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There was once a chance I didn't take that I should have taken. Scratch that, I've had hundreds of chances and didn't take them. Some of them I regret. Some of them I'd pass up again in a heartbeat. Some days my like seems like a big joke that I just can't seem to get, and part of me wonders where I'd be if I'd taken some of those chances.

I'd probably be like everybody else. I'd be a normal Gotham citizen worrying about getting mugged or worse on the street at night and locking my home up like Fort Knox when I got there. I'd have a steady job with a boss I'd probably despise only to come home to an empty apartment save for maybe a plant or two. I'd repeat this process until I was too old to work and start living off the state. Who knows, maybe I'd end up like a crazy cat lady.

Now that I think about it, it's kind of funny. By becoming someone people fear, I've avoided that scenario completely. Instead of being some nameless nobody that would barely get a two paragraph obituary, I've made myself immortal. Even fifty years from now when I'd dead, my name will be in the hearts and minds of all that live in Gotham. Even then, they'll wonder why I did all those crimes, but they won't get an answer. I'll leave that little riddle behind for the wannabe psychos and psych majors to figure out.

How I'm going to die is still a question that I enjoy not knowing the answer to. The rush that comes from running across rooftops and through alleyways at night with the police and Batman behind me has become slightly addicting. It sounds mad, but the adrenaline that runs through me after a heist feels better than any drug no matter how it ends.

So what if they send me to Arkham. The strangest people you'll ever meet will be waiting to welcome me home. There, we are not judged. We are all crazy but at the same time sane in the eyes of our fellow inmates, for both conditions are two sides of the same coin. Because of this, mass breakouts are inevitable and happen at least twice a year. There are even those rare occasions where we work together, but that rarely ends well because of all the personalities involved.

Then there's the Batman. How or why he does the things he does, I'll never understand. It seems like everyone and their mother has a theory, but I doubt we'll figure it out. He's just like the rest of us Arkham inmates. That means two things. One, he and his sidekicks are insane and will probably die in a horrible way. Two, even if he does live long enough to get old, he'll most likely be a crippled old man with a cane overseeing new heroes. Either way he'll be just as remembered as the rest of us.

No matter what happens to any of us. There will always be costumed heroes and villains in Gotham City. Even if today's Rogues don't have kids, some new crazy will come along with some gadgets and cause mayhem, and a new hero will pop up out of the shadows to stop him or her. It's all a vicious cycle that I personally have grown used to and would hate for it to end, and I know there are a few people that agree with me.

So who cares that I might never reach fifty? Who cares that what I do is insane and there's very little chance of me becoming a 'normal' human being? I'm living life on the edge and to the fullest each day no matter what. How many of those so called normal people can say that?

FIN