AN: This is a five chapter story told from Joe Chill's perspective. Please give feedback if you like it or not.
CHAPTER 1
Rough Night
He never liked being out in the cold. His jaws started chattering involuntarily and his nose grew as red as Rudolph's nose. It wasn't his best outfit for the cold – skinny sweater, torn gloves and a thick balaclava helmet, but that's all he could afford. His father couldn't offer him a proper education and he passed away soon leaving his sons in deranged paths.
Thievery wasn't his only choice but it swallowed him too deep into its belly before he could escape out of its snappy teeth.
His eyes picked a certain old man walking down the newly rebuilt footpath towards him, wearing three piece cloth and a glimmering silver watch. The petty thief smiled and approached the old man taking sloppy long steps like a drunkard.
It's all about timing, he thought. He subtly wore out the old man's watch and like a good citizen of Gotham, he asked him to 'fuck off' for dashing a drunkard. No one messes with drunken people, he thought.
As he walked down the frisky Brideshead neighborhood street proudly with hands in his pockets, he realized he was late for home. A bald masculine guy with a big skull tattoo on his biceps was mugging a lady for her purse. When you witness a more severe form of thievery, then you know the night in Gotham has started. The thief didn't bother to intervene. He whisked a stare at them and started ambling on his way to home. In Gotham, you have to be selfish to stay alive. The uniforms didn't matter and so did the laws. It takes us more than a scratch on skin to know who is good and who is not.
He walked past harlots baring their voluptuous tits and most of their skin to attract customers. He badly wanted to get in with them, take them to a hotel and escape into an ecstasy that relieve him of his responsibilities. It wasn't easy for a man who lost his wife in his early period of marriage to remain sexually abstinent for the rest of his life. Life has always been a downhill for him since his father's death and his wife's death branded him as a certified loser.
The stench of sewer punched right up his nostrils. He rushed up a shanty apartment, ascending the stairs with long steps. He could hear yelling of Mrs. Regan at her husband again. They're a paranoid couple and completely suck at conversations. They have a son, Rory Regan, currently serving in army for a war that no one wanted and was to return in a week time. Perhaps he could contain this paranoia or he's as much paranoia as they are.
"Daddy?"
The faint voice lightened up his spirits pronto as soon as he opened the door. A young boy possibly in his early teens was lying on the bed with a blue paperback book with no name on it. He was pale and his eyes looked worn out.
"Hey, how're you feeling?"
"As usual", replied the boy with a feeble cough. The thief gently rhythmically rubbed his hair stem admiring his son's knack for literature. He always wanted his son educated and live a better life but his horrendous ill-life had managed to pass down the genes to his son. His son suffered early stages of leukemia and treatment demanded more money.
" Watchya reading?"
"Mrs. Regan gave me this. It got weird proses and poems. Have you heard of Court of Owls?"
"Everybody knows 'em. It's a cooked up story by parents to keep their kids at bay"
"So… Court of Owls are not real?"
"They are real. I just ran into them. They hate kids not sleeping right on time", he said cuddling his son playfully and tickling him just above his belly. He could feel the heat blowing off like stream from his body. He managed to fake a smile as his eyes turned teary.
Suddenly, we hear a heavy knock on the door like a metallic surface hitting a hollow wood. The thief wasn't expecting anyone. He had guesses running in his mind as he slowly approaches the door with careful steps, closing his son's room behind. Mrs. Regan or…. He didn't want to think of him. Not now.
The door was opened to reveal a stout kid in late teens with sharp nose, his jet black shiny hair eating half of his face. He had a cane, his father's cane.
"Master Cobblepot?"
"Why the bug eyes, Joe? You know my dad isn't feeling well but that doesn't stop you from paying the goddamn rent", snapped Oswald Cobblepot with his squeaky voice.
"But it's not even end of the month. How can – "
"Save the talk, Joe Chill. I have no time for your begging sessions. Pay your money by tomorrow morning"
"But I don't – "
"I heard your son is ill"
Joe Chill nodded.
"You're one of those sentimental dads who spend money only on their kids and not for themselves, aren't you? My dad earned all his money for what? To get sick? Now I'm going to own everything. What a waste of time right? Sick ol' man. Do yourself a favor. Ditch your son in an orphanage or just kill him off with poison or whatever that kills him painlessly. Believe me. It saves a lotta money"
He gave a huge smirk and departed the room.
Behind the bedroom door was Ron eavesdropping the whole conversation. He went back to his bed with a long face, blaming himself for all the miseries he had weighed on his dad.
