Cold air. Running frigid, invisible fingers through my hair and probing deep, deep down into my lungs. I'm sure I can hear your voice. I'm sure these invisible hands are yours-that or you sent them. Sent them to torment me, remind me that much worse than freezing on this starless night in Gotham, I'm freezing alone.
I'm not sure if you died…enough of that thinking. Enough of it, I tell myself. I don't need this, not now…I breathe a deep sigh of relief when the bus finally arrives, expelling all the cold, probing solitude you sent to me. Merry Christmas to you, too.
My cold, thin fingers are having trouble trying to get at the coins in my pocket. The driver looks at me, bored and expectant. My knuckles won't bend, and my whole hand is trembling as I try to coax my stubborn frozen appendages into paying the bus fare. Just as I am about to give up and walk home, an old woman gets up from her seat and pays the fare for me. She smiles warmly at me, and I try my best to return the gesture, but find that the muscles in my face are just as uncooperative as the rest of me. I realize how sad and forced the grimace I'm wearing must look, but it's all I can do. I sit down next to the old woman, who talks to me about her husband, and about how he had lovely auburn hair, just like mine, when he was alive.
The bus is stopping. We're at my apartment complex. "So did mine," I mumble.
And before I get off the bus, before I can even stop the words from coming out, I say, "I hate my hair."
--
It's December 23rd. As I ascend the stairs that lead to my shitty, one-bedroom apartment, I see all sorts of pseudo-hipster art school scum lazing around, passing Christmas-themed pipes and bongs to each other. I am tempted to join them, being a twenty-something pseudo-hipster pothead myself. But getting high isn't as fun without you. The worst, though, is when I get high and see you…that freaks me out. I fully hallucinate that you're there, in person, laughing at me and telling me that it never meant anything, that I never meant anything. I have to sit there, looking into your cold, green eyes, watching your perfect straight, blonde hair and pale skin, and I have to remember that we didn't leave each other on the best note. And I can't even know if you're haunting me, because I don't even know if you're dead…but I'm not thinking about that. No, not tonight.
I get a phone call from my friend, an indie girl who listens to indie bands and wears indie clothes. She wants to know if I want to go to her house and get baked. She knows that, even if I don't want to, I will. I never turn down a direct offer, not one that involves drugs. So, off I go.
--
We're high and watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she makes a move. Straddles me, grinning mischievously. I can't help but wonder if she planned this. I picture her pacing back and forth in her room, wringing her hands together like an old cartoon villain, saying, "Yeees, I'll get him nice and high, then, when he least expects it…,"
But I should have expected it. This always happens. I don't mind, though. I make out with her, then we go into her bedroom. She stops by the doorway, deciding whether or not to turn the light on. I shake my head, 'no'. No lights. It's too real that way. And the last thing I need when I've got such a nice bake going is contact with reality.
--
She's sleeping as I gather my clothes. The sun will be up soon, and I've completely come down. The frigid breeze that greets me as I walk outside is a relief. The haunting, maniacal laughter that seems to follow me, growing ever closer, is less of one.
I know the laugh. Everyone in Gotham knows this laugh. I shake my head, and I'm wondering how one person's luck can be this goddamn bad…
I turn the corner and, sure enough, yellow teeth and a blood grin are waiting for me.
"Tis the season," says the Joker. Then, that blood-chilling cackle fills my ears before everything turns black.