Batgirl:
A Tout Le Monde

Moving on is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard
You know the sleeping feel no more pain and the living are scarred

I am not supposed to be here. But then, neither is she. None of us are.

I should know better though. Everyone dies, sooner or later, and it always seems to be sooner.

I want to say it should have been me, that I should have been the one to be lying here motionless, but I can't bring myself to even think that. She should still be alive, and I should be standing by her side. She should be making off-colour jokes that I don't really understand as we get some food from that awful restaurant place. Denny's, that's what it's called. With all those weird people in it, dressing all in black with bad hair, acne and make-up. Goths, she called them, laughing to herself. I don't understand what was quite so funny about them, but it amused her, so it amused me too.

There are so many things she should be doing right now. Things she will never do again. Things we will never do together again.

I remember when she tried to teach me to read. Every day, between her attending school and our patrols at night, we'd meet up and go somewhere. Sometimes we'd go to her house, when her mother wouldn't be there. Sometimes we'd go to my cave. Sometimes the Clocktower. Sometimes a café, sometimes a library.

It didn't work though. No matter how much we tried, I never could get to grips with letters and words, not really. She'd become more and more frustrated with my lack of progress. At first I thought she was angry with me for being so stupid, but she'd always force a smile on her face. Not one of those smiles she made that would give me tingles throughout my body, that would make me feel lighter on my feet when she aimed them in my direction. More that she was trying to reassure me that there was nothing wrong. I'd seen that kind of smile far too many times from her, and they always made me sad. Whenever she thought of her baby, she'd always get this look on her face, but once she realised I'd seen her, she'd quickly put on that smile.

It hurt that she wouldn't allow me to share that burden with her, but maybe that's unfair of me to look at it that way. She gave away her baby so that she could have a better life, whilst my mother, whoever she was, gave me away so that I could be turned into a killing machine, something barely human. What could I understand of how she felt? I've never lost anything by my own choice, it's always been taken away from me.

She was angry with David Cain I think. She disliked her own father, the Cluemaster, but never really hated him. He'd never forced his way of life upon her, not like what was done to me. No, she hated David Cain for what he'd done to me. As horrible as her childhood had been, she knew that she'd still had it better than me.

Still, I think she came to resent my stupidity somewhat. Even our patrols together started to become strained, tension ebbing between us, less and less of the idle chatter that normally irritated me, but suddenly left me feeling lonely. With Batman, Nightwing or Robin, I'd be fine working in near silence, but I didn't like being with her when she was quiet.

We'd met up at the library as we'd agreed, but I dragged her away from there, instead going to the aquarium. She stared at me the whole way there, a strange look on her face as I clasped her hand, pulling her along behind me.

I never did let go of her hand that day. It felt warm within my own, made me feel light and tingly like her smiles did. We watched the fish and the dolphins and the manatees and the sharks and all the strange things that live in the water there. I like the aquarium; it's peaceful there, though strange. All the creatures going on with their lives even though they don't really belong there. Also, catfish. No sense at all, even I know that.

We were sitting on a bench, watching what she said were called Manta Rays, her hand still held by my own. I remember turning and watching her watch them. She had that smile on her face again, and it made me so happy to know that I'd put it there by bringing her to the aquarium. I leaned towards her, intending only to kiss her on the cheek, but my movement had caught her attention and she'd turned towards me.

I felt strange when our lips met, like that moment just before I throw the first punch, everything in my body suddenly on fire, fully alert, my senses taking in everything around me, every hair standing on end as I burned.

I'm not sure how long it lasted, which is strange. I remember seeing her eyes open wide as she stared into mine, and then slide closed as she leaned forwards into me.

"Sorry," I said as I pulled away. "Aimed for cheek," I continued as her eyes fluttered open.

That was the only time I ever kissed her. I wish I had done it more often.

We stopped trying to teach me to read after that. We didn't spend as much time together either for a few months, whether on patrol or during the days, but after a while, we went back to normal. Mostly.

I always remembered the feeling of that kiss, of how it had excited me and how she'd pressed against me like it had excited her too. She started to touch me more often; holding my hand, resting a hand on my shoulder or thigh, nudging me with her hip or even pulling me into a hug. I'll admit that I relished the contact with her, even though it left me somewhat confused. She was with Robin, I knew that. I'd even seen them kissing a few times, though I don't think they knew that. But still, she wanted me.

I never kissed her again, and she never kissed me.

I regret it, because now I never can.

I do not understand many of these things that I feel, I do not have the words to express them to myself or to others. For all that I did learn from her, whether she taught me with words or actions, by explaining or just being, I still do not understand.

I know that this isn't her, not anymore. This thing laying upon the table is not her. It is just flesh and bone and blood. It is not soul, it is not spirit, it is not courage or bravery, unrestrained laughter or deep sorrow. It is not Stephanie Brown. It is not Spoiler. It is not her. She is already gone.

I do not cry. I do not wail her name. I do not cling to her body. I do not blame God. I do not do anything. There is nothing that I can do. Nothing will change the fact that she is gone. And I do not know what I am supposed to do about that. What am I supposed to do next? Do I just go on about my life, as I had before? Is that possible? Am I different now from who I was when she was alive? I must be changed somehow by this. It would be wrong to not be, I think. She was a part of my life, a part of me. She was the one who could be free and happy and unconcerned and make me feel all of those things as well. Without her, I am incomplete, not truly a person. And yet, I still live. I still breathe. I still feel pain, I still feel cold, I still feel alone. I still feel. And she never will again.

I press a soft kiss to her lips, cold and turning blue. These lips will never kiss me again, they will never speak, they will never drink, they will never breathe. Such simple things, perfunctory movements, and yet they are also deep and meaningful.

I pull my mask back on. While Black Mask may have been defeated, there is still violence out on the streets. I still need to fight. Even if I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore, I am still needed out there. I can do nothing here, I am no good to anyone just standing here. I can be of no good to her, not anymore. But there are those I can still save.