A Mirror's Wake
(Chapter 1)
Author's Note: Okay so this is my very first batman fanfiction and for that I ask you to have mercy! However, I enjoy any critical comments to better myself so feel free to review. Hope you like the very first chapter to my very first fic! ^^
Disclaimer: I do not own anything and only write for pleasure and no economical gain. ;)
Cursed is the man who dies, but the evil done by him survives.
-Abu Bakr
The murky waters tremble as the wind breathes upon the sea. Moon shines its incandescent light upon Earth's watery dress. As a purple blur dashes towards the terrible aqua, a chilling cackle reverberates against the eerie silence, ruffling the pale dainty feathers of the nearby pelicans. The guffaw of the descending form ceases immediately as the sound of water splashing is soon heard. The absence of sound seems to intensify, howbeit; a gasp can be heard in the distance, shattering the silence momentarily.
The sharply drawn breath is emitted by the woman that stands on the wooden pier above. Though the onyx sky holds no pillowy clouds upon its abundant dark blanket that covers the heavens, the oppressive feeling of melancholy can still be detected within the atmosphere.
'There is still a chance! He can swim!' With this sole thought belaboring itself within her mind, the woman sprints towards the end of the extended wharf; her footsteps hammering away at the aged lumber underneath her.
As she reaches the conclusion of the dock, her azure eyes frantically search the aqua below. Growing anxious at the lengthy time, the young woman was preparing to dive in to the ominous waters. However, the moment that she is about to launch her thin frame upon Adam's ale, she catches a movement from the corner of her eye. Heart in her throat, she freezes as she recognizes the familiar sight of a triangular appendage. No…
The aquatic tresses of the sea tremble as the outline of a large marine creature can be made out through the dark fluid. A plethora of bubbles emerge to the surface, each tiny sphere popping as the monster's grey fin encircles something underneath. What seems like a struggle soon erupts from beneath, adding more to the frightened dame's distress as her eyes continue to linger upon the underwater battle.
In a matter of moments, the water's wrinkles undo themselves and all is settled. No more movement can be seen nor heard.
Another gust of wind runs its hand through the air, shifting the waters in a loving manner.
She knows not the moment that she falls on her knees, nor does she feel the remnants of a broken liquor bottle piercing into her patella, drawing small rivers of crimson to seep from her jester's outfit. Her eyes continue to stare at the aqua, not tearing her pupils off the site; not even when she feels two significantly strong hands clutch her thin shoulders and haul her up to stand, like a puppet. Yes, like a puppet.
That is precisely how she feels. A puppet that has just lost her master. A puppet that's strings shall no longer be manipulated or pulled. A puppet who longs to rot at the side of her master.
A poor puppet indeed.
Numb, her body feels. She hears the sound of the water lapping against the poles underneath her; calling to her.
It takes the poor woman a moment to realize that she is being pulled away from the dock. No! She was his and his alone, therefore she must go to him!
She dashes once more to the location; however she is disappointed as she feels the two same arms ensnare themselves against her waist, pulling her away from his watery grave.
She struggles this time. She kicks, she pinches, she slaps, she scratches, she punches and she spits all to no avail.
"Let me go!" She shrieks as her eyes dart once more to the location of his downfall. Couldn't he see that her angel needed her? She had promised herself to him! She would follow him to hell if she had to. As long as he was there, smiling that charming smile of his…
The perpetrator continues to pull her away, her vision of the paradise of flames licking about her body diminishing quickly as she is farther and farther away from the pier.
She manages to reach out a gloved hand, outstretching it as if by doing so, she would be able to grasp the sight before her. Of course, it was all in vain. Tears finally begin to well up in her eyes as she grasps the heartbreaking realization.
It is when the caped crusader manages to get her inside a police vehicle, glittering iron bracelets clinging on both her wrists, preventing her from escaping once more, that she voices out the obvious yet crucial revelation.
"He's gone," She whispers as inner pain surges through her cold veins. Blue and red lights bounce off in the distance, the automobile taking her away to a place that would no longer be the same. Then again, her world would never be the same.
The heavens unleash their tears as the car drives away.
Death is not the greatest of evils; it is worse to want to die, and not be able to
-Sophocles
Time.
In a place such as this, time can either be relevant or irrelevant to an individual. A being whose thoughts consist merely of the reverberating sounds of screams that echo throughout the dismal halls of Arkham may pay no heed to the silent tick tock of the aged clock nailed precisely six inches from the ceiling. On the other hand, a being who wishes to rebel against the authorities purposely may find the answer to all of his or her ideas within that same, simple ticking of the clock. The ticking of the timekeeping device, however, is rarely heard to sing by itself.
The shrieks and shouts that bounce off the dingy, gray walls of the mental institute always linger casually within the bowels of the gothic building. And though there is no doubt that these hellish shrills would peel back the skin of the sane, there is one cell that holds no sound at the moment.
At this instant, not a peep escapes from this room, the only occasional sound being the once in a blue moon drop of water that escapes the rusty faucet of the old sink. Though it would seem that the reason of this is because there is no inhabitant within the eerily quiet room, it is not so, for upon the nailed bed there lies a thin form. At first glance, it would appear the image of any normal incarcerated person, or as normal as an incarcerated person can be within an asylum.
This is also not true, for if one were to peer within the cell and narrow one's eyes to the dim light within, the wrists of the patient seem to hold thick bracelets of flesh.
Like butter, she slides the blade across her wrists, letting out a maniacal laughter as she manages to dig deep within the skin. Then she hears the familiar footsteps of the cursed orderlies. They take away her crimson soaked 'friend' as she feels the divers of strange hands fret about her. She pays no heed of course. She had lost another one…
The scar tissues partly hold the burden of this poor creature's attempt to escape this dreaded world.
But of course, there is more.
Focus more with me and one can now detect a head full of hair. It appears to be a woman, for her bosom is slightly elevated though she breathes. One can assume that if standing, her dark hair would reach her shoulders. Odd. One can notice an inch at the bottom of her hair contains a yellow tint. One can presume that the young lass was once a blonde haired woman. Now, however, her hair shines darkly. Ah, but the outer transformation of her physical appearance is the physical manifestation of what goes on within this woman's heart and mind. Her new contour, with few remains of her past self, is melancholic down to its very core.
In the past, it can be said that this creature once held her hair long and proud.
A smile is etched upon the young woman's pallid face as she gazes at the large bundle of golden hair. As her eyes look over the abundant mass, she can detect a large chunk of flesh; drops of dark rubies dripping onto the soiled floor. Similar scarlet gems cascade against her neck, escaping from the fresh wound that resides on her scalp. In the blink of an eye, the woman manages to shove the mass of hair down her throat. Of course, the accumulation is too grand for her petite throat and her gullet is quickly obstructed. She is nearing unconsciousness when she hears them again. Though the world around her goes dark, she knows that she has failed once more…
In an event where said creature managed to pull a large clump of locks off her noggin and tried to suffocate herself by swallowing the large, bloody mass of hair, measures had to be taken. Therefore, shortening her hair.
The still form of the woman is similar to a statue. Her scarred hands lay still upon her stomach. Focusing closer, clear manacles can be seen over her marred wrists, preventing her from any more self harm. However, it seems quite far fetched that such a still and quiet girl would want to disrupt herself in any way.
She lies on her back empty cold, blue eyes gazing apathetically at the aged and cracking ceiling. Look closer my friend, for if we intensify our concentration, we can catch the sight of one, single tear glistening in the faint lighting. However, this could be merely an illusion of the mind, for it is gone in a matter of moments.
The stillness remains.
The chaos that had been heard before seems to fall in the background though it is obvious that the shouts in Arkham shall perhaps never cease, it is clear that the creature before us is not altered by an audible sound.
Perhaps it is within her mind where she continues the remainder of her empty life; living in her bearable memories that are the only thing that could in anyway console her. A small balm to the colossal wound.
Then abruptly, as if an electric shock runs through her body, the poor thing sits up. Her mostly chocolate hair does indeed reach her shoulders, managing to hide her eyes as she turns her gaze to the floor. Then, as if possessed, the young girl raises her head and lets out a long, bloodcurdling scream. The pitch of the shout reaches a disturbing high tone. It lasts all but five minutes.
Like a rag doll, she allows herself to fall back upon the mattress; returning herself to her former position. As she lies there, it is obvious that nothing else shall occur, for had it not been two years of the same routine?
It is time that we take our leave. We turn and walk away from the chilling hallways, careful not to gain attention from any of the demented patients that clamor the various rooms in the asylum. Half an hour later, we reach outside, not being able to resist the urge to gawk at the disturbing beings that were once considered human. The moon gleams beautifully in the darkness and almost manages to erase the images and sounds that we have witnessed. The building's shadow overlooks us as we continue on our path. The path of the sane. Reaching the rusted, iron gates, it is then that we hear it again. The loud, overpowering howl that manages to escape the grotesque structure that now lies behind us.
Then we are gone.
Oh what a tangled web I doth weave but stay awhile for there are secrets yet to be seen!