I was going through my writing folders and found this. Drabbling? A half-assed attempt at a ficlet? I have no idea what it is but I hope someone gets something out of it.
GLASS SLIPPERS
I'm drowning in your ocean
It's much cooler in slow motion
Slow Motion, Nickleback
The stroke of midnight and he's gone. A smudge of ink on the wall, washed away by the rain when the roofs fall in and the house of cards burns slowly, curling unto itself –
He feels a little dizzy, standing here, so high above the toy cars and blinking lights. It's like a pinball machine come alive, waiting to swallow him if only he'd take a step.
Wind and rain make his clothes cling to him like cellophane. Torn purple and green on skin robbed of sunlight speak of fingers and teeth and dried blood. It all smells faintly of sweat and dirt and spent testosterone. He licks his lips and the blood on them, tasting the Bat.
He smiles in spite of himself and closes his eyes. The hair dye's almost gone now – a duller green that he'd like but he held the hyperventilating cashier at gunpoint after all. It's running down his back in rivulets and he can almost picture the Bat's fingers – hahahahaha, fingers, a bat with fingers! – tracing the jut of hips. The bruises there are fresh. It feels wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful...