There is a house in New Orleans
They call it the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin
Of many a poor girl
And me, oh God, I'm one
He is my salvation, something I doubt he knows. He claims a part of me I've never let leak out of the hard shell of my body, and I'm not sure he knows. I won't ask him if he knows I love him; I fear his answer. He's a hard man, my lover, holds everything close to chest, and I've not even the comfort of his presence most days. I think of him, though, and it holds my hand when I crave blood to cover it. He keeps me sane, but the cost of it is obsession. I think of him, I yearn for him, I love him. Some days I believe I've traded my obsession for justice, bloody violent justice, for him, faceless, insane, but him.
If I had only listened of what my mama said
I'd be at home today
But bein' so young and foolish, my Lord
Let a gambler lead me astray
He's not an obsession, as much as an addiction. What little relationship we have, I cling to. He is my weakness, my strength, my soul. So sudden was this need, I pushed him away. I feared. I cling. I went back, as I always do, as his always moving mind tells him I will. I wonder if he needs me as I him. I wonder if he dreams of me as I dream of him. Of a future we'll never have. Superheroes don't live long lives, and my past makes mine doubtless shorter. Even now, old enemies plot my death, but here in this apartment in Old Town Gotham, I can't bring myself to plot how to cut them off at the knees, be it literally.
Now, my mother is a tailor
She sews those new blue jeans
And my sweetheart is a drunkard, Lord
Drinks down in New Orleans
He sleeps, his arm carelessly thrown over the side of my bed. His mask has slipped off as he moved in the night, and red curls cover my black sateen pillowcase. A gift from a former lover, now long gone, forgotten. His clothes show a path from the door to the bed, each piece of his suit still unwrinkled even after laying on the floor for hours. The dawn light is slowly filtering into the room through the slats of the shades not properly in line. The orange light almost matches his hair, and warms my skin where my costume doesn't cover, which is a lot. I've stayed out all night again. I don't know what drives me to hunt the city so late, or is it early? I think I avoid him because of fear. I think I avoid him, because he's the one thing I never wanted, and now can't live without.
Now the only thing a drunken man needs
Is a suitcase and a trunk
And the only time he's satisfied
Lord, is when he's on the run
He's shifting in his sleep, rolling over and flinging his arm onto the empty side of the bed, perhaps in search of me. A part of me even now wants to remove my clothes and join him. Wake him with a kiss, and spend what little of the night that's left in consummating this all-consuming need of him. To feel those smooth hands running over my scarred and nearly broken body. I'm not a super; I don't have any special powers. I use my body to the limit and what's left I give to him. What's left of my heart is his. What's left of my soul...well, after three years of fighting crime in this city, and doing what the great Batman can't...there's not much soul left. It's his if it's there. It's all his if it's there. He takes nothing.
Somebody go get my baby sister
Tell her to do what I have done
But shun that house in New Orleans
They call it the Rising Sun
I give him everything, and he takes nothing. I love him always, and he smiles. When he's not there, I cry inside. When he is, I leave. I'm caught between a rock and a lava pit, between addiction and freedom. Freedom is never as sweet as it is bitter.
Well, I'm goin' back to New Orleans
My race is almost run
Yes, I'm goin' back to spend my life
Beneath, beneath, the Rising Sun