Prologue:
The day my mother died, I was sitting with her in the hospital. She was lying there, hooked up to all these machines with flashing lights, and we were just silent. I couldn't think of anything to say to her, even in her last moments of life. All I could think about was being alone. A few minutes before she passed, she grabbed my hand and said my name. "You're strong," she said. "And you will make it in life, and you will be successful. Just remember that a small part of me will always be with you, no matter what. I may be dead, but it doesn't mean I won't be living on in you." It seemed like the part in the sappy old movies that I'd always laugh at, but now that it was actually happening, I wished it had just been an act, that after the cameras stopped rolling she'd get out of bed and give me a hug. But she didn't. A few nurses and a doctor came in the room as soon as her heart monitor started beeping, and they recorded her time of death. Before they left, the doctor patted me on the shoulder and told me he was sorry, as if it would make me feel better.
It was so hard, because in the past months we had been fighting, both of us, and she had been doing good until a few weeks before her death. They said that the tumor had come back, and that it was growing even faster. They gave her an estimate of how long she had left, and she stayed in the hospital until the end. I know it would have been hard, being in a plain room with no comfort except for your fourteen year old child who was hardly any company. I wish I had treated her better when I was younger, I wish that I would have listened when she told me to do my chore and to do my homework. Now all I have left of my mother are memories and a necklace she bought me when I was younger.
My father's picture was on one side of the locket, and after she died, I put hers in too. I always wear it, because I'm afraid I'll forget her. Even though it sounds silly, it's true. I don't want her to fade from my mind. I want to remember the woman that raised me.
I didn't know where I'd, because the rest of my family had stopped keeping connection with my parents when they were married, practically disowned them, which I find stupid. You can't pretend like they don't share the same blood flowing through your veins. I was surprised when an old family friend had offered to take me in. He lived in Gotham City, which is a rather strange name, but I was desperate.
I stayed with him for five years until he too, died. It seems like everyone I love ends up dying. At that time I was old enough to live on my own, and I did, for a while. I had a job, kept up with the bills for my small apartment, and planned on going to college once I saved up enough money. But that was before I grew a pair of wings. I don't know why. I wish I did. I wish I knew why my life is so fucked up, why I have to deal with all of it. I used to think about suicide, but I realized that it wouldn't accomplish anything.
I know my mother would be disappointed in me if she saw me right now. Hiring myself out for thug bosses and senile idiots who want to 'control Gotham.' There's this one that I've been working for lately, and he's the worst one I've worked for yet. He even calls himself the Joker. How crazy is that?
And then there's the self appointed hero of Gotham, Batman. I don't know where he came from, but I do know that he and the Joker have a rivalry, and I'm willing to help the Joker out. For a price of course. Always for a price.
Taken from the diary of Noelle Eliza Walters.