Magdalena was a sweet old lady; everyone said so. Her husband had died many years ago, and ever since she had lived in her tiny apartment alone. She went to mass on Wednesdays and Sundays at St. Michael's Cathedral. She always put her dollar in when the basket was passed. She had raised four children. All had left Gotham as young adults to find themselves. None had returned. From time to time, she received a letter with pictures of grandchildren or adventures from this son or that daughter, but they never came to visit. Gotham was too dangerous, they said, she should come visit them. Alas, she never did. She had been born in Gotham and had spent every day of her eighty-three and a half years there. She couldn't leave now. The city was in her blood. On this particular day, something else was in her blood, too.
Amanda, the nice young lady down the hall who had just started at Gotham Beauty Academy, had offered to set Magdalena's hair for her. They had chatted about life and love the whole time while Amanda's little rosy-face baby crawled around. Magdalena decided to spend the rest of the afternoon getting some fresh air. She had been gardening in the little illegal garden on the rooftop of her rent-controlled apartment complex waiting for her curls to set, daydreaming about her younger days when a red haze settled around her.
At first she thought her glasses had fogged up but when she removed them to wipe them clean, the haze was still there. Magdalena tried to escape the smoke but the door back to the safety of the stairs was stuck. That happened sometimes when it had been raining and usually a few hard slaps on the door with the heel of one's palm would dislodge it, but today it was stuck fast.
Magdalena had no choice but to breath in the smoke. It didn't burn like she expected, not like that cigarette her older sister had given her that one time. That had set fire to her lungs and blinded her eyes with tears and made her sister laugh and laugh. No, this wasn't like that smoke at all. If anything, it was sweet and inviting. It caused a warming sensation that started in her chest and spread out to eventually reach her crooked fingers and toes.
It cleared her mind. She remembered why she had to live in this tiny apartment. She remembered the peaches and cream complexion of the young banker smiling as he handed her the pen to sign her name agreeing to the reverse mortgage that would ruin her. She should have been set for the rest of her life, living off the equity built into the home where her she and her husband had raised their happy little family. The problem was, the money ran out before she did and when the bank owned the house they kicked her out. She had been lucky enough to find a place that she could afford on her husband's measly pension, but with no income of her own, she soon fell into debt, maxing out credit card after credit card. Too proud to call her children, she kept her pain and debt to herself, only showing a smiling face to the world.
All that changed today. She knew what had happened now. The bank had stolen her savings. It was locked up in that brick building behind all those bars. She would show them. She would get that money back if it was the last thing she ever did. Jerry, her beloved deceased husband had kept a pistol in a locked box up on the shelf in their closet. She had to stand on a chair to reach it, but soon she held it in her determined hands.
She put on her slippers and headed out the door, ready to do battle with the evils of the banking world.