm, Depression, Anxiety

The day after was, something else.

You laid there, sheets pushed to the end of the bed in the atrociously hot summer night, and stared at the blank ceiling.

How did such a blank space manage to capture what you were feeling so well?

It was one of those days, when your head was too empty and your heart was too full, and you couldn’t decide on what to feel.

Probably because you were scared to start thinking.

But after yesterday, you thought it would be better to think and feel nothing at all, than to spiral and hurt yourself in the chaos of unwanted feelings.

You sighed as you listened to the noise floating in through your open windows, and closed your eyes as a saxophone player on the street below was playing a calming and peaceful tune.

You felt the aura that the tune carried with it, and the players feelings were put into every note that they created.

They were happy.

They didn’t have much money, even though they had been playing for at least an hour now, but they were still happy.

Because they were doing what they loved. Creating music and feelings with every breath into their instrument, and you felt everything that they did.

It was with that sweet fact that you found enough energy to get up and actually start your day.

*

You stood in the shower, the cool water gently beating your skin, and massaging away the stress within you. You scrubbed at your body, desperately relishing in the comfort of feeling clean and no longer being sweaty.

You really did hate summer.

But as you stood underneath the spray of the shower, your face immersed within the water, you still felt… empty.

It wasn’t true of course. You weren’t empty, just, unsure of what to feel. And until you could decide, there was nothing in your head.

But in your heart…

You shook your head underneath the water, almost like you were psychically shaking out the negativity.

You wouldn’t think about it. You wouldn’t think about Nevaeh, and you wouldn’t think about her, or anything that made the hole in your chest any bigger.

You knew you would spiral if you did. And you couldn’t afford to spiral, or to panic. Not after those panic attacks you had a couple days ago.

Sighing tiredly, you grabbed the shampoo off the window sill, and began to wash your hair.

This was going to be a long day.

*

You stood in the kitchen, and stared at the jam jar on the counter.

To make a sandwich, or not to make a sandwich.

That was the question.

Her voice hadn’t been loud that morning, and she didn’t speak the night before. Did she speak yesterday?

It was hard to remember yesterday without wanting to cry about it.

You sighed again, and braced your arms against the counter, and hung your head. How the hell were you going to get through today without breaking down?

All you were trying to do was to make a sandwich, and yet you still couldn’t get it out of your head.

Neveah was so angry…

“NO!” You slammed your hands down on the counter as you shouted, desperation controlling your every thought and move, but still, you were unable to think about anything else.

You didn’t want to think. You just wanted to be.

Why wasn’t that enough?

*

You sat in the living room, a lemonade with ice in hand, and watched the news channel.

According to the weather lady, it was going to be a heat wave this weekend, so it was a good idea to stock up on ice and sun cream. And according to your senses, she was right for once.

It had been mild so far, this summer in Gotham. It had occasionally been humid or had the odd day that felt like it was going to burn your skin off, but it had still been mild.

Except, it was about to get worse.

And you hated it.

As you continued to watch the news channel, the cameras changed from the weather lady to the two main reporters back at the news station, where they continued to inform the public of the current news.

The current news about the murderer.

You held a bated breath and watched with horror as the reporters informed the public of the newest developments in the case, and how several people online and in social media had begun to crack the message within the flowers.

It was stupid to think that with such a public presenting of the victim the message could remain a secret.

Of course there would be people who would recognise the flowers. Of course there would be people who would piece together what they mean, and of course people would understand what they meant to the victim.

And now nobody would care.

Why would they? She was a cheater after all. Lots of people would think she deserved what she got.

And maybe she did deserve to get punished. Maybe she did deserve to be taught a lesson to not be greedy or unfaithful.

But not like that.

Not with 6 spears sticking out of her body, slowly killing her, torturing her until her last moments were nothing but pain.

You sighed a desperate sigh, so tired of feeling horrible.

Why did they have to do that?

Now nobody would care.

*

You sat on the floor of your living room, the small storage closet wide open and several paintings surrounding you, all packaged and boxed up, ready for being posted.

But there was a problem.

There was nobody who could go to the post office and send them off.

Because Nevaeh was mad.

You put your head in your hands and sighed with defeat, so tired of being… tired.

You were stupid to think you could go through this day and ignore everything that happened yesterday.

You needed Nevaeh.

Why did you think it was a good idea to push her away?

Because she couldn’t get involved in the case.

But you needed her.

But she couldn’t get involved.

But…

You ran your fingers through your hair and breathed, trying to remain calm despite the building frustration at the conflict that was tearing you apart.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear up everything in the room and then yourself, hoping that maybe, just maybe, there would be an answer within the left-over pieces of yourself.

But you were too tired to try, especially when you knew there was just no point.

You weren’t going to find any answers tearing yourself apart.

And it hurt.

It always hurt.

You didn’t want to hurt.

Taking another deep breath, you tried to focus on something else.

You had to find a way to fix this.

Nevaeh was furious, and she would continue to be until you helped someone, or told her you were already helping.

But since you couldn’t tell her, you had to find another way.

But you didn’t want another way.

You sighed again, falling back and landing on the floor with a thump, spreading out and letting yourself rest, desperately needing it.

You had to think of another way.

You had too.

Your neighbours? Maybe, but you didn’t like that. It felt iffy. You had never actually spoken to them at all, you had no opportunity too, and so turning up out of the blue and asking them to drop off several large paintings that were all very important to you and your life seemed…like a terrible idea.

Not to mention you wouldn’t even be able to actually leave your door way, so you would have to sit at the door way with your door open all day wating for them to come outside on the off chance they might be feeling generous enough to actually drop them off.

You sighed again, running through several more reasons why your neighbours weren’t the solution you were looking for, when your phone pinged.

You moved your head to the side to look at it, wondering what it could be.

It sounded like a notification, rather than a message, so you didn’t feel any immediate dread.

But you were in a weird head space, so you weren’t sure if it was a good notification or a bad notification.

Unable to be bothered to actually get up, you crawled over to your coffee table like a slug, and checked your phone.

Still laying stomach down on the floor, you unlocked your phone, and saw that your music app had suggested a couple new songs for your ‘art playlist’.

Huh. They seemed like pretty good songs.

You did need a break from thinking so much…

Standing up with a groan, you waddled over to your bookshelf, and picked up your most recent sketch book that you drew in. Sketching was a lot friendlier than your horrific nightmare fuelled paintings.

Collapsing on the couch with your pencil case and sketchbook, you flipped through it to your most recent sketches, and paused when you found several doodles of the vigilante.

Hmm. The Red Hood. You sighed as your head fell back, thinking of him.

He hadn’t come by yesterday, so he was probably going to come back tonight, since he did need to drop off a new burner phone.

Hopefully he was. You really wanted to see him again. You needed something to make you feel better, and he usually made you feel that.

Sighing, you clicked play on the new songs, and began to sketch. You didn’t wanna think about what it meant when you managed to finish several pages of nothing but him.

*

The vigilante knocked on your window at midnight, stepping off the fire escape and into your living room, where you were laid on the floor again, surrounded by stationary that had spilled from your pencil case.

You had put the paintings away earlier when it became clear that you weren’t going to be able to come up with a solution any time soon, and instead swapped them for your markers and other art supplies. And you were doing pretty well inking and colouring your sketches before he came around.

“Feeling creative tonight?” He asked, standing next to you, looking down and trying to peek at your work. You could feel his curiosity, and how badly he wanted to see your art, but all the drawings were of him.

That was far too embarrassing, so with a light chuckle, you shut your book and started to gather up your pens to put them away. There was no way he was allowed to see those drawings.

“Something like that. How are you doing?” You replied as you stood up, pencil cases in hand and sketch book underneath your arm.

“I’m alright, got some new information on the case, along with a new phone for you. What about you?”

“I’m fine.” You said as you walked over to your bookcase and slid the sketch book onto the shelf, and then tried to slide the box of markers on top of it. Except, you were tiny, and Jesus Christ why did you buy such a tall bookshelf?

You yelped as you felt the vigilante come up behind you and take the box from your hands and put them in their place at the top.

You were frozen on your tip toes, his chest right up against your back, trapping you between him and the bookshelf and Christ why were you blushing?

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked again, his automated voice closer than you thought was necessary and doing ungodly things to your brain. Ahhh! What the hell was happening!?

“You seem really tense.” He remarked, gently holding your shoulders and pushing you down off your tip toes, making you even smaller against him.

Oh God, oh fuck, oh God-

“Is it because of the fight you had with Nevaeh?”

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

Mood instantly killed.

You sagged beneath his arms, and leant back against him, his strong body never giving way and letting you rest. You sighed and dragged your hands down your face as he squeezed your shoulders to comfort you, and you blushed a little harder in your hands.

God, you needed to get a grip. Yes, touch was new and unfamiliar territory, but he wasn’t going to hurt you. He was just trying to comfort you. Everything was fine.

“Everything’s fine. I’m just… dealing with it. I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet.” You answered tiredly, gently placing your hand over his, a gesture to show you appreciated him being there.

He hummed behind you, and then let go and walked away, taking off his jacket and placing it over the back of the sofa and sitting down.

You turned around to follow him, except, your jaw dropped before you could.

Jesus fucking Christ have mercy on your soul.

You didn’t realise how, ahem, toned, the vigilante was. Apparently, the leather jacket hid how much muscle he had, and with it out of the way, you got a lovely full view of, well, everything.

Glorious bulging muscles all wrapped up in a skin tight t-shirt, sweat darkening the shirt and making the muscles more accentuated, and even some small beads of sweat dripping from underneath his helmet, falling onto his chest.

You took a deep breath and turned around, desperate to get a grip. He was your friend, not a piece of meat!

“You good?” He called out when he noticed you hadn’t moved.

“Um, uh, ah, yeah, yeah everything’s fine, I just need a drink.” You fumbled out, quickly pacing to the kitchen to get something cold.

Grabbing an iced latte from the fridge, you chanced a peek at the Red Hood. He was spread out across your sofa, his head tilted back and resting, obviously feeling exhausted from the humid air.

Hmm. Turning around, you grabbed a mini electric hand fan from your junk draw.

That would make him feel better.

Walking over to the sofa, you finally sat down, and offered him the electric fan.

He stared at it for a minute, before smiling gently underneath his helmet and taking it. He turned it on and tilted his head back, aiming the fan at his throat, where it was clear he was suffering the most.

And apparently you were suffering also because Goddamn, the sweat sliding down his throat was sinful.

Taking a deep breath to calm down, you said “What new information you got?”

Hopefully the case would keep your mind preoccupied and away from any distracting thoughts.

He sighed as he thought about his answer, and then said “You spoke to Oracle yesterday, right?”

You hummed in agreement as you peeled the lid off your iced latte, taking a sip and placing the trash on the table.

“Right, well the targets name is Malcom Valetta, a standard officer who mostly just patrolled. When they found him and questioned him, he clammed up, didn’t say a word, so they let him go home. Had no choice with no real proof. No offence.”

“None taken.” You replied.

“But then he came in today, and confessed everything. Told the commissioner about how he had been taking bribes for months now, and how he had been looking the other way and ignoring this rich woman’s dirty business. Her name is Catherine Whites.”

“He confessed everything? Why?” You asked, perplexed.

“Said there was someone following him home last night. You wanna take a guess on who it was?”

“The murderer.” You didn’t like the dread that was starting to pick up in your stomach. Damnit. The Hood was supposed to keep you company and chase away the bad shit, not bring it with him!

Sighing, you sipped more of your latte as you listened to him continue.

“I mean it could have been, and if you say it was then you’re probably right. But yeah, Valetta got scared, and now the police are chasing down this Whites woman to see if she’s a possible lead.” He finished, sitting up a little and stretching.

“But this lady, Catherine Whites, she doesn’t have anything to do with the murderer.” You pouted, curling your legs up underneath. The police were going in the completely wrong direction.

“You’re probably right, but the police aren’t looking for the murderer, they’re looking to see why one of their own is supposedly being followed home, and Whites is the only lead they have. There’s nothing that actually connects the previous victim and the new target, so they don’t think it’s this new killer.” He explained, his robotic voice doing nothing to comfort the dread still growing in your stomach.

You groaned as you threw your head back, becoming increasingly frustrated with this case. It was going to be impossible to stop the bad guy if everyone kept running around like headless chickens.

“Okay, so everyone’s being fucking stupid, now what? Is he at least going into protective custody?” You asked, exasperated.

The vigilante chuckled at your potty mouth and frustration, but answered your question.

“Yeah, he’s gonna be protected. He’s been fired though, and he won’t work with any government service again, and should be doing a year in prison. But it depends if he helps or not with taking down Whites, and if he does help then it could make his trial go a little easier and he could get less time.” The Red Hood continued to explain, adjusting the fan and pointing it a little lower on his throat.

You tried not to stare.

“Is Catherine Whites really that bad?” You asked, not fully understanding how much trouble Malcom Valetta worked himself into.

“You tell me. What are your senses saying about her?”

You sipped your latte as you thought about it, the cool liquid soothing you from the humidity, and helping you focus.

“She doesn’t seem like a nice person. Actually, she seems like a horrible person. She doesn’t care about anyone at all and will do whatever it takes to get what she wants, bribery being the least worst thing she’s done.” You were confused as to why he asked you what you felt about her, but you amused him anyway.

He hummed in thought, his brows scrunching in thought as he tapped the side of the electric fan, turning it up. You weren’t really sure how to continue the conversation, so you sat there and let him think.

“Do you know if she’s ever murdered anyone?” He asked suddenly, and you hated the way you knew the answer.

“Not directly, but I think, sometimes, she’s a made threat that’s gone too far. And she covered it up.” You didn’t need to say anything else, the truth was out there now, and he knew it, and he wasn’t going to stop hunting her until everyone else knew it too.

But Catherine Whites was a problem for another time.

People like Catherine Whites were too greedy to go anywhere else other than a suffering city like Gotham, where the rich could exploit the poor, and so she wasn’t going anywhere.

And she may have caused a few accidents, but she never brutally murdered someone and hung their corpse from a tree.

Which is why you had to focus on the murderer. Because he was brutal and sadistic and psychotic, and serial killers didn’t usually stop unless they were stopped.  

You had to catch him and soon.

Sighing, you took a gulp of your latte this time, needing the sweet boost that caffeine usually gave you. Your coffee wasn’t quite finished yet, but you put it down anyway, the condensation on the cup making your hands all pruney.

Looking around the living room while The Hood was deep in thought, your eyes landed upon the art closet, and the several packaged paintings peeking out of it.

You wondered… No, that would be ridiculous. But… no, no he wouldn’t. Would he? Maybe…

It couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

“What are you thinking about?” The Red Hood asked suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Oh, uh, nothing. Well, actually…” He stared at you patiently as you fumbled, and eventually you decided to just say “Ah, fuck it. Listen, I got a hell of a lot of paintings that need to be delivered to the post office and sent off to different buyers so I can get paid, but with the whole, you know, not being able to leave the house thing, I can’t drop them off. I was wondering, if maybe, you would…”

“Send them off?” He finished your sentence for you as a light blush dusted your cheeks when you nodded.

You weren’t used to asking for help.

He thought about it for a bit, and then said “Why don’t you just hire a courier?”

“Huh?” You stared at him with mild confusion, having no idea what he was talking about.

“You seriously don’t know what a courier is?” He asked with surprise, tilting his head. You shook your head no.

“A courier is a person you can hire to deliver something to one place or another. The more cash you pay them the more specific you can make the delivery.” He explained patiently, adjusting the fan again.

“Oh.” You said meekly. “I didn’t know you could do that. Nevaeh always used to just drop them off for me.”

He hummed next to you, not sure what to say to that, but making sure to let you know he was listening.

You sighed as you tilted your head back, tired of the constant depression eating away at you.

“I’m guessing she isn’t going to drop anything off while she’s mad at you, right?” He said, still looking at you.

“Right. But I can’t fix this. I can’t change her mind. I thought we had gotten past it but she still wants to help people, and she still wants to use me to do it.”

He sighed next to you, and then said “Yeah, that’s a problem.”

“I mean, what am I supposed to do? I can’t tell her, I can’t include her, I can’t trust her. I- I just don’t know what to do.” You vented as you clenched your fists together and gritted your teeth, feeling hopeless and frustrated.

“There’s nothing much you can do. You just have to wait and hope that she eventually gives up, otherwise you will just have to keep pushing her away.” He said rather drearily next to you.

“Wow, that’s some really helpful advice, makes me feel much better.” You replied with snark, curling up into a ball and resting your chin on your knees, hugging yourself.

He sighed again before saying “I’m sorry Doll. I’m not the best at this. Comforting people and offering words of hope or wisdom. It’s not my thing. All I can do is give you the truth, and the truth is that your gonna get hurt a lot, and your gonna have to keep pushing people away to keep them safe and the investigation uncompromised.” He said bitterly, turning away from you and slouching on the sofa, upset by his own words, even though they were true.

Jesus, is this what this life was? Unending loneliness and constant hard work to distract you from it?

“Listen,” He began, and you turned your head to look at him. “This life is hard, okay? And it’s only going to get harder, but you have to remember why you started. Because you wanted to help people, and you wanted to change your life and not be afraid anymore. But if it’s putting that much of a strain on yours and Nevaeh’s friendship then you can back out and I can never come back.”

You stared at him as his eyes looked straight into yours, and you could feel the emotions that were attached to every word. There was compassion and sympathy, but there was also a longing. A desperate wish that you would tell him he was wrong and that he should stay.

He didn’t want to leave and never come back.

And you found yourself hating that idea too.

“I don’t think you leaving would fix this to be honest.” You started, and turned your face away so you could stare at the wall and not at him. He was too distracting.

“I mean, Nevaeh wants to help people, and wants me to work with the police or something, and I can’t do that. The only reason I can work with you was because of the weird circumstances. Nevaeh doesn’t know about you, so you’re not the problem. The problem is that I can’t trust her.” You finished with a sigh, and leaned back, looking up at the ceiling and silently praying for an answer.

You jumped when you felt his hand on your shoulder, giving you a comforting squeeze, and you gaped at him with a blush.

God you wished he would stop being so nice, it really made you stupid.

But you calmed down and smiled at him, placing your hand over his and whispering a “Thanks.” under your breath. You were so goddamn grateful he was there.

Hell knows where you would be without him.

“Well, things might only get tougher with Nevaeh, but I’ll always be just a call away if you need me Sweetheart.”

You blushed a little harder with the soft feelings building inside you, and squeezed his hand, unable to speak, afraid you were going to ruin the fragile but soft atmosphere.

Taking your hand away from his, and him letting go of your shoulder, you both dissipated into a comfortable quiet, unsure of what was going to happen next, but unafraid with him by your side.

*

You typed in the password, Oracle_1, and the small black chat box popped up.

The vigilante had left a little past 2 am, and you tried to sleep, you really did, but there was just too much in your head.

(And your heart.)

You decided to seek out someone else, for a second opinion on what to do about Nevaeh, and since there was only one other person you could talk to, you had hoped that Oracle would be awake at 3:46 in the morning.

- I know it’s pretty late, but are you awake? I’m kind of having a crisis right now and need some advice. –

You were prepared to wait a while, thinking she certainly wasn’t going to be up at the late hour, but was pleasantly surprised when you saw three little dots in a floaty cloud appear soon after.

- What kind of crisis? –

Sighing, you began to type.

- It’s Nevaeh. I spoke with Red Hood earlier, and he caught me up with the case, but I ended up venting about how frustrated I was because I couldn’t explain to Nevaeh what’s been going on and I’ve been forced to push her away. I just, need to know if I made the right choice. Do you think pushing her away is the right choice? –

You sat with shaky fingers hovering over your keyboard and pressed send, terrified of her answer.

This was it.

This would decide if you were destined to be alone forever.

She took a long time to reply, but when she did, it made you pause.

- That’s a tricky question. Pushing people away is tough, and it hurts, but that’s not the same as cutting them off. I guess, it depends what kind you mean. –

What did you mean? You didn’t want to cut Nevaeh off, but with the way things were going, it seemed like it was going to reach a nasty conclusion and she was never going to speak to you again.

You tapped the edge of the laptop in frustration, unsure exactly what to say and what to do.

- She’s angry because she wants to help people, and she wants to use me to do it. But she wants to go to the police, and I obviously can’t do that, but if I don’t show her that I’m already helping people then she might act out on her own and cause the police to come knocking. Or she might just never speak to me again. I don’t know what to do. –

She already knew the situation, but you hoped that by saying it clearly would help present a clear solution.

You doubted it would though.

- I’m stumped myself. Are you sure you can’t trust her? –

You paused as your fingers hovered over the keys, unsure of what was holding you back, but you found yourself unable to immediately agree with her.

Were you really sure?

Were you really unable to trust her?

Were you really just going to give up trying to trust her and keep her around even though your connection had apparently been severed?

- Yes. She broke our promise, how can I trust her to keep another one? –

There was something screaming at you in your head, telling you that you were wrong, but you ignored it.

How could you trust her? You had proof you couldn’t.

- Then I’m sorry, but you just have to let her go. She can’t get involved, and she can’t get in the way. –

Fuck.

You knew it was coming.

You knew there was no way out, and that there was no happy ending.

You knew, and still, you stupidly hoped it would be okay.

You were setting yourself up for failure, and you were a stupid pile of shit.

‘Pathetic’

You chuckled cynically as her voice perked up, and you quickly typed - Thanks for the advice, goodbye - to Oracle, before shutting the chat and the laptop.

Of course, her voice would decide to speak now, when you were about to begin an episode of self-loathing.

‘You’re so stupid sometimes.’

“Yes, yes I am.” You said out loud, climbing into your bed and hiding under the covers, tears so close to spilling already.

‘Stupid and pathetic.’

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 13: A Vulnerable Position

Warning! Panic attacks, Mention of Murder and kidnapping, Violence, Blood.

He got away, and Malcolm Valetta is dead.

Your hands were shaking. Your head was spinning. You were trying to breath as calmly as you could, taking deep breaths in and out, but you knew you were only preventing the inevitable.

Your composure was going to break within seconds. But still, you didn’t want to break down. You didn’t want to cry. You barely had the energy to stand. You didn’t know if you could take any more of this grief.

“(Y/n)?”

Right. The Red Hood. He was still here. Sitting in your kitchen at your dining table, waiting to see what you were going to do next.

You didn’t want to cry in front of him.

You didn’t want to be that vulnerable in front of anyone.

But apparently, you had no choice in this life, because the tears were already falling.

How did you have tears left? You thought you cried during your trance, but apparently, you didn’t cry enough.

Because he was dead.

And you failed.

A sob escaped you, and you hunched your shoulders, trying so desperately to keep him from seeing your face.

But he was already out of his seat, his gloved hand resting on your shoulder, a gentle weight, an anchor for this moment of weakness. But still, you didn’t want to let go, and let him see you like this.

You turned your trembling shoulders away, and covered your mouth with your hand, squeezing your eyes shut as the tears fell without control.

You failed.

You couldn’t save him.

You killed him.

A whimper escaped your mouth, barely muffled by your hand, and you gripped the counter tighter, your knuckles turning white as you tried to keep it all bottled inside.

“(Y/n), hey, look at me, it’s okay.” He tried to comfort you, and he placed his hand on your shoulder again, firmer this time, trying so hard to be there for you, but you were still scared of him seeing you.

You didn’t want to cry again.

You didn’t want to feel this pain anymore.

A sob wracked your body again, and you couldn’t keep it in, you couldn’t keep it quiet, and like dominoes, everything came out one after the other.

More tears fell as you blubbered and bawled, clutching your chest as if your heart itself was tired of beating, and your lungs were done with breathing.

It hurt.

Everything hurt so goddamn much, and you didn’t want to be in pain anymore.

The vigilante grabbed your shoulders properly this time, and twisted you around to face him, but your eyes were still squeezed shut, you couldn’t bear to look at him.

You failed.

So much for being important.

“Hey, hey listen to me, I promise you it’s going to be okay, alright? Please, please look at me.” He begged you and you hated the idea of it, unable to believe a word he was saying, but you hated his tone of voice too.

He sounded so pitiful.

You shook your head, crying harder, your legs giving out with the weight of what you had failed to do; but he caught you, lowered you to the ground with him, where you wept into his arms, grief consuming you.

You failed.

You sobbed harder, tears running down your cheeks with uncontrolled agony and heartache that couldn’t be soothed with simple words like ‘it’s okay’. Nothing could soothe this; this desolation was never going to leave.

All you knew was pain and tragedy, and it would be all you would ever know.

He shushed you as he stroked your hair, and the tears just got worse. How could he be so gentle? How could he be so caring when you failed? You let Valetta die and he was still there, holding you, being so kind and compassionate.

You fell apart worse when he held you tighter and whispered that it was okay, and that you were safe with him.

Safe? Why would you need to be safe? You didn’t matter, you couldn’t do anything right, why would you ever need to be safe?

He should have just left you to cry on your own, or maybe do everyone a favour and just shoot you like the sick, hopeless animal you were.

But no. He stayed, and he held you as you shook and trembled in his arms, no energy to hold yourself, and no control to keep yourself together.

Why did he care so much?

You didn’t have the energy to question it anymore, your head swimming and vision too blurry with tears.

You just wanted to stop failing.

To stop hurting people.

To stop existing.

When your head started pounding, and you began whimpering from the pain and the sick feeling settling in your stomach, he pulled you away from his shoulder to look you in the eye.

“Hey, take deep breaths, okay? Deep breaths for me sweetheart.”

Were you not already doing that?

You must have been panicking, it was so hard to tell with the world swaying the way it was.

“I’m sorry.” Was all you could choke out, and the Red Hood frowned at your apology.

“Why are you apologising?”

He sounded so genuinely concerned for you, and you would have laughed if you thought you could, but you were too afraid of throwing up on him.

The room wouldn’t stop spinning.

You couldn’t reply, only cry harder in his arms as he tried to soothe you, but you didn’t know if he could ever make the pain inside you better.

“(Y/n), you need to breathe, please, breathe with me okay?”

You could barely hear him over the new ringing in your ears, but you could see his chest rising and falling with him, so you tried your best to do the same.

Breathe in for 4 seconds. Hold it for 7. Breathe out for 8.

Breathe in for 4 seconds. Hold it for 7. Breathe out for 8.

Breathe in for 4 seconds. Hold it for 7. Breathe out for 8.

You found yourself calming, and the tears slowly stopping, but the room continued to sway, and you still felt sick to your stomach.

“There you go sweetheart, there you go. It’s okay, it’s alright.”

He continued to stroke your head and soothe you, but you found it impossible to believe him. How could it be okay?

You failed.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered again, feeling so unbearably empty inside.

“Why do you keep apologising? It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was.” You sucked in a breath as you wiped your snotty nose and red eyes, feeling so utterly exhausted from everything. “I failed. It was my first case, and the first time I have ever tried to save someone, and I didn’t save them.”

You heard him inhale above you, and he held you tighter as you confessed, but was quick to reply and tell you differently.

“Sweetheart, no, it wasn’t your fault. You did everything right, you did everything you could have done to prevent this, this wasn’t your fault.”

“Then why did he die?” The vigilante held his breath as you waited for a reply, but you knew there was no answer. Because it was your fault, and you failed.

“Because I screwed up.”

You froze in his arms, unsure if you heard him correctly, heart beating erratically at his admission.

He… screwed up? How could he have screwed up?

You looked up at him in his arms, and he stared back, his helmet emotionless, and your sixth sense non-existent with the exhaustion tugging at your soul. But you could see the way he slumped his shoulders, and held you with a feather light touch, so gentle that you thought he was barely holding you.

He genuinely thought it was his fault.

“What do you mean you screwed up?”

He sighed as he dropped his head, unable to look you in the eyes, and you felt your heart shatter even more with his silence.

“Red, Red look at me.” You reached out for his helmet, and rested your hand where you thought his cheek would be, and tilted his head to look at you.

“You were there weren’t you? You fought him, right? You tried to do the right thing?” You asked desperately, because he had to have done those things, he said he would.

“I fought him, yeah. But I was too late. I got distracted in the first half, when I was supposed to be protecting him. When I turned around, Valetta was already gone, and when I tried to find his hide out, I had no idea where to start. There are so many Goddamn warehouses in Gotham.” He gripped your shirt tightly in frustration, but quickly let go in fear of hurting you.

“When I realised what time it was, I decided I would beat him to the drop site and be there when he placed the body, but he was there early, and Valetta’s body was already on the tree, along with the stupid fucking bouquets. I wasn’t prepared for the fight, he was.”

You sat in stunned silence as he confessed, and he got angrier and guiltier with every word. Fresh tears brimmed in your eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and you had no idea what to say to him.

Swallowing the new lump in your throat, you wiped away the new tears threatening to fall, and grabbed his face again, making him look at you.

You wanted to say something profound, something that would make it all better, but someone had died tonight, and nothing as simple as a sentence could make that better, so you wrapped your arms around his neck instead, and held him just as tight as he had held you, and didn’t let go.

He froze at first, surprised by you initiating touch, but soon wrapped his arms around your middle as he realised you were just trying to make him feel better. You placed your chin on his shoulder, and you sat there on your kitchen floor, holding each other as you grieved and regretted the night together.

If the Red Hood was a normal person, you thought he would have cried, but he was far from normal. His shoulders were as still as stone, and there was not a single sound that escaped him. He just held you silently as you tried to make him feel better, and you hoped it was working.

As the seconds passed, and the Red Hood remained a statue beneath your gentle touch, you decided that you had to at least try to say something to lessen the weight on his heart.

Taking a deep breath, you clenched the material of his shirt as you spoke, knowing that your next words wouldn’t fix everything, but at least every word would be true.

“Red, I want you to listen to me, and believe me when I say this. You didn’t kill Malcolm Valetta, so it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill him, and you tried to save him, and you tried to avenge him. That’s good enough for me.”

He finally came to life as you spoke, holding you a little tighter, but determined to keep up the façade of being strong enough to walk away from this massive failure.

“He got away. I let him get away.”

“You didn’t let him do anything. Did you stand there and watch him kill Malcolm Valetta? Did you let him run away without a fight?”

“No.”

“Then you didn’t let him do anything. You tried to stop him, just as you said you would. This wasn’t your fault.”

“I got distracted. If I hadn’t gotten distracted, then Valetta could still be alive.” You sighed as he continued to blame himself, but steeled yourself as he held you impossibly closer. You wouldn’t let him hoard all the guilt, you would share the pain and the blame with him tonight.

“And if I had remembered to tell you that the murderer turns up early, then maybe you could have caught him off guard. We both fucked up tonight, but we’ll get him next time, okay?” You stroked his back when you realised he needed more convincing.

“What if he gets away again?” This was it. This was the crack in his mask that he was trying to keep from you. But you weren’t going to hurt him, you had to make him feel better.

“Then we won’t stop trying until he’s either rotting in jail or rotting in the ground.” Your own words surprised you, but they were true, and full of enough conviction to make him start believing again.

He sighed as he loosened his grip on you, and finally fell apart in your arms, tiredly burying his mask into your neck, and you gently massaged the back of his exposed neck to comfort him.

Tonight had taken about as much out of him as it had out of you.

He began to mumble into your neck, and you frowned at his next words.

“I know you’re just trying to comfort me, but please don’t make promises you can’t keep Princess.”

Were you just trying to comfort him? It didn’t feel like you were lying. In fact, it scared you how true they sounded.

But he was right, you couldn’t keep that promise. Shouldn’t even have tried to make it. You weren’t prepared to deal with that kind of pain and guilt again.

Inhaling, you tapped the back of his neck and said “Come on, we should get up and sort ourselves out.” He nodded, and used your kitchen counters to pull himself and you up. Still dazed from the trance, you swayed when he placed you on your feet.

“You okay?” He asked as he steadied you. “Still feeling dizzy?”

“Mmhhmm.” You hummed in agreement, and held onto his hand for support.

“Alright, let’s get you to bed.” He said as he wrapped his arms around your middle, and helped support you as you staggered to your bedroom.

“But everything’s still a mess.” You protested, cringing at the left overs of your episode as you passed.

“Don’t worry about it, you can clean in the morning Sweetheart.”

When you finally got to your bedroom, you sighed as you flopped onto the bed, your bones too tired and achy to move. Luckily, the vigilante was there to help move you into a more comfortable position, and tucked the quilt around your fragile body.

“Mm. Thanks Red.” You yawned, cuddling deeper into the sweet warmth of your blankets.

“Anytime sweetheart.” He replied, and went to leave and close the door behind him, but paused just before he did.

“Hey (y/n)?”

“Hm?”

“I hope you listened to yourself tonight. If it wasn’t my fault that Malcolm Valetta died, then it definitely wasn’t yours either. I did everything I could, and so did you. Please don’t blame yourself.”

You stared at the walls as he closed the door and left, watching the last bit of light disappear from the room, and him along with it.

*

Waking up was horrible.

Your head was pounding, your mouth was dry and your entire body ached.

All you really wanted to do was curl up further into your blankets and never come out, but your bladder insisted otherwise.

Curse yourself for having tea before bed.

Groaning as you pushed the covers back from your sweat-ridden body, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, but stopped when a wave of nausea washed over you.

You couldn’t have been that dehydrated, could you?

You noticed your phone on the nightstand, unplugged from its charger, and sighed with the realisation that it was probably dead. Praying that it wasn’t, you reached for it and tried to check the time.

It still had 23% left, thank God.  

And it was 7:26 in the morning.

Ugh, what the fuck where you doing up that early? You only went to bed at half 4 in the morning. That wasn’t even 4 hours of sleep.

Groaning with exhaustion, you put it back on its place on the nightstand, plugging it in this time.

Slowly getting up, so as not to feel anymore faint or sick then you already were, you trudged to your door and opened it, but paused in shock when you saw the state of your living room.

It was spotless.

There wasn’t a single thing on the ground. All your books and pencil cases had been placed back on the bookcase; the end table had been placed upright, even the bulb in the lamp had been replaced.

It was as if nothing had ever changed.

Did… the Red Hood do this?

Why?

Sighing, you continued your journey to your bathroom, really not having any energy to think about it.

When you got to your bathroom, you did your business, washed your hands and face, and brushed your teeth, staring at yourself whilst you did so.

You looked like a corpse. Dark eyes, sunken cheeks, a blood covered t-shirt that you forgot to change out of, God fucking damnit.

Spitting out the foam and washing out your mouth, you placed your tooth brush back in the cup with a clink, and walked out to go back to bed.

But on your way, you paused as you noticed a little yellow note, sticking to your fridge in the kitchen. Walking towards it, you saw it was a post-it-note, with words scrawled on it, with surprisingly neat handwriting.

Foods that help with blood loss:

-Red meat

-Leafy green vegetables

-Bananas

-Beans

-Coconut water

-Orange juice

P.S. Your welcome.

Sighing with a smile, you pinned the note to your corkboard. The Red Hood just had to be nice, didn’t he? You turned to go back to bed, but your stomach growling stopped you.

Damnit. You didn’t want to eat, but fuck. When did you last eat?

Whining, you turned back to the note and examined it, wondering what you could eat that wouldn’t make you want to throw up.

Bananas seemed like the best option, so you took one out of your food bowl and took it with you to bed. Hopefully it would be enough.

*

You glared at your phone as it vibrated on the nightstand.

How fucking dare it. You were sleeping so goddamn peacefully, and your stupid buttfucking phone had to start ringing at God knows what time.

Groaning, you buried your face in your pillow, covering it around your ears.

You were too tired to deal with scammers. Your head was still hurting, and the noise was making you feel sick.

Maybe if you just ignored it, and focused on the softness of the pillow…

*

“(Y/n)!”

There was banging.

Why the fuck was there banging?

Didn’t people know not to bang on doors when there were people trying to sleep?

“(Y/n)! Open the door (y/n)!”

You groaned and pulled the covers up tighter around your body, not having enough energy to deal with crazy people who couldn’t let sick people sleep.

“Damnit (y/n) I’m coming in!”

That was the sound of your front door opening.

With a key?

Who had a key to your front door?

“(Y/n)?” They were getting closer, but your head was swimming with all the noise around you, and you really thought you were going to be sick in a minute.

The sound of your bedroom door opening prompted you to bury yourself further into the warmth and safety of your blanket cocoon, hiding from the nauseating noise and lights that fell into the room.

“(Y/n)? Are you okay?” They were speaking softly now, a gentle pressure on the blanket, rubbing soothingly up and down.

“(Y/n), I need you to speak to me, you didn’t pick up your phone, I’m worried.”

“Hrm.” Was all you could manage.

Your lack of response worried the intruder further, so they peeled the blanket off of you. Unhappy with your warmth being taken away from you, you growled as you opened your eyes, only to find Nevaeh’s dark eyes watching you softly.

“Nevaeh?”

What the fuck was she doing here?

“Hey there, sleepy head. You okay?”

“Mm, I want my fucking blanket.” You slurred, and she laughed at your response as you sleepily rubbed your eyes. But her gasp made you jump.

“(Y/n)! Your covered in blood!”

Fuck. You forgot to change your shirt. Again.

Sighing, you began to mumble incoherently as you tried to hide yourself with the blanket again, but she wouldn’t let you, and you whined in protest.

“(Y/n) Why are you covered in blood?” She demanded, and you sighed as you rolled over to lay face first in your pillow.

“(Y/n).” She repeated your name, but in the mom voice.

You hated that voice.

Well, not always, but in that moment, you hated that voice.

“Nosebleed.” You replied, sighing and rolling over again to face her. God you needed to stop rolling about, your head was getting dizzy again.

“That’s a lot of blood for a nose bleed.”

“Mhm. That’s what he said.”

“What?”

“What?”

“You’re not all there right now, are you?” She questioned, tilting her head as she brushed your damp hair out of your face.

“I said that’s why I feel sick.”

“Sure you did.” She chuckled at your obvious lie. “When was the last time you ate?”

Instead of answering, you groaned and closed your eyes, unbothered to answer. She sighed at your lack of response.

“I’m gonna run you a bath, your sweating a storm under those covers, and you stink.”

“Hehe, stinky.” She chuckled at your dumbassary, and walked out the room to the bathroom, to run you a bath like she said she would.

You could hear her opening the bathroom door, and then the sound of the water running, and you sighed as you stared at the ceiling. Why was she here?

You and Nevaeh had an argument, a pretty serious one, and now she was here being nice to you like nothing had happened.

What was she doing?

She should have been furious with you, ripping the covers off and screaming at you, telling you what a failure you were.

She was no doubt here because of the murder you failed to prevent, and she was probably here to scream at you and tell you that you could have prevented it, had you worked with the police or anyone else.

You had so many details you could have shared, and you forgot the most important one.

He turned up early.

And he got away because of it.

Because you were a failure.

“Alright, the baths running. You want help getting up?” Nevaeh asked, walking into your bedroom and breaking the self-loathing monologue in your head.

“Mm. My legs don’t wanna move.”

“Alright, give me your hands.” She replied, walking to your side of the bed and grabbing your weak arms to pull you up. When you were sitting up, she wrapped an arm around your middle to pull you off the bed and urged you to stand. When you were on your feet, although very unstable, she began to guide you towards the bathroom, holding most of your weight, as you couldn’t on your own.

She really shouldn’t have been helping you. She should have been throwing a fit with the way you acted. She should have been yelling obscenities at you for your failures. She should have been tearing your work to shreds for not using it properly.

She shouldn’t have been helping you. She should have been hating you.

And yet she wasn’t.

Why?

“Okay, we’re here. You still awake babe?”

“Mm.” Walking couldn’t have taken that much out of you, could it?

“Okay dude, sit down, you can’t bathe with clothes on.” What? She couldn’t be serious, could she?

“You’re gonna undress me?”

“Not unless you have the energy to do it yourself?”

Sighing, you nodded no, but crossed your arms over your chest, hating the idea of her seeing your body.

It wasn’t that you were afraid to show people what you looked like. It was that you were afraid of her seeing what you looked like. She knew you before you got sick, she knew what you looked like when you were healthy and… fat.

If she saw what you really looked like underneath all the baggy shirts…

“I know you don’t like people seeing you, but your suffering from blood loss babe, like a whole shirt worth of it, so you need help. Please lift your arms for me. Let me help you.”

You cringed at the idea of it, squeezing your eyes shut to avoid looking at her.

She would be mad. She would be disgusted to see what you had become. You couldn’t trust her, not with the investigation, and not with your body.

You hugged your chest tighter, shaking your head, dead set against the idea of it.

“(Y/n), please. Lift your arms, let me take your clothes off for you.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Just lift your arms a little, I’ll take it from there.”

“No, no I look- I don’t look- I can’t.” Your throat was constricting, and your eyes burning from squeezing them shut so tightly.

“(Y/n), have I ever judged you for how you look? Have I ever hated you for the way you look or talk or dress?”

You meekly shook your head no, knowing that she was always the one who made you feel better about the way you looked, and that she was never harmful when talking about your appearance.

“I won’t judge you for your body (y/n), I won’t ever judge you for the way that you look, so please lift your arms, and let me take care of you. You can’t do it on your own.”

Sighing, you knew she was right. She had never said a mean thing about your body, and she never would. If anything, she was always the one to make you feel better about it.

And you were so goddamn tired. The lights were too bright, and just walking from your bedroom to the bathroom had your head swimming.

You couldn’t undress yourself, and you weren’t gonna clean yourself either.

Swallowing the fear and keeping your eyes closed, you lifted your arms weakly, so she could take your shirt off. You didn’t hear her gasp like you expected, and you didn’t hear her yell at you like you feared.

Instead she remained stone faced and silent, which somehow made you even more scared.

You couldn’t sense what she was feeling either, you were too sick for that.

“Stand up babe, we gotta get your pants off too.”

Gripping the sink next to you, you stood up on shaky legs so she could fully undress you, and you stepped out of your clothes when they were a pile on the floor.

Completely naked, you covered yourself with your arms, shivering from the cold, and sat back on the toilet.

Bundling up the clothes, Nevaeh put the dirty laundry in the hamper, and turned off the tap to the bath when it was starting to get full. When you breathed in the steam, you noticed the scent of herbs burning, and looked to the window sill to see a pot of sage smouldering.

She remembered that detail? That burning herbs and incense brought you peace and clarity?

Gently gripping your hands, she pulled you up again, and guided you to the bath. With one hand on your back, and the other holding your hand, she supported you as you placed one leg after the other into the bath.

It was warm, and didn’t scald your skin when you stepped into it. It wasn’t like the baths you made for yourself, but you didn’t find it unpleasant.

Sighing, you relaxed into it, and she let go of you in favour of grabbing a sponge and washing your shoulders and neck. She was quiet as she poured the body wash over you, massaging into your aching muscles.

Why were you letting her do this? She betrayed you. She broke your promise and your trust, you should have told her to get out by now, to leave or to shout, since that was so clearly what she came here to do.

She wasn’t here to take care of you, she was here because someone died, and you could have stopped it, and you didn’t.

“You know you’re going to have to eat something today, right?” She said quietly, jarring you out of your head.

“I already ate a banana this morning.”

“One banana isn’t going to fix all that blood loss; your body can’t make more blood if it doesn’t have the right nutrients. You need to eat today, and it needs to be a meal.”

Sighing, you tried to sink deeper into the water to hide from reality, but Nevaeh pulled you back up. Squeezing more soap onto the sponge, she handed it to you, telling you to wash the rest of yourself.

Picking up another bottle, this time shampoo, she poured it on her hand, and then worked it into your hair, softly massaging away into your roots.

You sighed in happiness at the head massage, your eyelids closing with the pleasant distraction.

“Hey.” You jolted at Nevaeh’s loud voice. “I know it feels good, but don’t fall asleep on me, I am not washing your intimate parts when you’re asleep.” She said whilst chuckling, and your cheeks heated with the idea.

“Please don’t.” You whispered with a nervous smile, resuming to clean the rest of you.

“I won’t. Fall back for me?”

You understood, and lent back so she could wash out the shampoo. Using her hand to shield your eyes, she splashed the water over your forehead, being far too gentle with you.

You really didn’t understand how she wasn’t disgusted, or angry. She really should have been cursing you out, or punishing you.

Asking the same question over and over again wasn’t going to help, was it?

When she finished washing the shampoo out of your hair, she sat you up, so you could finish with the body wash.

“Can you be bothered with conditioner today?” She asked, and you thought about it, but eventually shook your head no. You felt too sick to put your head back under again.

“Okay, are you going to be alright if I leave you here? I’m going to go get you some groceries.”

You stared at the water as it lapped over your knees, processing the idea. Not having enough energy to think about all the things that could go wrong, you said yes, and watched as you she got up and walked out of the bathroom.

Leaning back against the tub, you let go of the sponge and closed your eyes, the warm water lulling you back to sleep.

*

“Heeey, wakey wakey.”

You opened your eyes to find Nevaeh standing above you with some towels, and a soft expression on her face.

“I’m awake.”

“You’re also a prune.” She replied, chuckling as she looked down at you.

“Fuck. How long was I in here for?”

“About 40 minutes? Maybe an hour? C’mon, lets get you out of there.” She explained, extending a hand and pulling you up. When you were standing, and shivering, she handed you the towel she was holding, and you grabbed it, pleasantly surprised to find it warm to the touch.

“I put it in the tumble dryer.” She explained, and you smiled tiredly in appreciation. After wrapping the towel around you, you held her hand again, and she supported you as you stepped out of the bath. Using your other hand, you pulled a towel off the rack and wrapped it around your head, keeping your wet air out of the way.

“Do you want me to dry you off or do you wanna just sit in your towel for a little bit?” She asked.

“I think I’m gonna stay in my towel for bit.” You answered tiredly.

“Okay, wear this then, get as warm as you can, its cold tonight.” She said, handing you a dressing gown, also warm and tumble dryer fresh.

“I thought it was summer?” You quizzed, putting on the dressing gown over your towel, sighing at the feeling of soft warm fabric.

“It is, but it’s cold. Besides, the news said we were gonna have thunderstorms all week.”

“Oh joy.” You said sarcastically.

She chuckled at your snark, and walked with you out of the bathroom, supporting you the entire way.

She guided you to the kitchen dining table, and when you sat down, you noticed the smell of meat cooking.

There were pots and pans on the stove you barely used, and you suddenly felt your throat constrict.

“Nevaeh...”

“You have to eat (y/n). You don’t have to eat all of it, but you have to at least have half. You can’t skip on food today.”

There was no arguing with that voice, so instead you sat obediently at the table, hating the way your stomach twisted in pain from having so little inside it.

Of course your stomach would agree with her.

There was what looked to be a lamb steak frying in the pan, garlic and onions cooking with it, and you bit your lip wondering how good it was going to be. It looked pretty good, and smelled even better.

You noticed there was also a pot of vegetables boiling, leafy greens sticking out of the edge, and you knew you were going to eat those first.

Vegetables were healthy, they were the best thing to eat.

Nevaeh was currently mashing up already boiled potatoes, soft and fluffy, they easily caved and squished beneath the masher you apparently owned? You didn’t recall ever buying that.

Did you really cook that little, that you didn’t even know you owned a masher?

And she was cooking a dinner?

You looked at the clock on the wall, and saw it was half past 6.

Oh shit, how late did you sleep in?

Sighing, you took your hair out of the towel and tried drying it off while you waited for Nevaeh to finish cooking.

It didn’t take long before she began pouring the vegetables, placing the lamb and scooping the mash onto the plate, before finishing it all off with a covering of gravy.

Placing the plate in front of you, cutlery right next to it, she sat opposite you, her own meal in front of her. You wrapped your hair back up, flipped the towel over, and dug into the meal quickly, eating it before you could change your mind and throw up what ever was in your mouth.

The moment the food hit your tongue, you thought you died and went to heaven.

Nevaeh was right. You did need this.

Eating rapidly, you sighed with every bite, the healthy greens and juicy meat divine on your tongue.

“Don’t eat too fast, you don’t wanna throw up because you forgot to swallow.” She called out, and you paused your chewing of the oh so delicious lamb steak.

Having the common sense to look embarrassed, you hid your face and began chewing slower, savouring the taste.

When you had gotten though half of the meal, you started to feel sick, and put the cutlery down, pushing the plate away.

Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up…

“You okay?”

“Mm. Not used to eating this much.”

She slowly lowered her cutlery as she watched you, thinking of what to do. You had your hand over your mouth and the other placed over your stomach as it bulged from the food, being far too tiny for such a large meal.

“Alright, go lay down on the couch? I’ll be over in a minute, and don’t go to the bathroom.”

“What if I need to be sick?”

She gave you a stern look that said ‘don’t’, clearly not taking any bullshit, and determined to get you better.

Swallowing, you got up slowly from the dining table and went to the living room. Curling up on the sofa, you closed your eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on the sound of the rain gently hitting the window instead of the nauseating feeling inside your stomach and head.

There were no thunderstorms tonight, just heavy rain pattering against the window, and strong winds howling by.

A lot more calming than the night before.

You jumped when you felt a hand being placed on your shoulder, and looked over to see Nevaeh smiling down at you softly once more.

“I placed the leftovers in the fridge, all you’ll have to do is put them in the microwave for a couple minutes tomorrow if you get hungry again. Make sure it’s hot on the inside though, don’t want you getting food poisoning.”

You nodded dumbly in compliance, not really sure what else to say.

“Wanna get out of that towel now?” She asked, and you looked down at yourself, noticing a small gravy stain on your dressing gown.

Damnit. That was gonna take a lot of bleach to get out.

“Yeah, can you get me my red Pjs?” You asked, and she nodded happily, walking off into your bedroom to grab your pyjamas.

Sighing, you stared at the ceiling, noticing the cracks and water stains, thinking of how you were going to have to repair that soon. Probably order the stuff off amazon, YouTube search on how to fix ceilings and cover up water stains.

You frowned as you realised you had no idea how to do that on your own.

You should have remembered, papa taught you how to do that when you were 12.

You couldn’t have forgotten his lessons that easily, could you?

You screeched when a pile of fabric landed on your face, breaking out of your trance.

“Nevaeh!”

“What? You looked like you were thinking.” She said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to think now?”

“Not when you’re making frowny faces whilst doing so.” She replied, plopping next to you on the sofa, leaning back as you held the clothes close to your chest.

“Hrm.” You pouted as you put the clothes on the coffee table, unwinding your hair out of the towel, and throwing it Nevaeh.

“Hey! That’s wet!”

“That’s what he said.”

You both giggled together at your idiocy, and then calmed down when you began to undress. You pulled off the dressing gown, chucking it on the floor behind the sofa, the towel following behind quickly.

You put on the underwear as quickly as you could, knowing Nevaeh was looking away to give you some privacy, but helped you when you struggled to lift your arms above your head to put on the t-shirt.

When you were done pulling up your pants, you fell back onto the sofa, curling up into a ball. Nevaeh dragged a blanket from the back of the sofa and around you both, pulling you into her arms and chest, cuddling you like when you were kids.

You froze in place, the touch unexpected and unpractised.

Shit. You didn’t realise how much you had missed this.

Sighing, you relaxed into it. She wasn’t going to hurt you; she was just keeping you warm.

Looking up, you watched as she turned on the Tv to put on Netflix.

“Fancy some Avatar?”

“Hell yea. I miss Zuko.”

She giggled at your answer and began flipping through your list, stroking your hair the entire time. When she found the show, she clicked on it, and the familiar introduction began, the both of you reciting it as it played.

You let your head fall onto her shoulder as the episode continued, and you found yourself falling into a state of calm, one you hadn’t felt around her in a long time.

Had you really pushed her away that much, that cuddles and Netflix binging were an uncommon occurrence in your lives?

But could you really trust her enough for it to be a habit?

*

Waking up was wonderful.

Your head wasn’t dizzy anymore, your body didn’t hurt, and your senses were completely clear. You were warm and well rested, and feeling good for the first time in a long while.

Yawning, you sat up and stretched, clicking your back and elbows. Looking down, you noticed you were still on the sofa, and Nevaeh was right next to you, her arm slung around your middle and her hair a mess.

Sighing, you looked down at her, gently brushing her hair out of her face and smiling at the drool hanging out of the corner of her mouth.

Such a graceful sleeper.

Stretching one last time, you unwound her arm from you, and slowly got up, so as not to wake her.

You needed the toilet, and then you needed coffee.

Once you were done with the bathroom, you padded over to the kitchen, to turn on the coffee machine, but doing so as quietly as you could. Nevaeh always liked to sleep in late, and considering the way she took care of you last night, it seemed wrong to take that away.

You checked the clock on the wall, and saw it was almost 9, but when you looked outside, it was still dark, being cloudy and rather depressing.

Eh, same old Gotham.

When the coffee machine beeped, you poured yourself some and added your preferred amount of milk and sugar. Sipping it and sighing, you walked back over to the sofa and sat down, cuddling back into your spot with Nevaeh.

You really had missed her.

And you really did love her.

She was all you had, and she would always mean everything to you.

But what the hell were you doing? You were supposed to cut her off, let her go, distance yourself and eventually never talk again.

And yet there you were, drinking hot coffee on a cloudy day, embraced with your best friend.

You couldn’t trust her… Or could you?

No. She betrayed you, sold you out, told the police about you.

But that line was getting old and boring, a tiring reason to listen to when you wanted nothing more than to keep cuddling her. To keep talking about her days at work, to keep bitching about all your old high school friends and how ugly they had gotten; to keep existing together. That was all you wanted.

So why couldn’t you have it?

Because of the case and the motherfucking bitch-ass murderer that ruined several lives, your own included.

No, you couldn’t blame the murderer for your life turning to shit. You could only blame him for the nightmares.

You were the one who kept telling yourself you couldn’t trust her.

But you couldn’t.

Could you?

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 12: A Consequential Discovery

Warnings: Murder, Kidnapping, Blood, Gore, Pain and Horror

Today was the day.

Today was the day that someone was going to die.

You could feel it.

You could feel it in the air, the way the static stuck to your arms and made your hairs stand on end. The way the air was no longer humid and exhausting, but cold and dreadful, with a chilling breeze cutting through to your core, and reminding you of the unease you felt when you passed a grave yard.

And there was the buzzing. The constant buzzing and crackling of electricity around your head and filling your ears with non-existent noise. Electric shock jarring you every time you touched something.

It was there from the moment you woke up, and it was going to be there until he died.

It was really starting to piss you off.

But you were trying to ignore it and stay calm, in favour of making a hot tea to chase away the grave feeling settling in your stomach.

You would call the Red Hood later and let him know, but for now, you really just needed a relaxing bath and some incense.

Leaving the tea bag to sit in the cup of hot water, you left the kitchen to start running a bath. Grabbing the incense on the way, you placed it in your bathroom and lit it, filling the room with a sweet vanilla scent.

It had been a couple days since you spoke to the vigilante and Oracle about what to do on your situation with Nevaeh, and you hadn’t spoken to anyone since.

Three days. Three days of utter and complete depressing silence. Three days of not talking to a single goddamn soul.

It was draining, and tiring, and you found yourself struggling even more to get yourself out of bed, the only thing keeping you alive was the thought of actually dying.

Because even though life felt worthless and you didn’t have the energy to do anything at all, you didn’t fight for your life with everything you had just to kill yourself.

You opened your bathroom cupboard and pulled out a new bath bomb. It was nothing special, all it did was turn the water milky and had a sweet scent, but it did look pretty with rose petals in the water, which is what you placed in shortly after the bomb dissolved.

The bombs and petals had no healing qualities and did nothing for your senses, but it looked charming, and after adding candles on the shelves and turning the lights down low, you felt that it was going to relax you pretty well.

Turning off the hot water, you went back into the kitchen to take the tea bag out and place in your preferred amount of milk and sugar. You brought the tea with you into the bathroom, along with a speaker hooked up to your phone, and placed them on the windowsill, away from the water.

You turned on your meditation playlist, and started to strip, getting ready to completely chill out.

Climbing into the tub, you hissed as the hot water lapped at your ankles, but continued to sink in, preferring the scalding water over the bone chilling air.

Once submerged, you closed your eyes, and let your thoughts wander.

He was going to die today. Malcolm Valetta. Today was the day that the murderer decided he should die.

But why? Why today? What was so special about today? Did it have something to do with Valetta himself? Was it a personal thing about Valetta, or a personal thing about the murderer?

Or was it just because the murderer felt like killing someone every couple of weeks, and that he chose a Monday night because the body would be discovered on a Tuesday, the second day of the week, which matched up with his body drop of 2 in the morning?

Wow. That was a really specific idea.

And…it made sense…

Maybe bath bombs and rose petals did have special qualities.

Nah, it was probably because your tense muscles were melting off in the almost lava like water, which in turn caused your psychic filters to destress too.

Surrounding yourself with beauty and natural wonders tended to heal the mind pretty well.  

But if the first murder was on a Wednesday, the third day of the week, and the body was dropped at three in the morning, then that meant that the number of bouquets weren’t only the hour of the body drop, but the week day on which the victim would be found.

Goddamn. What a break through.

But if the murderer got away, which you doubted he would, his next murder would be on a Saturday, and at either 6 in the morning or 6 at night.

It still seemed pretty early though. Too many people would be out at that point, why would he place a body then?

Was it somewhere rural and unpopulated, where nobody really went and therefore the body wouldn’t be found for a while?

Hmmm. It seemed a little too far in the future for you, your senses too clouded to tell what was truth and what wasn’t.

Oh well. You were supremely chilled out, sticking your leg up and out of the water, and watching hot steam float off.

Heh. You were as red as a lobster, and boiling like one too.

The best way to bathe.

Sighing, you continued to think, but let your thoughts drift away from the case and to more current events.

Like wondering what was the vigilante was up to.

Heh. Sleeping most likely. You imagined that late nights patrolling would wear anyone down, and therefore this cold morning would have him tucked in bed all cosy.

You hoped he was. You wanted to him to be comfortable, and resting in some fun batman pyjamas. You giggled at the image that came to mind, but quickly chased it away when you realised it wasn’t right.

If he wasn’t wearing pyjamas then what was he wearing?

Your giggles quickly transformed into squeals of embarrassment when you guessed that he only slept in underwear, and realised you had hit the nail right on the head and felt the truth more than you wanted.

Goddamn it why did you have to be right all the time!?

Now you couldn’t get the image out of your head!

You hunched your shoulders and tried to disappear further into the bath, the hot water doing nothing to soothe your flushed face.

You didn’t want to think about how pretty the Red Hood was, and you didn’t want to think about how gorgeous his muscles were! But how could you not? You literally saw them a couple days ago, all tied up in a way too tight t-shirt that looked like it wanted to rip at the seams, and glistening with summer sweat.

Argh!! Curse your filthy mind! Calling him up later would be even more difficult now.

This wasn’t like you! Why were you thinking about him like that? He was your friend, not some supermodel or idol, just a person, a friend who cared about you and definitely didn’t want you lusting after him like some desperate bitch.

God you really needed to get a life.

And a significant other.

*

“Hello?” The vigilante answered after the 4th ring, and you stuttered back a reply as you sat at the kitchen table, playing with the hem of your shirt nervously.

“Is everything okay? Did you have another vison?” He asked worriedly, with a new robotic voice. A voice filter on the phone maybe?

“Uh, not exactly. Um, It’s more my sixth sense actually, I uh… I think it’s going to happen today.” You bounced your leg anxiously, biting at your nails, afraid of how he would take the news.

“What’s going to happen today? The murder?”

“Mmhhmm.” You hummed in agreement, unsure of what to do and how to stop it.

“Are you sure? Valetta’s under house arrest until the trail, and he has a police detail outside his house for protection.”

You breathed in and out to calm yourself, unsure of what to do or what to feel.

You wanted to believe that it was going to be okay. That with the police protecting him the murderer wasn’t going to try anything. But the truth was, you just couldn’t.

You knew the truth. And even if things didn’t turn out exactly the way you dreamt it, the murderer was still going to try and kill him today.

“Yeah, I’m sure. It doesn’t matter that he has protection, the murderer isn’t scared. He’s going to try anyway, so, if you could speak to someone or something about increasing protection, maybe?...” You bit your lip, still so nervous about the whole situation.

This was the first time you were actively trying to stop a murder from happening.

You could not screw up.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll see what I can do. Do you have any idea what time it’s going to happen?”

“Uh, no, sorry, I don’t. I only know it’s going to happen tonight.”

“Alright, thanks. Is that all you called for?” He asked as you fumbled again, and you found yourself unable to reply.

Hnng. Goddamn it just say ‘Yes, good bye!’ what the hell was all the hold up?!

“I, uh, yeah, um, but, ah.” Apparently forming coherent sentences was a skill you did not possess.

“Is everything okay?”

“Um, uh, Yeah, I just, uh, you’re probably busy so I should let you go-”

“I have time.” He interrupted. “What’s wrong?”

You opened and closed your mouth repeatedly, having no memory of how to actually hold conversations. How were you supposed to reply to that when nothing was actually wrong?

Okay, that was a bold-faced lie. Everything was wrong but talking about your feelings was gross and that was not the reason you were struggling to remember how to be a human being.

“Nothing’s wrong! Everything’s fine, great, amazing, I’m just- I- fuck I’m bored.” You barked out a laugh as the truth barrelled its way out of your mouth, and you put your head in your hands, trying to hide away in shame.

Of course you couldn’t say goodbye, you didn’t want to.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure you have much better things to do than to-”

“I can talk.” He interrupted again, and you found yourself blubbering again.

“But, shouldn’t you get on with the case? You know, stop the bad guy and all.” You floundered desperately, unsure of what you really wanted.

You really should have let him go so he could protect the target, but god you really needed company. And you really wanted to talk to someone.

“Yeah, but you said it’s going to happen tonight, right? It’s midday, we got a couple hours.” He reasoned, and you bit your bottom lip in anticipation.

“I guess.”

“Do you want me to send a message to Oracle, just to be sure? She can let other people know so I won’t be the only one working to stop him.” He asked, and you felt a little more relieved at the idea of other people being there to stop the murderer.

“Yes please.”

“Alright, Give me a minute.”

“Thankyou.” You deflated and slouched in your dining chair, listening to him rummaging around a room, searching for a laptop. When he found it, you heard the sound of it powering up and then the clacking of keys as he sent the message.

“Alright, there we go. I can stay and talk for a bit.”

“Um, okay, sweet.” You said as you scrapped your nail at a stain on your dining table. Alright, okay, cool, he could talk.

But now what?

“Um, how have you been?” You asked, starting off the conversation. You wanted this. You shouldn’t have been so nervous.

“I’ve been alright, you?”

“Um, I’ve… been.” You sunk into your seat, hunching your shoulders and trying to hide even though he couldn’t see you. You didn’t want every conversation you had to be a depressing one.

“What’s been going on?” He asked with concern, and your heart did stupid little flips at the implication that he cared.

God you were a dumbass.

“Literally nothing.” You laughed cynically, but quickly quieted down as you realised it wasn’t really funny, and it just kinda hurt instead.  “But I guess that’s kinda the problem.”

“What do you mean?” He asked again.

“I’m lonely and bored. There’s a lot of problems with that when you can’t leave the house.” You replied with snark, even though you weren’t really angry. You were just feeling too much, and you didn’t want to.

“I take it you haven’t spoken to Nevaeh then. Are you still upset about it?”

“I think I’m always going to be upset about it, if I’m honest.” You answered, but it was difficult with the lump growing in your throat.

“Is there really no one else you can talk to?” He asked, and then you felt truly pathetic.

“Not really.” You sighed. “I mean, there’s you and Oracle. But I can only call you in emergencies, and I don’t want to burden Oracle.”

“Hmm.” He pondered your answer, and you waited patiently for him to tell you to just grow up. He had better things to do then make you feel better every time you spoke to him.

“I guess we’ll have to see about getting you a more permanent phone then.” He finally said, and you felt your heart burst in your chest.

A more permanent phone?

“You mean, a phone that I can call on more than once?” You said with barely hidden excitement, your previous depressed demeanour disappearing almost instantly.

“Yeah, I think it would be more useful if you had a more secure line of contact.” He said, and you sat up in your chair, excitement at the thought of having something more permanent lifting your spirits completely.

“So, if I got this phone, would I be able to call about things other than the case?” You asked hopefully. You had been dying for weeks to call him and just talk.

He chuffed at your question and then said “Sure, why not.”

You smiled to yourself in your kitchen, happy at the thought of more conversations with him.

“So, um, what were you doing before I called?” You asked, trying to hold onto the conversation.

“I was reading.” He answered, and then asked, “What about you?”

“Uh, Nothing much. What were you reading?” You questioned, trying not to sound to pathetic.

“Lord of the Flies, by William Golding. Do you know it?”

“Oh, yeah, kinda. We studied it in school, but I can’t remember much, is this your first time reading it?” You asked.

“No, I read it in school too, but I saw an old copy in a bookstore, and I thought it would be nice to reread it.”

“Hmm.” You hummed in reply. “Do you like it?”

“I like the message behind it, but sometimes I just want to smack the kids in the face.”

You burst out laughing at his reply, and he chuckled along with you. When your giggles died down, you asked “Is it because of how bratty everyone is?”

“Of course it is, all the boys are so goddamn arrogant I wanna throw them into the ocean.”

You laughed out loud again, putting your head in your hands to try and keep yourself together, heat burning at your cheeks as you could hear him breathing on the other side of the phone.

He was smiling. You could tell, and that just made the heat in your cheeks burn worse.

“They are really fucking annoying, aren’t they?” You mused out loud, a smile gracing your features with a halo of pink surrounding them.

“Yes. Jack can get fucked.”

You burst out laughing for the third time, and briefly wondered, what the fuck are you doing?

Ignoring your own self-loathing in favour of the wonderful conversation, you replied “I’m guessing you’re not gonna read this book again when you finish it, are you?

“Absolutely not. But I will finish it, I hate leaving a book unfinished.”

You hummed in reply, smiling as you saved away that little titbit about him in the back of your mind, a comforting warmth resting on your cheeks.

“How much of the book do you have left?”

“I’ve still got a few pages left; I should be able to finish soon.”

“Ah, well that’s good. You won’t have to deal with those little shits much longer then.” He laughed loudly at your answer, and you grinned brightly, your heart swelling with joy at being able to make him laugh.

“Yeah, thank God for that, this entire book has been dragging on.”

“I thought you like tragedies?” You asked quizzically, resting your chin on hand, still smiling.

“I do, but this isn’t so much a tragedy as it is just pure torture for the characters. I know it’s supposed to show that the entitlement and pride of young upper-class boys hinders any sort of progress and construction of a society, but they are kids, and it just feels unfair that they have to go through this. Even if they do need a wakeup call.”

You sat there in shock as you listened to his detailed and structed analysis, chuckling as his pure inner nerd wormed its way through the phone.

“What? What are you giggling at? What’s funny?” He questioned rapidly.

“Nothing! Nothing! I just didn’t realise you were such a nerd is all.” You continued to laugh into your hand, still so shocked at the nerd side of him.

“Oh, for fucks sake.”

“No! No! I don’t mean it in a mean way! I promise! I liked it; it was cute. You sound like you’re in a book club.” You hummed with a smile.

“Augh.” You heard him groan on the other side of the phone, and you imagined him dragging his hands down his face in embarrassment. “I’m not in a book club. I’ve never been in a book club. I- wait. No, I have been in a book club. I think. Does collecting first editions of books count as a book club?”

You giggled at the confession and then said “I think so. It’s definitely a hobby. Did you read and discuss the books after you collected them?”

“Of course. What would be the point of collecting them if I didn’t read them?”

“Then you were officially in a book club.” You giggled a little harder at that. “Who would have thought. The infamous Red Hood, in a book club.”

“Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my reputation.” He said with a sigh, and you imagined him pushing his hair back and out of his face as he smiled.

You briefly thought his smile would be gorgeous, before you chased the thought away.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks.” He replied, and you could feel the soft tone of his voice through the filter, and your chest swelled with something indescribable.  

You continued to talk with him for a couple more hours, talking about all random kinds of things, like what genres you liked to read, and when you told him that you hadn’t read since high school, he gasped and promised you that he would make you love reading again. You had giggled at that, but ultimately looked forward to that future.

You had suggested fantasy as a genre, since you loved magic and fiction, and he began listing a few books that would intrigue you, but kept coming back to Shakespeare.

When you pointed this out, he ended up rambling about how amazing Shakespeare was and how important he was to the English language.

Wanting to understand why he loved it so much, you suggested he bring you a book or two of Shakespeare, and he promised he would, given they included magic.

You ended up discovering that he wanted to join the theatre club, and you really lost it at that. You were laughing uncontrollably, and you could tell he was pouting on the other side. When you asked why he didn’t, you discovered that he didn’t have enough time, because he was Robin.

You couldn’t believe it! He worked that closely with Batman! And when you began to gush about it, you quickly realised that it was a sensitive topic. He was quiet and you almost thought that he felt sad.

Understanding that it was a difficult topic, you quickly changed it into something more heartfelt, and you could tell he appreciated it.

The few hours you spoke to him felt almost unreal, having so much fun and smiling the most you had in years. It was impossible to pull away from the phone, unable to stop talking and leave the conversation, enjoying his company far too much.

And then the first crack of thunder broke the small heaven you had made, and you suddenly realised what time it was.

It was time for him to die.

“Red, you have to go.” You interrupted suddenly, staring out the window as another thunderclap roared in the sky, and the downpour began.

“What? Why? Is everything okay?” He questioned, the sudden change in tone throwing him off.

“No, no nothing’s okay. It’s happening. He’s going to kill him.” There was a beat of silence. Then;

“Okay, stay calm, I’m getting up and getting ready okay? We’ll catch him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m calm. You’ll get him. Just hurry?”

“I’m already leaving Doll.” And then he hung up, and you were left alone with the screaming sky, unsure if he was right, and if you were telling truth.

*

Your head was screaming.

At the first sign of lightning you had ran to your room and immediately huddled underneath the covers, the thunder roaring overhead terrifying your soul out of your body.

You were crying, but it wasn’t because of the fear.

You were never that afraid of thunderstorms. Sure, you hid in your room because the loud noise brought up all sorts of horrible memories, but you never cried because of them.

No, you were crying because of the pain.

The beating, bashing, bludgeoning pain inside your skull that made you think your head was going to explode.

You were fairly certain your nose was bleeding, but you couldn’t be sure because your eyes were screwed so tightly shut from the pounding.

Were you screaming? You couldn’t tell over the noise of the wind howling outside and the rain thundering against the window.

There were images flashing across your eyelids.

There was too much colour, too much light, and closing your eyes didn’t help, because they were in your eyes.

They were in your brain.

Was this a trance? Was this what happened every other night? Was this why you could never remember, because it was always this painful?

The images were slowing down, sort of like a movie reel, and you gasped as you could finally see what was happening.

Blindly crawling out of your covers, stumbling into your living room with your eyes closed, you relied on your sixth sense to guide you to your sketch book.

You had to draw this.

You had to get this down, this pain couldn’t be for nothing.

This was too important to ignore.

You stumbled as you walked into an end table, knocking over your lamp and books, groaning as a new wave of pain pulsed inside your head and the lamp smashed on the floor. You walked on, reaching out blindly for your bookcase.

It was his face.

The murderer.

You could see him. Crouching behind some bushes, in the Malcolm Valetta’s back garden.

The rain was pouring down, and he did nothing to protect his face, his hair plastered to his forehead and his thick jacket soaking up all the water.

You had no idea who he was, but he was there, in your brain, and he was about to be in your book too.

He had to be caught, and you had to make sure that he was identifiable.

Finally reaching your bookcase, you desperately pawed away at the shelves, trying to feel for the rough texture of your sketchbook. When you found it, you pulled it off the shelf, and it hit the floor with a thud. You frantically searched for your pencil case, and you could hear all the contents of your bookshelf falling and hitting the floor.

No wonder you always made a mess when you were in a trance. You could never see anything, the pain too much to open your eyes.

The tears were still coming, streaming down your face as you got increasingly frustrated unable to find your pencil case and oh no, he was moving closer to the house.

“NO! No! Please stop!” You begged your empty apartment as you held your head, your nose a steady stream of blood, the other nostril becoming bloody too, and you could the hear it dripping and splashing on the floor.

Where was your goddamn pencil case?

Finally, your hand hit the soft texture of your pencil case, and you grabbed it, desperate to open it and get this monster out of your head.

Grabbing your 2B pencil, you shuffled along the floor, looking for your sketchbook that was buried underneath all the clutter, and when you found it, you flipped it open, and began scribbling, hoping that whatever guided you to see his face, would guide your hands to get it on the page.

Lightning irradiated the sky, but it was too late. He was in the house now. The murderer was in Malcom Valetta’s kitchen, and he was waiting behind the door, waiting for him to come get his next beer.

He had chloroform this time. A rag in his gloved hands, soaked with the liquid, and he was ready to kill him now.

You continue to cry on the floor, fairly certain there was blood getting in your sketch book, but you had to keep sketching. You had to get his face.

And then Malcolm Valetta walked into the kitchen, and you sobbed even harder. You didn’t want to see this. Why did you have to see this?

He struggled; he really did. You saw the way anger flashed in his eyes, and how quickly it was replaced by fear, and then empty nothingness as he lost consciousness.

His eyes would remain empty for eternity now.

You persevered. You continued to draw, flipping the page, sketching out the new scene that rolled in your mind, despite the pain that it caused you. You persisted.

Thunder rolled over head as he was carried him out of the house, Malcolm Valetta slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He got out the same way he got in, and climbed through a hole in the fence of the back garden, hidden by the shrubbery and trees.

Where was the Red Hood? He was supposed to be there! Why couldn’t you see him? Why wasn’t he stopping him?

The murderers van was parked a few streets away, but he made sure to take the alley ways and back roads to get to it, so he could carry the body in peace, and you hated how you had to draw every scene of this kidnapping, soon to become murder.

You were still crying, but your nose was clogging up, and you could feel the blood drying on your lips and chin.

Did this mean the trance was going to end soon?

Did this mean you wouldn’t have to watch him kill him?

You prayed it did.

But until the scene in your head stopped, you wouldn’t stop drawing, so you flipped to another page.

You heard the back-door squeak as he pushed it shut again, and you heard the exhaust back firing as he drove away, again.

You tried to watch where he was going, but you had no idea where he even was. You had never left your apartment, you didn’t know what the street names were called, and you didn’t recognise them because you had never been to them. He was driving too fast for you to see the street names.

You couldn’t take this. He was speeding by, and the storm was still going insane outside.

The trance wasn’t stopping either.

In fact, it felt like it was getting worse.

You screamed in agony as another wave of pain hit your head, a burst of light behind your eyelids, and then you were seeing through the murderer’s eyes. There was a fresh stream of blood coming from your nostrils, and you began to feel something wet in your eyes too.

Were your ears bleeding too?

How much blood were you losing right now?

What was happening?

You cried harder when the murderer got to his hideout, and you knew what was going to happen next.

You dropped your pencil in favour of gripping your hair and screaming in pain.

You didn’t want to see this!

You didn’t want to feel this!

You didn’t want to do this!

You cried harder as he began his plan, and he re-enacted your nightmare perfectly, slicing and tearing open the body exactly as you had dreamt.

You couldn’t draw this. It was too much. You didn’t want to watch, but you didn’t have a choice.

“Please, please stop.” You begged aloud again, but nobody heard you.

Nobody would save him. Malcom Valetta was dying in front of you, and you were the one who was doing it.  

All you could do was cry and hold yourself, your arms wrapped around your middle, your forehead pressed to the cold ground and your lungs squeezing tighter and tighter until there was no breath left.

The trance wasn’t stopping, even when you felt dizzy, even when you felt sick, the images were still going, still reeling in your mind, the horror movie not over until the body was hanging on the tree.

And when the body was placed, along with all the handcrafted messages, you finally felt peace. The images stopped flashing, the movie slowed down, and you finally stopped seeing his dead body.

When you stopped seeing him, you breathed, and then you collapsed, his face finally locked between the pages of your sketchbook, waiting to be put away.

You could open your eyes now.

*

The first thing you noticed when you came to, was the smell of blood. There was a pungent, heavy scent of iron in your nose, and you had an awful time figuring out why.

Groaning as you sat up, your head was pounding, and your eyes hurt, almost like you had been squeezing them shut for hours. There was also a faint feeling of crispiness to your eyes, like tears had dried in your sleep.

When you looked around to figure out what had happened, you suddenly felt very annoyed with yourself.

That stupid fucking trance thing had happened again.

Groaning out loud again, you dragged your hands downs your face, and jumped in shock when you felt something wet. Looking down at your hands, horror covered your face as your realised they were covered in blood.

That wasn’t right.

Hurriedly getting up, you tried to walk to your bathroom, but dizziness knocked into you suddenly, and the room swayed with you.

You managed to get through the lightheaded daze that had settled into you, and you staggered into the bathroom, leaning heavily on the sink and stared at your reflection.

What the fuck?

There was blood all over the bottom half of your face, from your nose all the way to your chin, and when you turned your face, you heart dropped.

There was a long line of blood, all the way from your ears to your jaw.

You had never bled from your ears before.

What the fuck had happened during that trance?

Taking deep breathes to calm yourself, you gripped the edge of the sink, you had to keep calm.

Okay, so, you apparently bled from almost every part of your face last night, no big deal.

It was okay, it would be okay, you were be gonna fine. You had nose bleeds before, maybe not this intense, but you had them before. It was always okay.

Just a sign of too high blood pressure.

God, how high was your blood pressure for your ears to bleed too?

Sighing, you turned on the hot water and began to wash your face, scrubbing behind your jaw and ears too, not able to stand the idea of being covered in blood any longer than you had to.

When your face was clear of the blood and dried tears, you brushed your teeth too, seeing as some of the blood had gotten in your mouth, and you didn’t want to taste that.

When you were done, you stretched and clicked your back, your back aching horridly, as if you had been hunched over all night. Groggily walking out of the bathroom, you groaned loudly when you saw the mess you had made.

You swore the next time it happened you were handcuffing yourself to the bed.

Deciding to clean up the mess later, you sluggishly walked to the kitchen, needing something to drink. Whether it was tea or coffee didn’t matter, you just needed something warm to fill the new cold and empty hole inside you.

Whilst walking to the kitchen, you stopped to check the time, and saw it 3:26. You were surprised when you felt nothing. No dread or surprise or joy, no indication at all as to how the night went, or if Malcolm Valetta was still alive.

Instead you just felt… tired. Tired and empty. Nothing else.

Had the trance really taken that much out of you?

If your blood pressure got high enough for your ears to bleed, it must have been a pretty fucked up trance.

Shrugging, you continued into the kitchen, and flicked the kettle on. Deciding that tea was the best option, you pulled out a mug and placed a chamomile teabag in it.

You needed something to help you sleep, not keep you awake.

When the kettle flicked off, you poured the hot water, but stopped halfway.

You were tired, yeah, too tired to tell if someone halfway across Gotham was alive or not, but not that tired that couldn’t sense if someone else was in your apartment.

“(Y/n)?”

You sighed with relief. It was just Red. You continued to pour the water.

“I’m in the kitchen.” You croaked out, and paused in surprise with how sore your throat was. Were you screaming?

Putting the kettle back down, you took your mug and sat down at the dining table, waiting for the vigilante to sit with you.

When he walked into the kitchen, he stood in the doorway, watching as you sipped your tea.

You didn’t look up, didn’t want to. Instead, you continued to sip your tea instead, favouring the warmth over the dark and grungy aura the vigilante had decided to bring with him.

His aura being that dark was a bad sign.

You weren’t sure you had the energy to deal with it.

“Did the storm get inside the apartment?” He joked, but it was tense. He was trying to make things seem better, but he was worried.

And… guilty.

That was a really bad sign.

“No storm, just a trance.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to say to that. He just kind of, stood there. Not sure what to do. “Are you… okay?”

You sighed as you put the tea down, not sure how you felt. At first you felt fucking pissed. Trances were always annoying and inconvenient, meaning you had to clean up afterwards, but at the same time, none of them had ever taken this much out of you before.

It was kind of worrying.

“I don’t know.” You answered honestly, rubbing your temples with a sigh. Your head was still aching. “Do you want to sit?” You asked, finally looking up at him, and shit your senses really couldn’t tell you anything.

Whatever dark and grungy aura you thought he had couldn’t hold a candle to his state. His jacket and shirt were completely covered in blood, there were a few gashes along his arms and legs, something that looked like a burn mark on his torso, and his helmet had a pretty defining crack in it.

He looked like he walked through hell and back.

He sighed as he slumped over and nodded yes, finally stepping fully into the kitchen and pulling out a chair to sit with you.

You watched as he flopped over and put his head on the table, clearly having had a terrible night.

You didn’t like the way it felt relatable.

“Are you okay?” You asked tensely, unsure if you were allowed to be this kind of close with him. Instead of answering, he just groaned loudly and put his head in his arms.

Sighing, you got up and walked to your bathroom, getting out your medical kit. Those gashes on his arm looked nasty, and his shirt and pants were definitely going to need a patch up with all those rips.

When you found your kit, you walked back into the kitchen and pulled your chair closer to him, spreading out the supplies on the table. When he looked up and realised what you were doing, he said “You don’t have to do this.”

You replied with “I know. But I want to.”

You thought you felt him smile at that, but you were much too tired to tell.

He began to sit up straight, and took his jacket off, his shirt soon following, and you reminded yourself it was definitely not the time to ogle.

He laid out his arm, and you began with the disinfectant, being as gentle as you could. He watched you intently the entire time, no words being said, just a comfortable, caring silence, only filled by the ticking of the clock.

When you moved onto his next arm, he broke it.

“You have blood on your shirt.”

“That will happen when you’re stitching open wounds.”

“That blood isn’t mine.”

You finally looked up from his arm and to his face, and when you saw where he was looking, you looked down at your chest and gasped.

You had about as much blood on your shirt as he did.

“Uh, I had a nose bleed?” You said dubiously, even though it was the truth, it seemed a little hard to believe you had bled that much.

“That’s a lot of blood for a nose bleed.”

“Yeah.” You said with a sigh. “That’s probably why I feel so dizzy.”

He hummed in reply, and you stopped talking after that. You resumed cleaning and bandaging his wounds, a tender silence remaining until 4 in the morning.

When you were done, he pulled his clothes back on, and you put all the bloody tissues and supplies in the bin. But he didn’t leave.

He sat back down, his aura still heavy and uncomfortable, and you knew the next conversation was going to be a bad one.

“What are your senses saying right now?”

“Right now?” You question, and then sighed. “They’re saying this isn’t going to be a fun conversation.”

He nodded when you told him this, and then said “Yeah. I’m sorry, but we didn’t catch him.”

You stared at the Red Hood as he stared back, watching to see what you would do next, but your brain was still processing.

“What do you mean you didn’t catch him?” You whispered. You didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but the words were out of your mouth before you had a chance to think, still unable to come to terms with what the Red Hood was trying to tell you.

“I’m sorry, I really am, but he got away, and Malcolm Valetta is dead.”

He got away, and Malcolm Valetta is dead.

You took a deep breath, and then gulped, your throat suddenly feeling much too dry to speak.

The vigilante continued to watch you, but you couldn’t look back at him.

You got up, and flicked the kettle back on. You needed coffee this time. You needed to stay awake.

You needed to keep your eyes open. 

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 4: The Psychic

You woke to the smell of coffee, with the sun shining through your bedroom window and the morning radio playing through the apartment.

Groaning as you sat up and stretched, you looked through your open doorway and saw the vigilante in your kitchen cooking something.

What the fuck?

Climbing out of bed and padding over to the kitchen, you discovered the vigilante was making scrambled eggs and toast.

“Mornin’” He greeted you and turned around, giving your sleepy confused self, coffee. You took it but continued to stare at him in confusion.

Taking a sip of your coffee, and sighing at the warm bubbly feeling rising with it, you asked in a scrutinising voice “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast, obviously.” He replied.

You checked the clock on the wall opposite you and saw it was 7:35. You didn’t think he would be the early riser.

“Yeah, I can see that, I meant why?” You inquired, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“Well, since you said I’m not allowed to leave until you think I’m okay,” he scoffed at the idea but continued “and I want to know more about your powers and visions, I figured I would stay.” He explained, sitting a plate in front of you with the cutlery, before taking his own seat to watch you.

You stared at the plate indecisively, feeling guilty because you wanted to eat, but knew if you did you would probably throw up after. Pushing the plate away and looking back up at him, placing your elbows on the table and sipping your coffee, you said “That explains why you want to stay, not why you made breakfast.”

“I figured you would be hungry.” He shrugged his shoulders, his helmet gleaming brighter in the morning sun. “You aren’t?”

You made a short grunt noise and shrugged your shoulders, not wanting to talk about your eating disorder. You quickly said “I get morning nausea, what do you want to know?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking at you intently before he said “If you focus on him, could you get his face?”

You stopped sipping your coffee and stared at the table. You didn’t want to want to even think about him, let alone paint his face. The idea gave you a sick sense of dread in your stomach.

But you answered honestly, and then questioned him yourself. “Yeah, I could, but I thought you got his face? You were chasing him, weren’t you?”

He grunted in annoyance before he said “More like he was chasing me. I lost him after 5 minutes and then he jumped me, sedated me and followed me until I collapsed. Of course, I got here before I did collapse.” He shrugged at the last sentence and continued staring at you.

But you weren’t focusing on that, you were focusing on the fact that he was following him.

He saw him come in to the apartment.

He knows where he is.

He knows where you are.

He’s going to come back.

“Hey!”

You snapped your head up and answered with a “Huh?”

“You’re shaking, what’s wrong?” Shit, were you? You hadn’t even noticed.

You tried to apologise, but realised the lump in your throat was back. Swallowing the lump and chasing it down with coffee, you managed to croak out a “I’m fine.”

“If you’re worried about him finding this place, I don’t think he will.”

You paused and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on.

“If he saw me come in then he would have come to get me when I crashed. I was vulnerable and easy to take advantage of, but he wasn’t here, meaning he didn’t see me come in and he certainly doesn’t know about you.” You stared at him as you took it in, it made sense.

You were safe.

“Besides, I kept watch last night, he doesn’t know about this place sweetheart.”

He kept watch?

Instead of sleeping, he made sure you were safe.

Your cheeks grew warm with the confession, gratitude rising in your chest.

But in your silence, he continued to speak. “He could have killed me, if you didn’t take care of me. It was chance that your window was open by the fire escape, but after I fell through you could have just as easily called the police or the hospital. Instead you took care of me.”

You stared at him with anticipation, wondering what he was getting at.

“What I’m trying to say, is thank you.”

Oh.

Your cheeks flushed more with his gratitude. Not sure what to say you just hummed and sipped your coffee.

 You could thank him back, you thought.

He did stop your massive panic attack, and he cleaned up after you, and he got you clothes, comfortable clothes to help with the heat, and now that you thought about it, he took you to bed.

You fell asleep on the sofa and he carried you to your bedroom.

But before you could open your mouth, he opened his and spoke first. “So could you?”

“Could I what?” You asked in confusion.

“Paint his face?” He asked.

You choked on your coffee, the idea of picturing that monster making your throat tighten.

No. You really didn’t want to. But if you didn’t when he knew you could… he wouldn’t be happy.

You could save someone’s life.

That’s all he wanted.

But knowing what that monster looked like would make him even scarier. Knowing someone could do that to another person…

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He interjected, his mechanical voice cutting through the growing panic. You turned to him in shock.

“You’re shaking again.” He explained, concern lacing his voice.

Putting your coffee down and putting your hands in your lap, you breathed slowly, trying to calm yourself.

If only you could afford home-based therapy.

“I’m sorry.” You said dejectedly, unable to look him in the eyes.

“It’s alright, your scared, I get it, you don’t have to push yourself.” But you wanted to. You wanted to save someone’s life. It wasn’t okay.

“No, it’s not alright. None of this is okay. I could save someone’s life! For the first time in forever, I actually want to do the right thing, and I can’t because even thinking about him makes me want to panic and spiral out of control.” You balled your hands up in your lap, angry again, a new feeling that left a new type of burning in your chest.

He sat there, staring at you as you worked yourself up.

You felt so fucking useless.

Putting your elbows on the table and your head in your hands, you mumbled another “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep apologising, I understand, don’t push yourself if it’s only going to harm your mental health. We want to help people, not harm them.” Peeking through your fingers you looked at him and his helmet. For some reason, you thought it would be a good idea to give a snarky response.

“A little hypocritical coming from you, isn’t it?” You said as you levelled him. you could sense the slight shock coming off him, but you wanted to get to the bottom of this.

“What do you mean?” He finally replied, putting his own elbows on the table and leaning forward to listen better.

“I mean, you say that I shouldn’t push myself, but you do it all the time. I can sense it, you know, your trauma. It’s awful, and it constantly hurts you, but you still do what needs to be done.”

He was quiet as you stared at each other. But this silence was the opposite of the calm and comfortable silence you had yesterday. This one was like some was opening up a door they shouldn’t.

Daunting and desolate.

Clearing your throat, you backed away and sat up straight and mumbled out “Forget I said anything. It’s not my place.” But neither of you looked away from each other.

Instead, he continued and asked “What else can you sense?” in a deeper voice.

You sat there frozen, your chest getting tight and your heart beating too fast for it to be healthy. What the hell was this? It was like you were terrified and excited at the same time. You opened and closed your mouth, not exactly sure what to do.

But then you felt it. He was smirking under the helmet again.

He was doing this?

He was messing with you.

You could sense his feelings and it was making you react funny.

Idiot. Stupid. Childish.

Sighing in annoyance, you leant back on your chair and replied “Mostly everything, having a sixth sense and all that. Lies don’t work on me, and my predictions and guesses are always right.” You replied seriously, ignoring his previous intent.

He sat back too, copying your actions and humming in thought. “That could be useful. But if you have such a sixth sense, why did you think that I was the bad guy?”

“Because that’s what mental disorders do. They shout louder than all your senses and make you lose all rational thought.” You replied with snark, upset that he didn’t get it despite having his own demons.

He squinted his eyes at you as he said “But you said I was there. How did you know that?”

Shit.

Nevaeh saw him. She gave his description to the police.

Shit.

Licking your lips, you avoided his eyes as you explained. “My friend, Nevaeh, she found the body when she was on her way to work. She saw you running away, and I guess she assumed that you did it. She gave the police your description and then called me after. She didn’t tell me what she saw until yesterday night. That’s why I had the panic attack.”

You looked up when you heard him say “shit” under his breath. He was staring hard at the table, and you could sense the anger and panic building up in him.

“I’m sorry.” You said, hunching your shoulders.

He snapped his head up and frowned at you in confusion. “Why are you apologising? It’s not your fault.” He said, his voice stern, anger still coming off him in waves.

“I just, I feel bad that now everyone’s going to think you’re the bad guy. It’s not fair.” You explained, shrugging your shoulders.

He scoffed and said “Don’t worry doll, I’m used to people thinking I’m the bad guy.”

Well that didn’t make anyone feel better. But he ignored the tension building in the air and instead got back to talking about your powers.

“Is there anything else? Any other powers?”

Sighing, you followed his lead and ignored the previous sad statement and said “Maybe. I think I also have postcognition. The ability to know past events without having done prior research. Visions of the past to put it simply.” You sipped some more coffee, not wanting it to go cold.

“Except that’s only happened a few times, mostly when people have been lying to me and I wanted to know the truth. It feels different from precog.”

“How does it feel different?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Precog feels like… a thunderstorm? It’s cold, you can’t see two feet in front of you, feels like a million needles piercing your skin, constant crashing and noises, it’s confusing and it sometimes gives me a headache. But postcog feels calmer. I haven’t had enough visions of the past to have a definite feel of it, but it just feels much clearer and calmer.”

He ahhed in understanding, nodding his head. “Can you only predict things in your sleep or have you had visions when you were awake?”

“I’m not sure. The thing is, is that my Grammy didn’t live in Gotham, she lived in a small town where barely nothing happened. she would only really be able to predict natural disasters and such, so she didn’t need to control it the way I do. And my Papa definitely didn’t know how to help me control it.”

He hummed again, his fingers tapping on the table as he thought.

Finally finishing your coffee, you picked up the cup and plate and put them on the counter and out of the way.  Not wanting to throw away the food and insult the vigilante, you took out some food wrap and covered the plate, putting it away in the fridge.

Obviously later you were going to throw it away, but he didn’t have to know that. Washing your cup and then putting it away, you turned around to face the vigilante, leaning against the counter.

But he was still facing the table deep in thought.

“So,” you started off, breaking the silence and making him turn to look at you. “You seem much better. Have you had anything to eat or drink?”

He stared at you for a bit, wondering if you were serious or just making conversation. Realising you actually cared, he answered “I would have to take off my helmet again, and I know you don’t like covering your eyes, so I’ll just eat later.”

He got up and walked back over to the living room to stare at your painting, trying to find more clues in the artwork.

But you were frozen. He would rather not eat than make you uncomfortable? Since when was a gun toting vigilante so stupidly selfless?

Shaking your head, you walked over to stand beside him, not letting the conversation go. “It just makes me a little tense, it’s not that big of a deal. Please don’t starve yourself for my sake.”

He glanced at you before looking away, waving his hand in dismissal and grunting out “It’s fine.”

You didn’t want to let it go, but you were scared if you pushed too hard then he would get mad, and you actually enjoyed his company and you didn’t want to scare him off.

Sighing, you opened your mouth and suggested “Maybe you should wear a mask underneath the helmet, so you can eat and stuff. Also, in case your helmet gets broken or something.” He paid you no attention, and feeling slightly insulted that he ignored you, you walked away and started your morning routine. If that’s what he really wanted.

*

The whole morning routine took about 3 hours. It was 10:44 when you finished. The entire time the vigilante puzzled over the painting, taking pictures and making notes on some sort of phone. You just ignored him.

When you finished your morning routine, you collapsed on the sofa and scrolled through your phone. You weren’t sure what else to do.

Then the vigilante crashed next to you, copying your actions by scrolling through his own phone.

You eyed him next to you, wondering what he was up to, but then quickly looked away when he glanced over to you. You couldn’t see past the white lenses in his helmet, but you could feel his eyes on you.

It creeped you out that you had to rely on your powers to know what facial expressions he was making.

But now that you knew that he wasn’t a bad bad guy you were calm enough around him to actually use your powers and not have a panic attack every 5 minutes.

When you actually took a minute to think, you remembered that when he first fell through your window you didn’t get any evil vibes and you definitely didn’t feel like he was going to murder you. You only felt immense panic because it was such a weird situation.

Either way, you knew better now.

But you couldn’t stop staring.

There were a million questions you knew you weren’t allowed to know the answers to. Like who was he really? What’s his trauma? Why was he still here even after you answered all his questions and you told him, “you seem okay”?

Sighing, you didn’t have enough energy for that much thinking, instead you just opened your mouth. But then closed it when he went to speak again.

Why was this guy always cutting you off without realising it?

“So, this trance thing you said happens at night, what exactly is it?” he asked, putting his phone away.

Sighing again, you really couldn’t be bothered. Where had all your energy gone?

Oh yeah, you hadn’t had coffee for 3 hours.

Exhaling, you answered tiredly. “It’s like, current cognition, I guess? I go into this trance where the only thing I can do is draw things that are currently happening in my surrounding area. It’s usually crimes, small crimes like muggings or vandalism, sometimes a B’n’E, but that’s about it. I can never control what happens in the trances, so stuff tends to get knocked around.”  You clarified, stretching and clicking your back.

“So, you have past, present and future sight?” He asked, putting his arm over the back of the sofa and turning to face you fully, giving off an aura of excitement.

“Yeah, I guess, I’m not sure about present sight since its usually a trance. I don’t know if I get visions or not since I never remember what happens during the trance.”

“You never remember?” He questioned, concern starting to become a familiar tone.

“Nope.” You answered with casual energy, shaking your head back and forth and popping the p.

He hummed in thought, and then asked “Have you ever gone into a trance with future visions? Or are the trances just for current cognition?”

“The trances are just for current cognition, or present sight as you put it.” you answered, turning to face him and copying his actions.

“So, lets clarify what you can do,” he suggested and you nodded along “You can see the past, present and future, but when you see the future it’s usually nightmares-”

“Always nightmares.” You cut him off, bouncing your leg again. He gave a concerned look before continuing.

“The future is always nightmares,” he continued “The present makes you go into trances where you draw crimes and other stuff happening around you?” he questioned, eyeing you to see if he was right, and when you gave an affirming nod he lifted his head and went on confidently “and the past are dreams too but you haven’t had enough dreams of the past to know anything else.”

“Yep, that about sums it up, but don’t forget about the sixth sense.” You said, wagging a finger goofily.

He hummed and smiled under his helmet.

There it was again, that comfortable silence. You didn’t need to speak anymore; everything was cleared up and he knew everything about your powers. But still, you wanted to speak.

“So, what are you gonna do now?” You asked. You had genuinely been wondering why he stayed for so long. He didn’t need to.

“Research, detective work and such. Do you have a computer?” he asked, looking around the room.

“Of course.” You said, hopping up to go get your laptop from your room. When you returned you handed him the laptop and sat back down, but pulled your legs up to your chest and hugged them, staring at the vigilante while he got to work.

He confused the shit out of you. Why was he still here? Why was he doing his detective work here? Maybe he thought you could help him? Maybe-

“You okay?” he asked, looking up from the laptop. You hummed, your cheeks flushing a little.

“You’re staring at me, again.” He said, his voice monotone, but you could feel the slight twitch of his lips underneath the mask.

You wondered if he knew that you could tell what facial expressions he was making underneath his mask.

Either way, that didn’t stop you from feeling incredibly embarrassed about it.

“Sorry, I’m just…” you weren’t sure what to say. But he was still looking at you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“You confuse me.” You answered honestly, your cheeks still burning as you stared at the floor.

“The feelings mutual.” Your head shot up as you looked at him and hummed in confusion and surprise.

“One minute your caring for me, the next your bossing me around, then you’re literally dying of terror. Then your adorably embarrassed and innocent because you need clothes, and then your furious and confrontational because you think I’m a murderer. And that was only yesterday.” He explained, looking at you pointedly.

Damn, when he said it like that you really did sound like a rollercoaster. Burying your face in your knees to hide your burning cheeks, you mumbled out a “sorry.”

“It’s alright. People can be unpredictable under pressure.” He explained, continuing to click away on the laptop.

Well if that was true, why was he calling you out on it?

Whipping your head around to glare at him, you blurted “Why are you still here?”

Shit. That sounded mean. Willing your cheeks not to burn, you waited for him to get over his shock and answer.

“I can’t leave until its dark. Besides, I figured you could help. Sixth sense and always right guesses sound like they’re perfect for detective work.” He said, smirking slightly.

God would your cheeks ever stop burning? So the idea of being useful was nice but it didn’t mean anything, Jesus.

Sighing, you said “Yeah okay, I’ll help. So, where do you wanna start?”

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 1: The Painting

Warning: Murder, Gore, Violence, Horror, Blood

Sometimes, you just can’t escape.

You can hide in your house, never come out, avoid all situations where that thing could happen again.

You can scrub yourself red raw, until there’s no trace of what happened on your skin.

You can purge the house of everything that was your old life, scrubbing it till there’s only you left.

You can never eat, the pit of guilt in your stomach and the lump in your throat never allowing anything other than liquids down it.

But sometimes, you just can’t escape.

And those reminders, are called nightmares.

And they’re not even your own.

Precognition. That’s what they call it.

You call it hell.

Grammy used to have it too. Papa used to talk about how she would go into trances and would never stop until the vision was on canvas. Until the vision was purged from her mind.

In the old days there wasn’t as many psychos, so Grammy didn’t get as many visions as you. But once in a blue moon, she would be able to save hundreds of people from a train derailing by calling in and reporting a fault on the tracks.

But you get visions every night.

The curse of living in Gotham.

Psychos around every corner, whether they were vigilantes or not didn’t matter. They were still crazy.

But then some people could say the same thing about you.

Too afraid to leave the house. Too guilty to eat anything. Too sad to ever let go.  

Hell was too nice a word.

But it was everything you were feeling right now.

Bile rising in the back of your throat, your head pounding and your eyes burning, guilt, fear, depression.

The canvas stared back at you, the pit in your stomach getting worse with every second you stared. But you couldn’t look away.

How could you? It was revolting. Traumatizing. Suffering. They were still suffering.

You could feel it. Even if it was just a painting, you knew. You dreamt it. They were still alive.

It was too much. You ran to the toilet, fell on your knees, and emptied everything that was in your stomach.

Which was nothing but bile and coffee. Still, it burned your throat.

Tears were falling uncontrollably now, sobbing as you clutched the toilet seat and still, threw up.

The image was there now, scarred in the back of your mind, just waiting to resurface in a few months to traumatise you all over again.

You couldn’t breathe. It was too hot, too hot, too hot.

You knew what was happening. A panic attack. The burning in your throat, the burning in your face, you couldn’t breathe.

You were crying to hard; you couldn’t stop yourself.

Sobbing, clutching your chest, your heart hurt.

‘If you think you’re going into a panic attack, you will. Stop it.’ Her voice ringing in your head.

Gasping, still crying, it was too much. Everything was too much.

‘STOP IT.’

Holding your breath. You stopped. Until the world felt dizzy, your head feeling light, you breathed in again.

‘Breathe.’ She spoke again.

Breathe you did. Slowly though, so not to hyperventilate. Big breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth.

You looked up, the painting still there, still creating that air of doom in the apartment.

This time, you curled up in a ball, and cried normally. This is why you never left the house.

*

It was around about 2:30 pm when Nevaeh came over. You had called her the moment you calmed down, after you had done your morning routine.

Routine was key to keeping calm.

Sitting in the kitchen at your small round dining table, you slowly sipped your latte. It was less bitter, and helped forget the taste of bile. But fear was never easily forgotten.

You stared at the easel, the painting still sitting there, but covered in a white sheet, so that you would feel calmer.

It was weird, but it felt like if you couldn’t see it then it never really happened.

Or that it wasn’t going to happen.

Normally when having predictions like this you just stayed quiet. Bad things happened, and if you got involved there was more chance of bad things happening to you.

There was more chance of you dying.

But this prediction was bad. Even thinking about what was under that sheet gave you goose bumps and a sense of dread that felt like it was tearing your spine from you.

And it wasn’t going to be the only one.

You could sense these things. You knew there was going to be more. More paintings like this one, getting worse each time.

It made you want to start crying again.

So, you called Nevaeh. She probably wouldn’t know what to do either, but as long as someone else knew, then it would be okay. At least a little bit.

You wouldn’t have to sit in dread alone, waiting for the pin to drop, that there was another pyscho in Gotham, and he wasn’t going to be stopped for a while.

That he was going to be as bad as the Joker. Maybe worse.

That was the paranoia talking. No one was worse than the Joker.

 You jiggled your leg under the table, getting more and more paranoid, thinking and thinking.

Finally, the sound of the lock on the door turning filled the restless silence. She was here.

When she opened the door, and immediately turned to you, her face fell. She knew.

She always knew. Just from the look on your face, she could tell it was bad. Closing the door behind her and setting the groceries down on the table, she turned and hugged you immediately. Stroking your hair gently as you buried your face in her neck, you felt peace.

The blessing of a best friend.

Letting go and sitting down she looked at you properly, analysing your face, making sure everything was okay. But she could see it. The way you held your tongue from throwing up, the way your eyes were still red from crying, the bags underneath from such little sleep and your nose all red and sore from rubbing it too much.

She held you again, shushing and rubbing your back, gently whispering it was going to be okay.

It was hard not to fall apart again.

Finally letting go and sitting up straight, she grabbed a box of strawberries out of the grocery bag and held it up. “You want some? Or do you still feel sick?” She asked in a gentle voice.

“I think at this point I feel sick because of how empty my stomach is.”

She smiled and chuffed, then stood up to go get a cup of coffee, leaving the strawberries on the table for you to gnaw at.

After flicking on the kettle and preparing everything she needed, she turned to face you and leant against the counter.

“How bad is it gonna be?” she asked, her dark eyes never showing what she was feeling, but you could hear in her voice she was worried.

“It’s gonna be bad.” You said gravely, and she whispered a small damn under her breathe. Looking at the floor, you could hear her thinking. She was gonna start asking her routine questions. The important ones.

“How many people and who’s in it?”

“Where is it and What time does it happen?”

“Do you know how it happens? Do you know who’s going to do it?”

You can never answer the last question. You don’t know if it’s because it would be scarier to see a person become a monster or if life is just that much of a bitch. Either way, the last question always hindered you.

“It’s just one person, I don’t know who she is, I think she’s just a civilian, but if he did to her face what he did with her body then…” you left the words hanging in the air, it was obvious what you meant. If he did to her face what he did to her body then you wouldn’t even be able to tell who she is.

You continued on.

“Its in the middle of the road Nevaeh. Like he just walked out into the street and started placing the body in position. In public! He didn’t care who saw him, all he cared about was getting it perfect. Like he was making an art piece… He started at around about three in the morning, and was done by 7 ish.”

Nevaeh swore under her breath, staring at the ground, her eyebrows furrowed and clearly angry. You knew why she did this. It was like she was preparing herself so that when she saw the art piece she wouldn’t be as startled.

The first time you showed her one of your pieces without questions, she threw up immediately too. Ever since then she’s being doing all she can to prepare herself for whatever you dreamt up next.

“I think he kidnapped her from her house. Like he walked straight in just took her.”

“He doesn’t care.” It wasn’t a question. Both of you knew it. And she was angry. Her voice was deep and she was starting to tense her jaw. You knew she was going to ask the last question again.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

She sighed, and shame was staring to burn your cheeks.

Looking up at you, she told you to eat something, and that she would look at the painting and decide if something needed to be done.

You peeled off the plastic covering the box of strawberries, and Nevaeh pulled off the white sheet. You heard her gasp behind you, but you couldn’t bear to look at the painting again, so you just bit into your strawberry and sunk further into your seat.

But then you heard her gag, and you knew you had to comfort her. She was turned away from it, her hand over her mouth and her eyes squeezed shut. Shooting out of your chair, you placed your hand on her back and gently rubbed up and down, soothing her.

You knew this was too much. You had painted worse things than this, but you never allowed her to see. This was the worse one she had ever laid her eyes on. You felt so guilty for making her look at it.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” She reassured you and stood straight, turning back around to look at it. Her face was curled into disgust and fear, but she didn’t look away.

Her reason was always different from yours.

You couldn’t look away because you were petrified to the spot.

She couldn’t look away because she was deciding. Deciding if she should finally call someone and tell them about how you’re always right.

Deciding if she should save someone’s life.

Finally, she looked away. She gulped, breathed in and out, and then walked over to the kitchen to flick the kettle back on.

You stood there, in the middle of the living room, staring at her. Wringing your hands, not knowing what to do with yourself.

She was just there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. Angry, upset, disgusted. But most of all, she was torn. She wanted to tell someone. But she also knew how wrecked with anxiety you would be if she did.

God, why did you have to be scared of everything?

*

Nevaeh left at about quarter to 8. She had covered the painting back up, made herself a coffee and then you both sat down and talked like nothing had happened.

That’s why she was your best friend. She was a perfect distraction.

But before she left, you asked her if she was going to do something.

“We’ll see.” Was all she said.

“We’ll see.”

It echoed in your head all night. That stupid paranoia, saying stupid things.

Stupid things, like if people knew, they would judge you. They would call you desperate for attention.

Stupid things, like if people knew, they would hate you, call you a freak, lock you up in Arkham.

Not so stupid things, like if people knew, they would arrest you. Why else would you know what was going to happen?

Not so stupid things, like if word got out that you know, he would come for you. He would make sure you would never predict another thing again.

He would kill you.

‘Don’t go into a panic attack.’

Her voice was still sickeningly authoritative.

Sitting up in your bed, your door was wide open. You didn’t normally have it open, but tonight was too hot for it not to be.

Directly in front of the door, across the room, the easel stood.

It was still covered in the white sheet, but it somehow seemed scarier with it, now that it was dark and you were alone.

Your fingers itched to take it off, to look at it one more time, to torture yourself a little more.

Sighing, you stood up and went to the kitchen. The strawberries were calling your name.

But so was the easel.

‘self-control’ she reminded you.

“Screw you.” You said aloud to the empty apartment. Even in death she still couldn’t help but try to berate you. Lecture you. Control you.

“Suck my dick.” You snarled and stomped over to the easel, strawberry in mouth, and ripped the sheet off the easel.

A shiver went up your spine, but it wasn’t of regret.

Chewing your strawberry, you stared at the painting. Desperate to prove to a ghost that you could handle it.

You analysed everything you could see, the golden and silver spears that held the victim to the ground, carved with intricate detail, spread throughout the body to hold the position he wanted. The exotic flowers and greenery, wrapping around the arms and legs, growing out of the wounds the spears left. The beautiful white cotton gown rapidly growing red. Red with blood.

Fresh bright red blood.

Right,

They were still alive.

A second shiver went up your spine. Definitely regret.

You swallowed your strawberry, put the sheet back over the easel, and went to bed.

Sleep did not come easy.

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 7: 3am Conversations

The air was thick and hot, your open windows doing nothing for the stale summer air that was suffocating your apartment, and instead just filling it with restless noise from the street below.

You were sitting on your living room floor, trying to ignore the sticky and uncomfortable sweat covering your entire body, and instead trying to focus on pricing the small but grotesque paintings surrounding you.

Nevaeh left at around half 6, when you started getting out your nightmares and pricing them. She never liked seeing them more times than she had too.

But you had too. You didn’t have the luxury of pretending they didn’t exist, and instead had to stare and judge how much each one might cost depending on the detail and horror in each painting.

You had more, larger paintings stored in the tiny storage closet open in front of you, but you wanted to work your way up. If you were doing a big sale then it was best to start small and reel in a crowd of buyers, that way when you sold the larger ones, they would be sold quickly by strong horror fans.

Which was great because you were struggling for money lately, and had several bills due.

But you couldn’t keep your mind focused on anything. The unbreathable air, the maddening noise from outside, the never-ending stream of thoughts and worries inside your head.

Nevaeh told the police.

Yeah, sure, they barely believed her, but what would happen when they got desperate and came knocking? A part of you was screaming they would, and you couldn’t tell if it was just plain old anxiety or actually your sixth sense, which made you worried more.

And what would you tell the Red Hood? How would you tell him that your supposed best friend that you thought you could trust with everything just sold you out? You knew she felt bad, and you understood why and forgave her, but you were still bitter and scared.

How would you tell him? You were still struggling to wrap your head around it yourself, and the anxiety was eating you up.

You sighed and got up from the floor, walking to the bathroom to splash some cold water on your face to wake up and get your bearings. You couldn’t spiral now, you hadn’t slept in at least 24 hours, and you had had a good lunch, if you were to spiral and panic now, then you would probably throw up all the nutrition you desperately needed and then pass out.

And the vigilante was supposedly coming back, so the thought of him catching you in such a vulnerable position sounded awful and terrifying.

You had to stay calm and get your shit together.

*

“Hey! Hey, wake up!”

“Hmm?”

You blinked your bleary eyes open to see what was shaking you and shouting in your face, and squinted them in confusion, trying to process what you saw.

The Red Hood was kneeling in front of you, dishevelled and distressed, holding your shoulders with a tight grip in worry. His blood splattered jacket had fallen off one shoulder, and his helmet was chipped a little.

“M’ fine.” You grumbled out as you swatted his hands away, pissed that he had woken you up and touched you again, even though you had told him several times not too.

He let go of your arms hastily once he realised what he was doing, and said “Sorry, I thought you were in trouble.”

“No, I was just tired. Accidently fell asleep.” You explained whilst yawning and stretching.

You motioned for him to get out of your way so you could stand up, and the vigilante backed away to take a proper look at all the horror filled paintings surrounding you.

“So, are these new or…?” He asked, his aura tainted with concern.

“They’re old.” You said whilst stepping over the piles to tread towards your kitchen and get a cup of coffee. Preferably an expresso. With the Red Hood here, you would need to be informed on the case, and you couldn’t do that when you felt like you were going to fall back asleep.

“What happened to your legs?” His mechanical voice called out.

Shit.

You froze.

Your legs were covered in bandages, and they were plain to see with the shorts you had put on earlier. You would have kept on the joggers that you wore when Nevaeh came to see you, but it was unbearable with the humid night air.

You stood there, half way in the kitchen and half out of it, your eyes darting around looking for any kind of excuse.

And then they landed on the kettle.

“Uhm… I, spilled hot water on them. Kettle water. I dropped the kettle. On my legs…” You cringed as you stared at the Kettle to the side of you, hoping to god he believed you even though you were a terrible liar.

“You’re a terrible liar.” He remarked.

Fuck.

“I, uhm, may have gotten… emotional, earlier today. Or yesterday. What time is it?” You quickly asked, trying to change the subject so you wouldn’t have to admit to a guy that you were sure was more messed up than you that you self-harmed.

“Emotional?”

“Umm. Yeah. Emotional. I took it out on myself.” You regrettably explained as you stared at the clock on your living room wall, trying to ignore the Red Hood staring at you with intense worry, and instead trying to process that it was 2:46 in the morning, and that it was in fact yesterday morning that your hurt yourself.

“Why?”

“Huh?” You turned around to look at him in scrutiny, because what do mean ‘why?’

“Why would you take it out on yourself? Why not something else?” You frowned harder at his questions, getting agitated at him and his prying questions.

“Because…? I don’t know. I said I was emotional, I wasn’t thinking, I just hated myself and I was panicking and I thought the pain would ground me? Why am I telling you this?”

“Because you’ve been waiting for someone to ask.” 

Because you’ve been waiting for someone to ask.

You stared at him, your mouth slack and heart doing something that it really shouldn’t.

How the fuck would he know?

You wanted to be angry, at his arrogance for saying something with such confidence, to assume that he would know you.

But he did know you. Or at least the feeling. He understood. Again.

Fuck.

How could he say something so casually like it didn’t just throw you into the pit of unintelligible feelings?

“Whatever, just, do whatever you came back here for.” You said with a frown, walking back into the kitchen to actually make your coffee.

You heard him grunt and walk into the Kitchen, and sit at your dining table.

“I came back to ask if you had anymore visions, and inform you on where the case is going.”

Shit, he did say that before he left.

Sighing, you turned around to face him. “I haven’t had any more visions, or trances. Just a bad night’s sleep.”

“Hm, why?”

Again? Why? Who did he think he was? Your therapist?

But it did make you feel kinda warm and gooey that he cared. Oh God no your ears were getting warm.

Disgusting, you were feeling loved.

But he did deserve to know about what Nevaeh did.

Sighing, you began. “After you left Nevaeh called, and she said she wanted to talk, but didn’t tell me why. All I knew was that she did something bad and it kept me up. I spiralled and got emotional and thought the worst and ended up hurting myself. But she came around yesterday after work and we had lunch and spoke about it.”

“What did you speak about?”

You started playing with the hem of your shirt in worry, not sure how to tell him other than to just say it.

“She told the police, about me. Being a psychic.”

You let it hang there, the worry and anxiety that you had bottled up into a simple sentence, and let him process it.

“Did they believe her?”

“No.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Mmm.” He was right. “But what if they get desperate and have no other choice but to talk to me? I can’t tell if my sixth sense is telling me they are or if its anxiety. Sometimes when things are too far in the future then I can’t tell what it is. And that makes me think that we won’t catch the bad guy as quickly as I thought we would because it so far in th-”

“Hey.”

You stopped and held your breath, not realizing that you had been rambling.

“It’s going to be okay.” He said gently, and you breathed, calming enough to listen to what he was about to say.

“We usually leave the police a trail to keep them busy,” He started “either to make sure they actually get evidence or just to keep them out of the way, so they won’t come to you when they get desperate because we keep them busy. Besides, they’re looking for me remember? They won’t bother you; I promise.”

You listened and nodded along to his words agreeing as they made sense. The police wouldn’t come knocking.

The coffee machine behind you beeped, and you jumped a little, the noise scaring you out of your thoughts. Calming down, you turned around to make an expresso.

“So, what about your day?” You asked him.

“Hm, same old, same old.”

“The blood on your jacket isn’t old. What happened?” You inquired, wondering why he was being less open now. Did something bad happen?

“It’s from patrol. Felt angry, so I took it out on some thugs.”

Something bad definitely happened. He was slouching in the dining chair, legs spread and tapping his finger against the table. He was trying to act like he didn’t care, but the frown on his face showed that he did.

Good thing he didn’t know that you could feel his facial expressions.

“Why were you angry?” You asked in a soft voice. You wanted him to open up, and doing it gently would probably be the best option.

“It was nothing, just some stupid family drama. Anyway, that’s not why I came here. We should talk about the case.”

He was really trying to keep you out, wasn’t he? But then again it was probably for the best, if it was family drama then hell knows you should walk in the opposite direction. What did you know about family?

“Uh, yeah, so what did you find out?”

“All the plants and gowns were ordered online and delivered, you were right, he bought in bulk. He has 14 gowns left from that one delivery, and he ordered more plants. You were right about the serial killer thing. He will kill again.”

You hummed and contemplated his words whilst sipping your coffee. Sometimes you really hated your gift.

“Go on.” You prompted.

“We’re not sure where he’s getting his weapons from. There was nothing in the police database about stolen spears, and nothing about stolen weapons at all. And he didn’t order them, because they were antiques, no serial number on them, so no place where they were manufactured. Do you have any ideas?”

You hummed as you thought about it, but didn’t get any particular helpful feelings. They felt close to the murderer, but that was about it. Nothing helpful at all.

You shrugged your shoulders and apologised, explaining you couldn’t feel anything.

He sighed, but continued to tell you what he had discovered about the case. “We found out that he had it delivered to an apartment in the narrows, and we thought he might be lower class like you said, but It costs a lot of money to buy everything he did, and the middle class would struggle to afford what he bought, so we still can’t rule anything out.”

“Sounds like he’s trying to confuse you. He’s probably new money or upper class, and he’s using the narrows to lead you on a wild goose chase.” You suggested, still not sure what to feel about the bad guy.

“Maybe, his methods are extremely detailed and he’s planned out every step, but he also wants to brag about his murders, so I was right to assume he’s a psychopath, since those are psychopathic symptoms. That’s one motive at least. What are senses saying about him?”

You sighed and sipped your coffee, trying to hone your feelings a bit more and see what they said, but it still just came up with nothing but a foggy feeling.

“Nothing. I get nothing when I think about him. Just, fear and pain. There’s like this fog, this cloud of something in my head, my chest gets tight and it seems harder to breathe, but other than that I can’t feel anything. Like he doesn’t exist.”

He listened and nodded his head along with what you said, thinking.

“What does the name Anthony Brand feel like to you?” He asked rather abruptly.

“Anthony Brand? Mmm, stupid? It sounds made up. Why?” You placed your expresso down and leant on the table, closer to the vigilante, interested in what this new guy had to do with things.

“That’s the person who owned the apartment, where the stuff was dropped off to. The guys gone now, but he owned it when it was dropped off. He disappeared two days after, like he just, never existed.” 

“You think it might be the bad guy? That he used an alias?” You leant a little closer, getting really interested.

“I don’t know. What do you feel?”

You sat back and thought about it, closing your eyes and focusing on the name, Anthony Brand.

It was difficult, the fog was still there, but… maybe a little clearer? It was still painful and tight in your chest, the more you thought about it the more you felt your arm hairs standing on end, but it was easy to see.

Anthony Brand.

It was close, the name was similar to the bad guys…

It felt like it was almost pronounced the same…

Anthony Brand…

Anthony Brand…

A…. B….

Your eyes shot open as you exclaimed: “They’re the same initials. A.B. He used his initials for his alias.”

“You’re sure about this?” He asked, sitting up straight, looking you dead in the eye to make sure that you weren’t playing around.

“Mhm. It feels right, it feels scarier, but I know it’s right. The closer I get to feeling who he is the more scared I get. I know I’m right.”

He nodded his head and pulled out his phone, sending a quick text to somebody before putting it away and sitting back again.

“Good, that gets us closer. Good job.”

You looked away as you felt your face heat with the praise. Being useful really did feel good.

“Is there anything else?” You asked, wanting to chase the feeling of usefulness.

“Not really, we already checked out the apartment just to be sure, but found nothing. After that we just patrolled as usual.” He said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Hmm” You hummed as you listened, but tapped your nails against your mug in contemplation. Deciding to just go for it, you asked “Um, why do you keep saying we?”

He had been saying it the whole time, like he was working with someone else, and it made you slightly nervous. You didn’t want to meet anybody else; this shit was scary enough as it was.

“Oh, I have contacts that are helping me get information. Don’t worry, you can trust them. They’re… good people.”

You pondered his words as you picked up your expresso and sipped it, thinking. If he can trust them, a vigilante whose job is to literally not trust anybody, then surely you could too right? Besides, he wasn’t lying, you would have felt it if he believed any differently.

“Uh, cool, I guess. Who are they?” You asked. If they were going to be working in the case, and he said you could trust them, then it would be best to know who they are right?

“Oh, you wouldn’t know them.”

“Obviously, that’s why I’m asking.” You smirked over the top of your mug as you sipped it, looking at him as his face broke into stupid open mouth grin. He was shocked, but found your sass funny, thank god.

“One of them is a behind the scenes person, she hacks and watches the whole of Gotham through the cameras in the streets.” He explained, the grin fading to a small smile.

“She sounds badass, what’s her name?”

“She is, her names Oracle.”

“Oh, like the Greek thing where they see everything?” You asked excitedly, putting your cup down as he hummed in agreement.

“I didn’t know you knew anything about Greek mythology.” He asked curiously.

“Only a little. When I was younger, I was obsessed with magic and fantasy and all things mythological, so I always read stories and stuff about it. Sometimes I thought I could find an explanation for my powers in stuff like that.” You explained fondly, holding your cup and smiling at the memories of the actual good times in your life.

You heard him hum as his listened, clearly engaged in your story. Sighing, you asked him what he was interested in.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. You gotta have some hobby besides beating the shit out of people.”

He chuckled at that and then inhaled, contemplating telling you.

“I like literature.”

“Oh? Interesting. What’s your favourite book?” You asked, curiosity eating you up.

He sighed as he thought about it, his eyes drifting through your apartment, deep in thought.

“Frankenstein, maybe? I’ve always been a fan of Shakespeare though.” He said fondly, relaxed and comfortable with the conversation.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking theatre nerd.” You said with an open mouth grin, shock and awe consuming you.

“Hey! Its thespian actually, and I take it as a compliment.” He said back, his joy just as bright as yours.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” You chuffed. This was nice. Comfortable and calm, you didn’t need to worry about thing else other than getting to know each other. It was good.

“What’s your favourite play?” You asked, finishing the rest of your coffee.

“Hamlet. Macbeth is a close second.”

“MM!” You agreed enthusiastically as you swallowed your drink. “We did Macbeth in high-school. I don’t remember much, but it was better than Romeo and Juliet.” You grinned at the memories, understanding why he liked it.

“Hmm, yeah. I prefer tragedies over romance. What school did you go to?” he asked, his mechanical voice becoming somewhat of a calming thing to you.

“Technically Romeo and Juliet is both, but yeah, romance isn’t the best unless you’re in love or something. And I went to the high-school a couple blocks from here, on Frazer street.” 

“Seriously? You live that close to your old school?” He asked questionably.

“I never moved.” You said, shrugging your shoulders, starting to get a bad feeling about where this conversation was going.

“You mean this is your childhood home?” He asked, looking around. “You didn’t move out?”

“I got agoraphobia before I could.” You said solemnly. Did the conversation really have to go this way?

“Oh.” Was all he said. Great, you killed the perfect mood you had going on.

“So, it’s just you living here?” He asked quietly, obviously trying to be gentle, but also wanting to know more.

“Yeah, it’s just me.” In a childhood home that didn’t give you much of a childhood.

“What about the rest of your family?” He asked gently again, but it could only go so far with his helmets voice moderator.

You sighed, tapping the side of your empty mug. You should be open with him. He would probably figure it out on his own anyway, with that Oracle he’s got on his side he would be able to find out everything.

And suddenly it was a really bad idea to be open at all.

If he found out what happened… You held the mug tighter, panic starting to bubble in your chest, squeezing the life out of what little happiness you just had.

No, you couldn’t bear the thought of having to explain yourself, to rip open that old wound.

She was nothing but a voice in your head now, and it would stay that way. He wasn’t allowed to know anything. Nothing at all!

“Hey.” He called out, gently but firmly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to.” You said shakily, still gripping your mug with a death grip, enough to turn your knuckles white.

“Then you don’t have to. Let’s get back to the case. Here.” He pulled out a memory stick from his jacket and placed it on the table, along with a burner phone. “Oracle digitized all your notes and findings, along with more evidence and leads. This way you don’t have a bulky case file you have to open every time you want to look back at something. All you have to do is plug it into your computer and it’s all there, along with a connection to Oracle herself should you need to speak to her.”

You listened intently as he explained, and your ears became warm as you calmed down.

“And this a burner phone,” He clarified, picking it up to show you. “It’s to contact me if you’re in danger, or if you have another vision. The only contact in it is mine, and I can also use it to call you if I need too. That’s both me and Oracle you can speak to at any time should you need too, okay?”

You nodded as you listened, your ears almost steaming, feeling so incredibly cared for it almost hurt. They actually took time out of their day to make all your findings more accessible and then both left forms of communication should you need them.

You didn’t even know this Oracle woman! And she was already there if you needed her.

God, you wanted to cry, ugh.

Taking a deep breath to get your bearings, you said “Thanks, I’ll call you if I need you. And please thank Oracle for sorting out my notes. It was kind of her.”

“I will.”

You smiled as the Red Hood started talking again, asking you about how long you’ve been friends with Nevaeh and what she does, trying to keep you distracted from the brief thoughts of your hellish past. He was good person, and you were happy that you got the chance to be friends with him.

You could really get used to this. To him.

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 10: Weak Defence

The Red Hood left at 1 in the morning, leaving you time to actually get some sleep.

You didn’t plan it, you actually though you wouldn’t be able to sleep for a good few days, but apparently the vigilantes tender care made you feel a lot better, and safer, than you had thought possible.

You ended up sleeping well into the late morning, only waking up when the construction company finally got to work on the building next door.

Thankfully it wasn’t on your side of the building, but that didn’t make it any quieter.

You weren’t really sure what to do with yourself when you woke up.

You had cleaned the apartment a bit before bed, so you didn’t need to do any more.

The painting was probably dry, but it was fine sitting on the easel facing the wall, no need for it to be put away.

And you were tired of art, not fancying any more paints or sketches after your hectic night.

To be honest, you really just wanted to see the vigilante again.

He was so good to you last night, that just the thought made your face warm.

And you weren’t afraid to touch him anymore.

Well, you were still afraid of any type of vulnerability with another person, and touch was a big step in showing you trusted someone, but you had overcome it.

Mainly because if you didn’t let him touch you, you would have still been a crusty vomit covered trash bag, but still.

You desperately needed him, and you trusted him.

And he didn’t break it.

He took care of you.

You had to stop thinking to squeal in your pillow.

Your face was boiling, as red as a traffic light, and your heart doing all sorts of funny little somersaults.

You hadn’t had this kind of care since you were a baby.

Calming down, you sighed and ran your hands down your face, tired from having emotions.

You finally got up from your bed to tread towards the bathroom, needing to pee and clean up a bit.

When you were done, feeling much fresher, you padded over to your kitchen to get some coffee.

After turning on the coffee machine, you opened your fridge to get out the other half of your jam sandwich.

You actually wanted to eat, which surprised you, but you didn’t want to think about it too much, otherwise her voice would pop up and remind you of the piece of shit you were.

When you finished munching on your sandwich, the coffee machine beeped, so you grabbed the pot and poured yourself some.

You were actually feeling great today.

As you sipped your coffee in the kitchen, the ping of your phone getting a message redirected your attention.

You looked at the clock on your wall, and saw the time was 11:58.

It was Thursday, so Nevaeh had work, but it was almost lunch time, so she was probably checking up on you.

Sighing, you trudged to your bedroom to look at her message.

- Hey girl x how you doing? –

The message glared at you on the screen, and you had this growing dread in your stomach.

After the last face to face conversation you and Nevaeh had, things had been, iffy, between the two of you.

You still messaged, was happy to see she texted you, still cared about you.

But you hadn’t worked up the confidence to call her.

How could you?

She betrayed you, sold you out, broke your trust.

Hearing her voice was a heavy reminder of the last time you talked, and the things she did.

It was easier for her. She got to come clean.

She got to tell you what she did, she got to feel bad about it and say sorry.

She got to move on.

But you couldn’t.

Because all it did was make the voice in your head seem more truthful. Made the anxieties and worries you had seem more realistic.

Because what you were always scared of happening, happened.

- I’m good x wbu? - You wrote back, sitting on the edge of your bed griping your coffee mug tightly.

- I’m good, at work at the moment, but we’ve gotten a new colleague who’s taking my shift after lunch, you free then? X -

Oh no.

She wanted to come over.

You sipped your coffee in thought as you bounced your leg, worry creeping up your spine.

What could you say? No? You had never told her she wasn’t welcome, doing so now would show that something was very, very wrong.

And you couldn’t very well ignore her or she would get worried and come over anyway.

But as you sat there, sipping your coffee, you thought of how she only wanted to help.

Obviously, what she did was a mistake, she didn’t mean to hurt you. She just wanted to make sure that no harm came to anyone else as well.

She put the means of the many over the means of the few.

Except you were her best friend. As cruel as it sounded, you felt that no matter the amount of the people who were in harm’s way shouldn’t have mattered.

All that should have mattered was you and her, as it always used to.

But thinking about it like that, made you think that maybe she was right.

It was always you and her, and you never got anywhere.

It made things ten times worse, and kept you that way.

Sighing, you walked back into the kitchen to put your mug into the sink, phone still in hand and the message still glaring.

That old life, that old you, were gone.

You still woke up and cried when the visions were particularly gory, you were still too scared to walk out the front door in case history repeated itself.

But life still happened.

A vigilante fell through your window and ended up showing you the beauty of helping people.

It didn’t matter how much you hid in your house, terrified of the outside world, you couldn’t escape change.

You were involved in a case to stop a psychopath with a plant fetish, and it felt good to do something.

You understood why she did it, because not doing anything felt like shit.

You tapped the kitchen counter as you stared at your phone, the little line still blinking, waiting for you to type a reply.

She was right to do what she did, and you couldn’t be angry at her forever.

Sighing, you typed out - Yeah, I’m always free, come over whenever x -

*

She came over at one, and you had done a little more cleaning to pass the time. Mainly the bathroom since it still smelled a lot like vomit.

You were sitting at the kitchen table when she finally unlocked the front door and came in.

“Hey babe, how you doing?” She asked as she sat some groceries down on the table.

“Ah, you know how it is, same old same old. What about you?” You answered, putting your phone down and watching as she put away the fresh fruit she bought you.

“I’m great actually! I managed to get that raise that I needed. With the new colleague we have it makes the work load ten times easier, so my boss was in happy enough mood to give it to me.”

You hummed as you listened, watching her and focusing on her aura.

You didn’t want to be angry anymore, but you couldn’t help being paranoid. Scanning her aura was good way to tell if she had made another mistake.

But she hadn’t. Her vibes were completely fine, and everything was going great with her.

You were just being an arsehole.

“That’s good.” You said, nodding your head. “Does that mean you will have more free time now?”

“Yep. More money and less work.” You both chuckled at that. “Have you eaten?” She asked, turning around and leaning on the counter once she was done.

“Uh, yeah, actually. I ate half a jam sandwich when I woke up.”

“Really? What happened to the other half?” She asked jokingly.

“I ate it yesterday.” You answered, jiggling your leg.

“Oh sweet.” She replied, sitting at the table, directly across from you. “You’ve been eating a lot better lately, any reason why?”

“I just keep getting hungry.” You said, not sure if you were lying or not. It wasn’t like you could say the vigilante forced you to eat, because he didn’t, but if he didn’t make you anything you probably would have just let yourself starve.

“Well, it’s good that you’re not ignoring your needs. How’s everything else been?”

You sighed as you leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

How could you tell her? Could you even tell her? She had kept your secret for so long, but ultimately told it.

Including her in the investigation, or even just letting her know of everything that had been going on, wasn’t okay.

Telling her about the Red Hood, especially when she still thought that he was the murderer, wasn’t going to go down well.

Lying was the only option.

“Things have been… up and down. Mostly down. I had another vision.”

“Oh. I see.” She said, staring at you, trying to figure out how messed up it made you feel.

If the vigilante hadn’t been there to clean you up and take care of you, then you probably would have been worse off, but he was.

So, because of your calm composure, she was assuming that it was okay.

It wasn’t, but she went ahead of with her questions anyway.

“How many victims are in it? Do you know who they are?”

You sighed, contemplating if you should tell her what you knew. She wasn’t going to get involved, you wouldn’t let her. But she was going to be persistent in getting her answers so… half-truths.

“There’s only one victim, I don’t know his name. I don’t know who the murderer is either, but he’s still covering the victims in plants. Its in the morning again, and on a tree.” You explained, not needing her to ask the rest of the questions as it was routine now.

You heard her hum, and then she got up to look at the painting.

“No!” You shouted and stood in her way, hating the surprised look on her face.

“It’s not pretty. You don’t want to see it.” You explained quickly, looking at her shoulder, not able to hold eye contact.

A couple seconds of silence passed, and you could feel her thinking.

“If it’s that bad then we should do something.” She said, causing you to look up and meet her eyes.

You didn’t like the look in them.

It was determination.

She was still so ready to help people.

And you hated that you couldn’t let her.

“No.”

You saw the determination waver a bit, and shock creeped in for a second.

She wasn’t expecting this.

She wasn’t expecting you to be stubborn about it.

She was expecting you to be scared, fragile, weak.

Not filled with burning determination that matched her own.

“(Y/n), this is people’s lives at stake. You can’t just say no to helping them!”

“I know.” You said weakly.

“So, let’s do something!” She was getting aggravated now, but you couldn’t back down. You had to find a way to get through to her.

“I can’t Nevaeh. You know I can’t.”

“Because you’re scared? I know you are, but how scared do you think those victims are when they’re getting taken?”

Shit, she made a good point.

But you were already helping people.

How could you say no to that, without either sounding like an arsehole or explaining the investigation you were wrapped up in?

And you couldn’t trust her with the investigation.

So, the only way out, was to be a dick.

“That’s their problem Nevaeh.” You said with clenched fists, hating the new role you had to play.

She stared at you in horror, appalled at the words that just left your mouth.

“You didn’t just say that. Tell me you didn’t just say that. Since when have you ever been so fucking selfish!” She was shouting now; furious you would even think that that was good reason to not help people.

“They’ve always managed fine on their own Nevaeh. I’ve painted mass murders and slaughter scenes before and Gotham has always been fine without me, we don’t need to get involved.” You shouted back, your chest tight and filled with fear.

This was awful.

You didn’t want to push her away.

But how else would you keep her from screwing everything up?

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay! How many people could you have saved if you had told someone about those paintings? How many people have died and been mourned because you didn’t say anything?!”

“I- I don’t know. A lot.” The words stumbled out; you were struggling to defend yourself now.

“Yeah, too many to count! Do you really think all those people who died, the people who lost them, are fine?!”

“No, but-”

“But nothing!” She screamed.

She was breathing heavily now, her face bright red and her fists clenched too. She was really mad.

And it was your fault.

She took a deep breath to calm herself and crossed her arms, still clearly pissed. “We can’t just not do anything (y/n). We’ve been doing that for too long, and lots of people have gotten hurt because of it.”

You listened as she tried to convince you, completely unaware that it didn’t matter what she said, you still wouldn’t help her.

“I know you’re scared, but I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, you know that. I would defend you till my last breath (y/n). Please, let me help you, help people.” She was gentle now, her voice soft and convincing, and you wanted to help. You really did.

But you already were.

And she couldn’t get involved.

“I want to, Nevaeh. I really do. But- but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

You could feel her eyes on you, and you could feel the rising anger that was consuming her.

But she was also disappointed. And that hurt more.

“Don’t apologise to me (y/n). Apologise to the people who are going to die, and to the people who will miss them.”

And with that she turned to the kitchen to pick up her things, and left, slamming the door behind her.

*

You weren’t really sure what to with yourself after that.

You had been flitting around the whole apartment for the rest of the day, putting more paintings up for sale, reorganising bookshelves and window sills, scrolling through social media and cleaning everything again.

You didn’t need to, but it kept your mind preoccupied and kept you from spiralling.

And considering the past two days and nights were the worst moments you had experienced in a while; you couldn’t bear to have another one.

But as time moved on, you had found yourself running out of things to do, and eventually on the brink of spiralling.

Socialising was a good way to ignore panic, but you didn’t really have anyone to socialise with.

Because Nevaeh was mad at you, and didn’t really want to speak to you.

And you couldn’t call the vigilante, because you had used the burner phone, so you had to wait for him to get you a new one.

Sighing, you picked up your laptop from the coffee table and brought it to the kitchen dining table.

You were going to talk to Oracle.

You were nervous, as you got for every new person you talked to, but you weren’t really going to meet her.

It was over text, so it was easier.

You typed in the passphrase, Oracle_1, and a chat box came up just like the Red Hood said it would.

It was a small black box with green text, and you suddenly felt really scared. You always were when you were trying things you had never done before.

Swallowing your fear, you typed in - Hello, am I talking to Oracle? -, before pressing enter with shaky fingers and sending it.

You cringed at how you awkward you sounded, but reasoned you couldn’t just type - what’s up bitch? It’s me ya psychic boi. -

Soon enough she replied and had written, - Hello, this is Oracle. Is this (y/n) (l/n)? -

You stared at the screen in wonder. She actually replied. And it was her. And she knew your name?

- Uh, yeah. How do you know my name? - You wrote back in confusion, unsure how she could possibly know that.

You barely existed.

- I know everything. Are you okay? - You snorted at that. She wished.

- I bet you don’t know the future. -

- Touché. But are you okay? Is there a reason you wanted to talk? - She really wanted to know, didn’t she?

Sighing, you typed back - Everything’s okay, just feeling a little shaky but its chill. I just wanted to check up on the case and see if you made any progress. -

She took a little longer to reply, but when she did, she answered - Yes, we’ve made progress. We found the next victim, and he’s being questioned about any activities that could make him a target, but he’s not being very cooperative. -

You hummed at that, and was about to type back when another message popped up reading - Why are you shaky? Have you eaten? -

And that made you feel warm.

Jesus you had to get your shit under control.

It was just a question.

About you.

And if you were okay.

From a random person that you only started talking to 5 seconds ago…

Ugh, were all vigilantes this kind? It made you feel too much.

Sighing, you wrote back - I ate this morning, but I had a fight with my friend so I was feeling… sad, earlier. -

- You had a fight? - She typed back instantly, clearly wanting you to expand on it.

- An argument. She thinks I’m an arsehole because I won’t help anyone or tell anyone about my abilities or visions. -

- Hmm. I’m guessing she doesn’t know about us then? - She questioned.

- No, I can’t trust her with this. - You hated admitting it. Admitting it made it real, and that made it worse.

- You can’t trust her? -

- She found the first body. She got scared and told the police about me, even though she promised that she would never tell anyone about my abilities. - You sighed as you pressed enter and awaited her reply.

Despite feeling like shit because you were focusing on the bad stuff, it did feel good to tell somebody about your problems.

- Did the police believe her? -

- No. They though she was one of those charlatans. It’s the standard reaction to stuff like this. -

- Hmm, well at least the police won’t come knocking. And if they do, I’ll let you know. - You scoffed at that.

- With what? Your non-existent future vision? - You joked, having fun talking to her.  

- Haha, don’t you like to brag? I have sources in the precinct. They won’t come to you I promise. - You raised an eyebrow at that. Was that even legal?

You decided not to question it and typed back -Thanks. I appreciate you looking out for me. –

- It’s alright. You’re a good source. - You smiled at that. It was a strange compliment, but it made you feel good anyway.

It felt good to be useful.

- So, back to the case, have they asked him about bribes? It was a part of the message in my vision. - You asked, wanting to divert away from your problems. Dwelling on them too long would make you upset.

- They have, it’s what started making him uncooperative. He’s feeling threated and exposed, I don’t think that he thought he was going to get caught. -

You hummed as you contemplated that. He must have been a really stupid guy to think that, if a random murderer could pick up on his crimes, then how could his own precinct not?

You typed out your thoughts and sent them to her, not sure what else to say.

When she didn’t reply instantly, you sighed and ended up typing out - How’s Red Hood doing? -before you could think and sent it to her.

When you did you immediately regretted it.

God you sounded desperate. And rude.

It was so goddamn rude to ask about someone else when you were currently talking to somebody.

And you hadn’t even asked how she was doing!

‘Rude and inconsiderate!’

You whimpered as her voice popped up again, this time shouting at you.

But it was short lived when Oracle replied and said – He’s not here right now, he had some business to do, but he was fine earlier. I’ll let him know you asked for him. –

You squeaked at the idea of it and quickly replied -No! No, it’s okay, you don’t have to. I should have asked how you were doing, I’m sorry it was rude. How are you?  – You prayed that that made things better as you sent it.

- It’s alright, I understand. Red did say that you have gotten close. And I’m okay. –

You stared at the screen with some kind of emotion. You weren’t exactly sure what to call it.

Horror?

Excitement?

Panic?

All you could tell was that you were confused, and shocked.

- He said that? –

- Yeah, he said that your important. –

Important?

You continued to stare as your face got hotter and hotter the more the words sunk in.

- No. That can’t be right. I mean, sure he’s a friend, and he’s helped me a lot in the short time I’ve known him, but… he thinks I’m important? – You typed in a frenzy, desperate to make sense of this.

It took a while for her to reply, and you worried your lip in anxiety.  You weren’t really sure what to make of this conversation.

- Well, he said that you’re a good painter, and you have a strong eye for detail, even the most gruesome of ones. Your ability is accurate and strong, and you could be important in the case moving forward. –

You struggled to believe it, but you could feel it being the truth.

He really did compliment you that much when he wasn’t with you.

He really thought that high of you.

It made your heart beat even faster.

You weren’t sure how much more of this you could take.

All you could type back was – Oh. –

When she wrote back – What do you think of Red? – You struggled to form coherent thought.

What was that supposed to mean?

It felt like there were ulterior motives in her question, and you didn’t know how to make sense of it.

What did you think of him?

Nothing! Everything! Too much!

- Idk. – You didn’t press send yet though, as your answer didn’t feel complete enough.

You breathed to calm down, erased it and restarted.

- I’m not sure. He’s helped me a lot, when I’ve been scared and haven’t been able to calm down, and with the aftermath of my episodes. He’s also kept me company when I’ve had nothing better to do than talk to a stranger in a mask. I guess I would say he’s a just, a good guy. And I appreciate him. –

You were smiling when you hit send, unaware of how much feeling you were actually putting into your words.

But you frowned when she typed back – Good. He deserves more than what he gets. –

What was that supposed to mean? But before you could question her, she had typed another response, and it read – It was good getting to know you, but I do have cases to crack. Have a nice night. –

And with that the chat box had disappeared and so had all traces of your conversation.

He deserves more than what he gets.

You didn’t like how true that felt.

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 9: Pipe Dreams

Warnings: Vomit, Scars, Self Harm Mention, Eating Disorders

You called him immediately after you finished your newest monstrosity.

You were crumpled up on the floor, your back against the far wall and your cheeks stained with tears.

You had worked on it the whole day, from yesterday night to then, 11 pm. A whole 24 hours.

Your chest felt so heavy, and your eyes were so tired, but the thought of closing them so soon after a nightmare like that…

You would rather gouge your eyes out than see what you saw again.

“Hello?” The vigilantes mechanical voice called out from the window, echoing through out your dark apartment.

You had turned the lights off so you wouldn’t have to see the painting again.

“In here.” You croaked; your throat was raw from another panic attack that you had earlier.

You heard him land in your apartment through the window, and then his heavy footsteps coming closer.

When he stood next to you, he flicked on the light switch above you, and stared in horrific confusion.

Okay, so, maybe you also turned the lights off because you didn’t want him to see the state you were in.

You had vomit on your clothes, a lot of it. You had been trying to hold back from throwing up and had been trying to keep painting, but the urge was too powerful and you ended up not making it to your toilet.

Your eyes were bloodshot, and the bags underneath were heavy and dark. Your nose was red and still running, and your lips were broken and split from where you had been biting them in anxiety.

And you were still crying. That fact over powered all the others as the vigilante crouched to steadily stroke your cheeks and wipe away the newest falling tears.

You didn’t flinch away from his touch this time.

He didn’t ask what happened, and instead just stood up to get you some fresh clothes, and a glass of water.

When he held the glass of water out in front of you, you gladly took it and chugged it, taking a deep breath after.

He held your hands and steadily helped to pull you up, and when you struggled to hold your own weight, the Red Hood put his arm around your waist and supported you as you stumbled to the bathroom.

He sat you down on the edge of the bathtub, as the toilet was covered in bile.

It made you want to throw up again.

But instead, you watched as the vigilante took out some cleaning supplies from under the tub, and began to wipe away the sick.

If you had any energy, you would have blushed from all his care, but you didn’t, so you just settled for a half dead/half shocked look instead.

After he finished cleaning, he sat you on the toilet, and left you to get changed.

Or at least he tried to, but you didn’t let him.

You don’t know why you reached out, maybe because you were being smart and knew you didn’t have the energy to do it yourself, or maybe because you desperately didn’t want to be alone right then.

Either way, you didn’t let him leave, and he stayed to help.

It was awful and humiliating. Nobody had ever seen you in that amount of undress before, and all you could think was how ugly you must look to him.

But he didn’t say a word.

Not about the uncovered legs with thousands of overlapping scars.

Not about the extremely visible ribs and bones you had.

Not about how pale and sick you very clearly were.

He didn’t say anything, and instead, just helped.

You wanted to start crying again.

When you were done getting dressed, he picked up a cloth from the side of the sink, wet it with cold water, and cleaned your face. Firmly, but with care.

You felt a bit better.

But you didn’t feel as fresh as you wanted to, so using what little energy you had, you stood up to get your tooth brush. You were still shaky, but the Red Hood held you the entire time, and by the end of it, you felt… okay.

Your mouth was clean, your face was clean, and you were wearing fresh clothes. It felt, nice.

He wordlessly helped you out of your bathroom, and sat you in the kitchen at the dining table. You crossed your arms and laid your head down on the table feeling so utterly drained.

But you felt cared for. And it was good.

The vigilante was doing something in your kitchen, looking for something, opening cupboards and draws, and when he found it you could hear the sound of jam jar lid popping off.

He was… making you food.

Did you want to eat?

You still felt partially sick, but you were so drained, so shaky. You needed to eat something, but was she going to get mad?

She didn’t tend to speak when other people were around.

Maybe… you could eat? Just this once?

Besides, if he was making it for you, then it would be rude to deny it.

Yeah, you would eat.

The vigilante placed the plate in front of you, and you looked up to see he had made a jam sandwich, and filled the glass of water back up.

You ate slowly as he sat down and watched, carefully making sure you were going to be okay.

It was good, the sandwich. Your sandwiches always tasted like arse. You weren’t sure how you could fuck up a sandwich, but you always did.

He didn’t, and he was still watching. But when you got to the second half, you couldn’t eat anymore, as your stomach was already feeling full.

You weren’t used to this much food, and you didn’t want to insult him, so you put the second half down in favour of more water.

When you finished, you both sat in complete silence, just existing in each other’s company. What could you say anyway? You didn’t really have the energy for words.

It felt… weird. You weren’t used to this. All this care and comfort. Neveah didn’t do shit like this. Mainly because you would never let her see you like this, but still.

Why did he care so damn much?

“You’re not going to eat the rest?” He asked gently, finally filling the dead silence.

“Feel sick.” Was all you said.

A beat of silence, then:

“Was the vision that bad?”

You weren’t sure how to answer that. It was, kinda. It was an awful vision, but there were other factors that made you feel this way, yesterday’s incident for one.

Sighing, you put your head in your hands and made a whimper like noise, not really having any energy to explain.

You heard him sigh as well, and suddenly felt really bad that he put all this effort into you and you couldn’t even explain something so simple.

“It was clearer.” You began, hating how much your throat ached and how croaky it sounded. “It was more vibrant. Like someone turned the saturation and brightness up. I have a headache from it.”

He hummed as he nodded his head, still watching you like a hawk.

“Have you taken anything? Paracetamol? Ibuprofen?”

“No, but I have paracetamol in the corner cupboard.” You explained, hoping he would get it for you. He did, as well as refill your glass so you didn’t need to take the tablet dry.

Once you took it you put your head in your arms and waited for it to kick in.

“Do you know why your vision was clearer?” He asked whilst wrapping up your sandwich to put it away in the fridge.

“I meditated yesterday. Burned some incense. Cleared out my psychic filter, if you will.”

He hummed and nodded along, understanding.

“Your throat sounds bad, how many panic attacks have you had?” He asked as gently as he could, whilst walking around to your side of the table and leaning on it.

“I’ve only had one today, but I had a really bad one yesterday.” You explained, turning your head in your arms so you could see him better.

“You had the vision yesterday?”

“Yesterday night. I had the panic attack in the morning.” You explained begrudgingly, not sure how to tell him about the goddamn stupid voice in your head that sometimes told you to breathe, and sometimes told you to starve.

“What caused the panic attack yesterday?” He questioned, still trying to be ever so gentle. It made you warm again.

“Stuff… Family issues. Mental issues. Bad combo.”

He nodded his head as he listened, only trying to help.

Your head was getting a bit better, it wasn’t as dizzy, and you had some energy again.

He really was good friend.

He patted your head gently before walking into the living room to actually take a look at the painting, and your face flushed with warmth.

You tried to stand up to follow him, and stumbled a bit, but managed okay. You really didn’t want to look at the painting, but you also didn’t want to leave his side, so you walked up to him and rested your head on his arm.

You still didn’t have the right amount of energy to do this, but you figured you would be okay if you were with him.

“It’s still wet.” You chastised when he tried to touch it.

“Sorry.”

You didn’t dare to open your eyes, and instead just revelled in the comfort of him letting you lean on him.

But you could tell that the Red Hood was affected by the painting, and was frowning, deep in thought of what to do.

You decided you would comfort him too.

“Don’t worry, we have a couple days to save the guy.”

“You know when it’s going to happen?” He asked, a little shock coming off of him.

“Not exactly, it just feels like it’s going to be in few days. Maybe more? We don’t have that long, but we have long enough.” You said, standing up straight, even though all you really wanted to do was bury yourself further into his arms.

“Hmm. That doesn’t give us a lot to work with, but we have the face of the next victim, so we can run facial recognition, find him, and protect him.”

“Yep. Or, you know, I could just tell you the street the victim lives on.” You smiled tiredly but smugly at the vigilante as he looked at you with surprise.

“You know where the victim lives?” He asked as you walked around him to sit on the sofa, your legs already getting tired from standing.

“I know a lot now. Remember, the vision was clearer, longer. My first vision was short and vague, snippets of what happened, mostly of the murderer stabbing her to the pavement. This vision detailed all the way back to when he gets taken.” You explained.

“So, you know… everything?” the Red Hood asked, staring at you with mild awe.

“Mm, I don’t know the guy’s name.” You pondered. “The murderer kept thinking of him as a pig, so I think it’s a cop. And he kept thinking about how greedy he was? That he turned a ‘blind eye’?” You explained with air quotes, and mild curiosity.

The vigilante hummed as he turned back to the painting in thought.

“He has given the guy a pig nose, so you’re probably right. And most of the cops are corrupt and bought easily, so he could have been bribed to look the other way.” The Vigilante theorised, still staring at the painting.

“That would explain his gouged-out eyes and leaving them on the floor.” You said, picking up a pillow and hugging it your chest.

“Is there anything else?” The Red Hood asked, turning back to you.

You thought about it for a bit, struggling to remember. After 24 hours the vision tended to get fuzzy and wasn’t that helpful.

But then you did remember something.

“Yeah, actually. He went to a… warehouse? It was broken down, old, abandoned. I… can’t remember where, car rides are always so fuzzy in dreams, but… it wasn’t empty. It had, uh, boxes? Big, massive, metal boxes! Yeah!” You exclaimed, looking up at the vigilante with pride.

“A warehouse, huh? And it was abandoned?” He inquired

You nodded you head yes.

“Good, alright, that really helps. Thanks.” He said, a proud smile of his own directed at you.

You smiled back at him, energy and warmth starting to consume you.

However, your throat was still sore, so you got up and walked into to the kitchen to make some tea.

You suddenly had this strange, overwhelming urge to get better.

Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, you didn’t think about it and just continued preparing your tea. You were going to ask the vigilante if he wanted one, but when you turned around you saw he was holding his hand up to his helmet, and sounded as if he was talking to somebody.

Oh well. He didn’t like taking off his helmet anyway.

 When you finished making your tea, peppermint for your throat this time, you grabbed your laptop and the USB before walking over to the living room and sitting on the sofa.

It was finally time to read through those notes that Oracle had made, and it was time to update them.

The Red Hood was apparently done talking to whoever he was talking to, and was currently taking pictures of your work. It seemed you weren’t the only one who wanted to break down the message.

The notes Oracle had made where pretty detailed, had lots of evidence and were very concrete, so you were happy to read through them, but you desperately wanted to get on with breaking down this new message that the murderer had put on display.

You already knew what thyme meant, so you opened a new note on your laptop, and wrote in that the second murder would take place at 2 in the morning.

The third murder, if the bad guy actually managed to get away, would be placed at 6? It seemed pretty early for the murderer to place it, whether it was the morning or the afternoon, too many people would be out.

But who could know what goes on in a psychopath’s mind, he was obviously doing it for attention, so maybe he was challenging himself?

You made a new bullet point, and wrote about how you thought that the victim could be a cop. You wrote about the thoughts and feelings of the murderer, constantly calling him a pig and making him look like one, etcetera, etcetera.

And you worked your way down the body, explaining and theorising each wound and flower, like why the murderer gouged out the eyes, because of how he turned a blind eye.

Turns.

He turns a blind eye.

He wasn’t dead yet.

In the painting, he had buttercups in his mouth, steadily falling out. Was he eating buttercups? According to Wikipedia, buttercups meant riches.

He was eating the rich?

That couldn’t be right.

That expression was used to show hatred for the upper-class, and to support communism. This guy was a capitalist born and bred.

But then again…

You didn’t know what he turned a blind eye for, what he ignored. Maybe… maybe the rich hurt somebody? But he just took their money instead of doing anything to help people?

Stuffing his belly and getting greedy like the murderer thought he was.

No, the murderer knew. The murderer stalked his victims, so he was sure of what he was doing.

And the murderer knew that he was eating the rich. He was eating out of their hands so they could keep getting away with whatever the hell they wanted to.

Yes, it was right, you knew it. So, you wrote it down.

You moved down the body, and found your fingers frozen.

This was the part that made you throw up so much earlier.

The gaping hole in his chest.

You took a deep breath, and strained against your anxiety to keep your cool, so you could crack the message.

You made a bullet point with shaky fingers, typing how the gaping hole in his chest was supposed to show the message came from his soul.

It was difficult, trying to write and ignore all the pain and suffering you remembered the victim went through. Remembering the gruesome and gory details of the murderer slicing him open and cutting and digging into his chest, all the way through…

You took another deep breath as you look up to the ceiling, trying to restrain the tears.

You had already had a mental break down, you wouldn’t have another.

No, you would focus on the message.

And the message was white heather, almond branches, and yellow carnations.

White heather meant protection, almonds meant promise, and yellow carnations meant disappointment.

But it was supposed to be backwards. You could feel it, as you feel everything.

He disappointed a promise to protect, because he was a cop taking bribes from the rich. Bribes for what? You didn’t know. But you had a clearer idea of who the victim was.

The motive was still shady, but there had to be something that linked the victims, and you knew he left it in the flowers.

You looked up when you heard the vigilante talking again, but it still wasn’t to you. You don’t know why you felt disappointed by that.

When the Red Hood stopped talking to whoever was on the other end of his coms, he turned to you, walked over and sat next you.

He was looking over your notes, and you could feel the surprise coming off of him.

“You already cracked the message?” He asked with awe.

“It’s really not that difficult. The murderer uses Wikipedia to find out the meanings, all you gotta do is find out what the flowers are and then link their meanings.” You explained, shrugging your shoulders.

“How would I know that the murderer uses Wikipedia?”

Oh.

Yeah.

He wouldn’t.

“Sorry, I guess that’s a psychic thing huh?” You stated bashfully. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between your psychic abilities and your natural senses.

“Uhuh. So, what do you have? Oracle wants the details.”

So that’s who he was talking to. Figured, he hadn’t mentioned anyone else anyway.

“Uh, well I’ve gotten a lot. There’s not as many details as the last murder, he made this one pretty quick and simple. But it was basically just stating what we already guessed. That he broke his oath to serve and protect for his own selfish gain.”

He hummed and nodded his head understanding. “Send it to her, she’ll want to look over it herself.”

“Um okay, how do I do that?” You asked, staring at your screen with confusion. He said there was link, but you couldn’t see anything…

“Here.” He took the laptop out of your hands and started typing, pressing a bunch of keys.

Oh no, it was code and programming, wasn’t it?

You sucked at that.

You were starting to miss your paper case files.

“There you go, all you gotta to do is insert the file and press enter and she should get it.” He said, handing the laptop back to you, the code and stuff still on the screen.

“Um, how am I supposed to get into this again? Like isn’t there a simple way to just, email her or something?” You asked, still staring at the screen with horrific confusion.

You hated computers.

“What do you mean, it is simple.”

You gave him a look that said ‘really?’

“Okay, give it back, I’ll make it easier.”

He took the laptop back and you saw him type more code, enter it, and then handed it back to you when it disappeared.

“Now if you want to talk to her, all you gotta do is type Oracle_1, with a capital O, Okay? It should immediately come up with a chat.”

You sighed in relief, that being ten times easier than writing millions of codes.

“Thanks, I kinda suck at computers.” You chuckled with a blush, feeling a little bit embarrassed.

“Yeah, I can tell.” He grinned at you while you stared at him with shock. The cheeky bastard!

You playfully pushed him with your shoulder in return, but he only grinned harder. The little bitch.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know you… were good at computers. You give off idiot vibes.” You retorted, not your best comeback, but it felt good enough.

“I do not!” He exclaimed in shock, pushing back with his shoulder, harder.

“Sure you do, that big old helmet echoes, makes your head sound empty.” You said with a cheeky grin, starting to enjoy riling him up.

“Ah!” He mock-gasped and held his hand over his heart, dramatically acting like you had actually wounded him. Figured, he was a thespian after all.

“I’m not an idiot.” He said seriously, making sure you knew that he was actually smart.

“I know.” You said, turning back to the computer. “But you look like one.” You gave him a cheeky smirk and side eye, and exclaimed when he pushed you off the sofa.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to push you that hard, I only meant to nudge you.” He shouted with worry, staring at you on the floor as you gave him a death glare.

“I don’t weigh anything! A nudge could throw me into outer space!” You shouted back, throwing a pillow at him.

The little bitch was gonna kill you one day.

But you couldn’t complain though, he was fun to be around.

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapter 8: Auditory Hallucinations

Warning: Eating Disorders, Auditory Hallucinations, Murder, Violence, Gore, Horror

It had been a couple days since you last spoke to the Red Hood. Since then nothing had really happened. You had managed to sell a couple paintings, so you had a good bit of money in your bank now, and could finally pay those bills that were pestering you.

You had had a couple trances in between, but other than that life was as calm as could ever be.

However, the media wasn’t. The news on the tv and in the paper and on social media was going absolutely haywire about this new murderer.

And they didn’t even know he was a serial killer.

It frightened you, to see everybody giving this guy the attention and fame he wanted, to encourage him to kill again.

They didn’t even know they were doing it, they thought they were just spreading awareness, trying to look out for each other and to not get killed. But they didn’t know anything about the murderer, the motive behind his killings, the how, the when, the where.

They had no idea at all.

How were they supposed to look out for each other when they didn’t even know what they were looking out for?

You would have thought that Gothamites would have learned by now, not to talk about the murderers or psychopaths, since it actually encourages their behaviour. Or at least they should have gotten used to stuff like this so as not to be bothered to talk about it.

But no, everyone couldn’t stop trying to find a name for this guy.

It frustrated you to no end, that people were so obsessed with one murderer. Honestly, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

But maybe you just thought that because you had become partially desensitised to it, through all your terrible midnight terrors.

Sighing, you turned off your phone and put it on the coffee table, needing a break from all the constant violence in the city.

You got up and walked to your kitchen, feeling peckish.

Actually, you were starved, you felt like your stomach was going to eat itself, and it hurt. But you knew if you ate anything heavy you would throw up, either by reflex because you weren’t used to it or because you just felt… fat.

You opened your fridge and stared at the mostly empty shelves, feeling shaky, but still feeling absolutely terrified to eat.

There was still the plate of scrambled eggs and toast in the fridge, and it was going off, so you picked it up and emptied it, washing the plate.

You still didn’t want to eat, but you also did at the same time.

There was one way you could settle your indecision…

You walked to your bathroom, pulled out the scale, stripped your clothes and looked at your weight.

It was torture every time, but still, you did it.

The numbers still weren’t small enough for you, but looking up at the mirror, your eyes glazed over.

You would never actually be happy, would you?

You were skin and bones, your ribs were clear to see and your cheeks were sunken in. Your skin was so pale that you looked almost see through.

You were sick.

You knew it.

But that didn’t hurt you as much as the thought of being fat.

That thought actually made you feel sick.

‘Fat is unhealthy.’ Her voice rang so clear and loud, all you could do was whimper.

“Fat is unhealthy.” You repeated after her, your throat closing up and tears brimming your eyes.

You couldn’t help it; this was something you always admired her for. She was always so skinny, so perfect and ethereal, that her saying things like this, it didn’t make you want disobey her.

It made you believe it was the truth.

That being fat was bad. And if you were fat…

That was a thought you couldn’t tolerate.

You stepped off the scale and sat on floor, curling up into a ball and crying.

Your stomach hurt, your chest hurt, your legs still ached from the scratches you made.

Your entire life was pain, and it just felt… eternal.

Would this pain ever actually leave?

You were feeling so good lately, you had made up with Nevaeh a little bit, you had been getting closer to the Red Hood, you had made money on your paintings, so why did you still have to be unhappy?

You gasped as you struggled to breathe again, and her voice came back angry again.

‘Don’t panic.’

Why not? Everything in life was hell, wasn’t it?

‘Stop panicking.’

You took a deep breath and tried to hold it, listening to her.

You always wanted to spite her, to be angry at her, but you missed her. And you wanted to control. She had that.

So why shouldn’t you listen to her?

Because you didn’t eat yesterday, or the day before that.

The last time you ate was Friday, when Nevaeh came over and you had a bit of fruit from the platter she made.

It was Tuesday now.

She wanted to kill you.

You gasped a sob and started to cry again, hating the truth and the memories that came with it.

She wanted to kill you. She wanted to kill you. She wanted to-

“STOP!” You screamed at the empty bathroom, desperate to quiet your thoughts and memories, trying desperately not to panic.

But it was too late, the panic was set in, your chest was tight, and the air was too hot and thick for you to possibly deal with.

Your tears were unstoppable, the memory was there, and you just couldn’t let the thought go.

You were just too sad.

Still grieving and missing a person who only wanted to hurt you, still grieving and missing a person who died 3 years ago.

Your heart was still so battered.

You couldn’t take this, this pain and suffering that only ever seemed to haunt you.

In your every waking moment you were haunted by life and its choices, and you were but a fragile being, who cried over losing a pen.

Losing a person was like sentencing you to death.

And you were dying.

*

You sat on your kitchen dining table swinging your legs back and forth as you merrily munched on your jam on toast.

You didn’t feel as sick as you did earlier, which was a good thing, because she wanted you to be sick. She wanted you to be unhealthy and dying.

The last time she wanted you dead you fought back and won.

And you wouldn’t stop fighting.

Also, the fear of collapsing and going to hospital, leaving the house, was more terrifying than getting fat.

Okay, so, maybe you weren’t actually eating for the right reasons, and it was almost ironic how one mental illness over powered the other and actually wanted you to live where as the other wanted you to die, but you were eating!

That’s all that really probably mattered in Neveah’s mind, were she to know about your struggle.

And the days in between were a lot less calm than you were hoping they would be, but hey, life wasn’t all roses.

After you finished your toast, you turned your phone back on to text Neveah and see how she was doing, and was pleasantly surprised when you saw she had done it first.

You told her you were okay and that you just ate some toast even though you wanted to kill yourself, and happily awaited her praise.

And boy did praise come. Just like you were hoping, Neveah spammed your phone with love and support and encouragement to keep going and to keep living.

Strangely, you wondered if the Red Hood would be this proud of you if you were to tell him of your eating disorder and overcoming it a little at a time.

This was… weird.

Eh, it was probably from where you bonded, and you just missed making conversation. He was a really good guy, and interesting too.

Who would have thought that he was a thespian? You smiled when you remembered how proud and defensive he got about it. It was funny and adorable.

Sighing, you jumped off your table and flicked the kettle on, fancying tea for a change.

But standing in the kitchen, your eyes couldn’t help but drift to the burner phone and memory stick left on the table next to your laptop.

You had yet to plug it in and look at the new notes Oracle had given you, but you didn’t really want to. All you really wanted to do was to call the vigilante.

Which was ridiculous since you were certain that you could only call him in emergencies. And it was a burner, you could only call once, so it would be wasting his money if you had to make him buy a new one just because you wanted to check up on him.

Which was also ridiculous because you were sure he was fine. He was a big guy; he could handle himself perfectly fine.

So why did you feel this persistent need to talk to him?

You didn’t feel this need with Nevaeh.

Then again, you had known Nevaeh for almost your entire life, so you were comfortable with her. This newfound friendship with the Red Hood was exactly that, new.

You just missed your friend.

The kettle flicking off broke you out of thoughts, and you turned around to make some chamomile tea, with a few drops of honey.

After your panic attack earlier, your throat was sore and desperately needed soothing.

And you were stressed beyond reason, so your sixth sense was feeling foggy and a little blocked, so you made a mental note to burn some incense later and meditate.

Sighing as you sipped your tea, soaking up the warmth, your mind drifted back to the Red Hood.

You kinda wanted to draw him again.

It was a weird urge, but you had drawn Neveah before, so you thought nothing of it. You walked into your living room, tea in hand, you picked up the little sketch book you had drawn him in before, off the book shelf.

This would keep you preoccupied for a good few hours.

*

It was cold.

No, it was freezing.

The itchy coat you wore did nothing to keep you warm, and instead just soaked up the heavy rain.

Lighting cracked across the sky, and illuminated the dark driveway in front of you.

At the end of the drive way was a house, small and cosy, with a light on in the living room.

Thunder roared across Gotham, like the heavens themselves were screaming.

The curtains were wide open, revealing a man through the window, relaxed and comfortable in his chair, drinking a beer.

No, it wasn’t a man. It was a pig.

And he was going to get what was coming for him.

The pig stood from his chair, his beer can empty and in a pile with the other empty cans, needing a new drink.

But he wouldn’t get one.

You walked with heavy steps to the front door, and started knocking aggressively.

When the pig opened the door, you pushed him down, grabbed his head, and smashed it against the floor.

He was out.

You had no fear of the neighbours or anybody else in the house being scared of the racket, as the pig lived alone, and the neighbours were out.

You had watched them leave.

You picked up the pig bridal style, and carried him to your van, where you laid him gently in the back.

You wanted him to die, but the only suffering he would experience, would be by your hand.

You tied his hands and feet in rope, and gagged him, so that in case he ever woke, he wouldn’t be able to get away.

You closed the rusted doors of your van, and had to push when it struggled. When it finally closed, it was with a squeak.

Lightning flashed across the sky again, and this time the whole street lit up, but all it showed was how empty it was, and how much you were going to get away with this.

Walking around to the driver’s side, you opened the door and climbed into the seat, briefly catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

But you didn’t care to stare at yourself, you cared about killing a pig, so you turned the ignition and pressed your heavy dirty boot to the pedal, and drove off.

The thunder covered the sound of the exhaust backfiring.

You stopped driving when you reached a warehouse. It was broken down and grungy, with broken windows and graffiti paint covering a lot of it. But it was large, and the perfect place to call home.

You got out of the driver’s seat and opened the massive sliding door in front of your van. Once opened, you hopped back into the seat and drove into the warehouse.

The ware house was filled with old, rusted shipping containers. One of which was filled with tarp, for the liars.

The one next to it was filled with supplies. The ones you needed to send a message, to show the world what you were doing was a good thing.

A shipping container, all the way at the back, was where your study was. Where your plans were.

It was at the back, close to the back door, in case you ever needed to get away and fast.

Once you got out of the van, you closed the sliding door behind you, and then opened the back-van doors, to get the pig out.

The stupid thing was still out, which only furthered your hatred for him.

Lazy, fat, lying, greedy pig.

You picked him up again and carried him to the orange shipping container, the one with the tarp.

You opened the doors, threw him in, and closed them behind him, leaving him with nothing but the darkness.

You were starting to feel giddy.

Taking a deep breath to keep your cool, you walked over to your study, to grab the plans and sketches you had made.

If your piece was going to be perfect, you would need them.

When you got to your study, however, you checked the time, and it read 10:23. You had gotten back earlier than expected.

Hmm.

Oh well. It was best to not be too predictable anyway, otherwise you would be caught.

Looking over the sketches, you saw what had to be done, and rolled them up to bring them with you to your supply container.

When approaching your container, however, it appeared that the pig had awoken, and was making all sorts of ugly pleading noises.

You couldn’t but smile at the excitement that filled you.

Opening the red containers doors, the one with the supplies, you walked in and searched for a scalpel, a butcher’s knife, and bone saw. You would need them if you were to complete your vision.

After collecting your items, you shed your hat, coat and the jacket you had underneath, and instead replaced them with an apron.

Unlike your previous piece, this one would have to be killed here, instead of steadily bleeding out. So, you had to keep your not so clean clothes, clean. At least of blood.

The thunder was still howling outside, life and the universe crying for you to stop, but it wasn’t important to you to care what the universe thought or wanted.

You wanted to kill a pig.

So, you rolled the sleeves of your smelly and damp button shirt, and you were ready to make your piece.

Picking up your art tools, you carried them to the container next door.

When you opened the doors, the pig squealed and cried for mercy.

You would give him none.

 When the pig stopped squealing, and his body was finished being moulded to your ideas, you finally untied him, stripped him, and put him in a white cotton tunic.

To remind everyone, he wasn’t always bad.

But he needed purging for his sins.

You cut a hole in the tunic over the area you sculpted, so you could place the bouquet like you visioned.

but you weren’t done, you let him lay in your container for a while, so his tunic could soak up the blood, so people could see his corruption of purity.

Whilst he laid in his blood, you tended to your bouquets of flowers, and measured and cut rope for the composition of your piece.  

You were done around half 12, so you picked up your pig, placed him in the back, and put your box of bouquets and supplies in the back as well.

You then put your hat, jacket and coat back on, and headed to your location.

It had stopped raining when you arrived, which was good, because the rain would have most likely ruined your piece.

You were at the end of a cul-de-sac. A court. A dead-end road. It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that it was called Brooks court, and it had a beautiful small growing oak tree at the end of it.

It was new, but strong. Just big enough to climb.

Which was perfect, because its where you were hanging your pig.

You tied the longest and thickest piece of rope in the van around his neck, in a hangman’s noose, and tied him to the biggest branch there was. He was a few feet of the ground, but still visible.

He thought he was above everybody, the stupid pig.

Now, he physically was, but he had no life to enjoy it.

After you finished with that, you grabbed the head set you had made for him. It was a plastic ring, with two bouquets attached on either side.

When you placed it on his head, he looked he had ass ears. But you also made it so that the ring would have to go over his nose, and then push it up to stay in place, essentially making him look like the pig he was.

After that, you got out the main bouquet, that explained why he deserved to die.

It was filled with white heather, almond branches and yellow carnations.

You placed it in the gaping hole you made in his chest, and spread them so that it looked as if they were growing out of his core.

Out of his soul.

You started placing buttercup flowers and petals in his mouth, so that people would understand exactly why he committed his sin.

You placed 6 more bouquets of thyme, but you hung them next to him, 3 on each side and of varying heights, so as to give more feeling to your piece.

But as you stepped back and looked at the pig, hanging for his crimes, you felt like it was missing something.

He was a dirty bastard pig, sinful of ignoring his duty and betraying the trust of his city, guilty for looking the other way when…

He was looking the other way.

Taking the switch blade out of your massive coat pockets, you walked up to the corpse, and gouged out his eyes.

He pretended to be blind to the evils and innocents of this city, and he did nothing to help it.

So, you would help it, and you would show the world what blind really meant.

Now, your art piece, was complete.

 You woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to every inch of your body, and your head swimming with fear and pain.

You tried to slow your breathing and scrunched your eyes, so that you could get a hold of the tears that threated to spill.

You could cry after you finished painting.

Stumbling out of bed, you rushed to your easel and pushed the previous painting off of it, replacing it with a rather high but slim canvas. You grabbed your paints, a jar of water, and began to paint.

It was going to be a long night.

[panic-and-procrastinate-writing]

Chapters: 10/? Fandom: Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood, Batman - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Red Hood/Reader, Jason Todd/Reader Characters: Jason Todd, Reader, Original Characters, Batman, Oracle, Barbara Gordon, Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: Romance, Mystery, Dark, Blood and Gore, Injury, will add tags as I go along, Psychic!Reader - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Swearing, Eating Disorders, Mental Health Issues, Agoraphobia, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff and Angst, more angst than fluff Summary:

Nightmares. Reminders of the things you want to forget but can't. Nightmares. Predictions of what's to come. Predictions of a new psycho running around Gotham massacring people. But despite all your power, you couldn't predict getting involved in the case to stop him. You couldn't predict anything.

I know I already posted a link, but I thought I would post another one that made it seem more obvious and had a glaring box that said read me lol. please check it out and reblog it! I would really love for as many readers as possible x