I stood at the edge of the roof, my feet dangling down over the Gotham streets below. The building was dirty, the streets were dirty, and the people were dirty.
My soul was dirty.
My mind was a pulsing ball of lies and excuses, questions and answers, feelings and emotions and experiences that could never be reconciled, could never be sort out. So many things had happened, too many to keep me from getting fucked up. Some say that it happens to everyone in Gotham eventually, and that we're all just a bunch of crazy motherfuckers running around trying to fight for something, some crazy fucked up principle that nobody outside the city would understand. I guess some people can't handle it. Some of the crazies don't have the brainpower to live with everything they've done. That's why they have to jump.
Who am I? I'm a crazy, but I bet you already knew that. You could also say that I'm a girl, maybe twenty or so, with pale skin and deep green eyes. But appearances don't mean anything. So maybe you could just call me a killer, a rapist, a sadist, an anarchist, a terrorist, a liar, a bad girl, whatever you want. I've done everything that involves a title. I have killed children walking home at night, I have killed women who were scared, tired, and just looking for a friendly face, and I have killed men who have cried at my hands.
I set fire to things because I like to watch them burn, I murder innocent people because I like to watch them die, and I smile at all of this because it's funny.
But I want it all to stop.
Do I feel bad for all of this? Maybe. Maybe that's why I'm jumping. But my brain isn't giving me an answer that makes sense. I think it's working against me, because secretly it can't handle what I've done. That makes some sense. But what would make sense to me? Killing would. For me to kill myself, it would be the best thing I've ever done, right? My biggest kill. My hardest one yet. Me against my brain? You could say that. Or would we be working together? I don't know. I just don't know.