It's a weird feeling, slipping. You plant your foot in complete confidence that it will stick tight to the ground, and the next thing you know you're off balance. Momentum carries you forward, your equilibrium reeling to catch up. It's a silly feeling, and a shocking feeling. Like when a friend tells a cringe-worthy pun, or the moment right before somebody gets pied in the face.

It's a strange feeling, falling face first into cold, hard asphalt. The initial shock jars away the whole experience of the slip, and in the next second you're leaving tiny bits of your skin and hair embedded into the surface. Your face burns and your body, if just for a moment, loses all will to move.

But you can't sit still. You have to keep moving.

You don't want to die.

That's what I tell myself. Am telling myself. Told myself as I climbed to my feet on the cold, red rooftop. My body burned. I resumed running. I heard myself gasp as my chest spasmed from the effort of movement. It was a harsh sound, I remember, and also I remember the way the fog from my gasps curled into tight, trepid twirls. I remember how the cold began to sink deep into my core as what little body heat I had left seeped out into another red-skied night. But none of that mattered. I just kept running.

I thought to myself: it was a silly thing to do, slipping. But my blood had been so slick there wasn't much I could have done. I had stopped and hid for a moment to close up my side, nothing more than a few seconds of desperate first aide. But when I took off again I didn't look where I stepped. As I replayed the moment in my mind I noticed that the fall had busted things right back open. I had lost my hiding spot in vain.

As I ran, I pressed a gloved hand over the gushing wound in my lower left torso. I couldn't tell if an artery had been hit. I didn't have time to find out. My body seared from the bruises. My ribs, either broken or fractured, rattled around like razor blades in my chest. Every time I gasped for air they vibrated, tearing me up on the inside and threatening to pierce one or both lungs. I ignored it.

My eyes focused on the gap I was running towards. It opened down onto a nameless alleyway several stories below. I was aiming for the rooftop on the other side of this gap. It was about a ten-foot jump. No problem. Piece of cake. A complete joke.

Usually.

As soon as I left the ground my whole body cringed uncontrollably as pain, like white-hot electric shocks, shot through me. Every muscle tensed instantly. My head swam. I forgot where I was. My vision spun and dimmed. The chase, the wounds, the whole scenario started to fade from my mind. I was slipping again, different this time, now into a sickly sleep. Time seemed to stretch out forever, and I was weightless and warm and numb.

Then, in a clear, terrible moment I remembered where I was. I remembered that I was running for my life. I remembered that I was broken and bleeding out over the Gotham rooftops. I remembered that I was passing out mid-leap and was about to fall ten stories down to the pavement below.

Fortunately, perhaps, another bullet hit me. This time in my upper back on the left side, right under my shoulder blade. The exploding nerve endings and tearing flesh shocked me back to a delirious consciousness. The momentum of the shot was just enough to propel me the last few feet to the adjacent rooftop I'd been jumping for.

My body hit the asphalt at full speed. I was never quite sure if the sound I made was a thud or squish. It was hard to tell, especially as distracted as I was by the circumstances. I rolled from the momentum, too weak to stop myself, and finally settled on my back. I felt my left lung collapse, but my brain had shut off the pain as my endorphins pulled one last hurrah. My vision started tunneling on the red Gotham sky I'd spent my childhood fighting under. It was the same blood red backdrop that had watched me grow from sidekick to partner. From child to young man. From son to orphan to son.

My body was dying. My strength was spent. My mind felt like it was starting to spiral down a long and final decent.

My will to live could only manifest itself in ragged, stuttering gulps of cold, Gotham air. The fog escaped my mouth like bits of spirit, or else frantic signals praying to someone, to anyone, for mercy.

When she landed on the rooftop next to me she was nearly silent. Her boots took steps that were feather light. My tunnel vision kept me from seeing her properly, but I could feel her staring at me. Smiling. Sneering. My ears were ringing loud enough now that I couldn't hear anymore, but I new she was laughing. Gloating.

Bragging.

I think I passed out just as she put the rifle's barrel to my forehead. I don't quite remember, but I feel like she said the words, "See you in Hell, Robin," right before she pulled the trigger.

It's a silly feeling, dying.

But coming back? That's just wrong.