I hate my existence.

I really, really do.

Y'see, I can't really call it a life, per se. Technically, I'm both still alive and been dead about five hundred years. Yeah. Fucked up, ain't it?

"Aw, somebody having a rough day?"

I replied with a vague snarl.

"Hey, get outta the way! She hasn't had her morning cuppa crap yet," somebody called out, snickering.

I gave it the finger, and continued walking.

"You left your charge alone?" Gwen frowned, mouth twisting like a pretzel.

Geeze. Guess being dead for more years than I can count doesn't remove a stick from an asshole.

"Gwen, I really, really, really didn't need to see what the two of them were, erm, getting on together, hokay? Seriously, do I look like I need more mental trauma?" I muttered, grabbing a large cup and pouring the closest bottled liquid into it.

Gack. By the taste, it was paint thinner.

I want some soap.

Oh, I'm sorry. I should probably introduce myself, even though I don't really give a damn about 99.9 of other people... you probably included. Hey, I've been around for a few centuries now; I have street cred.

I am a guardian angel.

Well, angel is just for lack of a better term. Really, I just belong to an organization of deceased people (mostly women, it seems we're better protectors than men—go figure) who, being bored to tears with the thought of an eternity of doing—well, nothing—decided to work to save people we called 'charges' (and, believe me, sometimes it was like a criminal sentence) for the hell of it.

Yeah. We're all that damn bored.

Everybody, supposedly, has a guardian angel. While I can't speak for God, I can tell you this—there ain't no billions of us floating around. I work the Gotham district, which means there's about fifteen of us, all total. Yeah. People wonder why the city's gone to shit.

Hey, we're dead, give us some slack. We intervene when we can, but basically we're incorporeal beings with too much time on our hands who try our hardest to nudge people into self-preservation. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. We're not told to not get emotionally attached to our charges, because it's pretty much impossible. You spend birth to death (which, admittedly, sometimes comes too quick despite best efforts to the contrary) with a person, you get feelings for them.

Don't get me wrong—I never, ever fall in love with a charge. Honestly, it's like falling in love with—with—I dunno, your kid or something. You see all the things you never, ever wanted to know about them, all the disgusting little habits, and it just kinda... turns you off.

So, anyways, back to the reason I hate my existence--

I am the guardian angel of Harvey Dent.

Yeah. I know.

Too bad you can't kill a dead person.

Maybe I shoulda retired after Jack the Ripper.