AN: These oneshots won't. Leave. Me. Alone.
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING. THE WATCHMEN, AND EDWARD BLAKE, ARE PROPERTY OF DC COMICS.
"In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present." Sir Francis Bacon
The night he killed for the first time was the night Edward Blake died.
It was spring of 1939, and the weather was cold. The winter was harsh, and this year promised only chaos and pain for those unfortunate enough to be born at this time of uncertainty.
The woman was crazy. She was a mental patient, obviously, because no one could inflict such pain upon another human being and not be some sort of sociopath. Or a psychopath; whatever. Blake knew it must be a woman – male genitals on the victims were so butchered, it suggested a personal grudge or a case of misplaced frustration.
Edward Blake found out who she was by a cleverly spread network of drunks and homeless people. She apparently targeted young men, bought them a couple of drinks and took them to her apartment, where the party and their lives ended in pools of blood.
Blake had decided to wait for her at the bar two former victims were regulars at. Couple of woman approached him, but he turned them down as soon as he confirmed that they were harmless. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until a pretty redhead approached him. The musky scent and the alcohol in the air were an obvious aphrodisiac for her, and his 'danger-radar' went crazy all of a sudden. After that confirmation, it was no problem convincing her to take him home with her.
He couldn't remember her name anymore.
She must have tried to drug him when she poured red wine into his glass. Blake smiled from the beige sofa he was sitting on, and excused himself to go to the bathroom. He wanted this to be quick and spotless – he would make her admit to her crimes, and then he would take her to the police, as a present from an anonymous friend.
As Blake came out the bathroom, she came at him with a baseball bat.
He barely dodged the first hit. A second caught him straight in the stomach. He fell to his knees.
"It's alright, darling."
Her eyes glittered in the dim lights of her apartment, and everything became terrifying at once.
"I walked the valley of death my dear, and I have seen all the horrors ahead and beyond, and you... I have never seen anyone like you."
He could see insanity taking over her mind.
"You will be reborn in fire, and you will burn, incarcerate, destroy with fire hundreds of innocent people. No, I have to, I need to stop you!"
She started laughing maniacally, and Blake shuddered. She was facing away from him, grasping the bat tightly, and he may not get another chance to overpower her.
"It's just a joke, Lord! It's just a joke! You will die, and the skies will cry but everybody else will laugh!"
He moved swiftly like a gazelle, and the bat flew from her hands, and the sound of broken bones pierced through the curtain of her psychedelic laugh. He was heavier and bulkier than she was, and now she was the one lying on the floor breathless, with her leg broken, looking at him condescendingly.
"You Edward, you will never be a hero! You will always be a joke! A joke, Edward, a joke!"
She yelled and cackled as he stood over her body, in the narrow corridor, a man that finally caught a killer. Yet there was no satisfaction in him; all he felt was disappointment.
"You think you are special, catching a woman serial killer? I'll lie. I'll tell them you did it. I'll tell them you were my lover and you made me do it!"
Blake was confused. This demon in front of him, she showed no sign of remorse. She actually looked like she was having fun. Her shrill voice taunted him.
"Kill me, Edward. Kill me! Everybody will laugh at you, me included! It's all a joke, all a joke!"
He didn't remember when or how, but the sound of gunfire echoed throughout the empty space, and the smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils. He didn't notice he was crying. It was his first kill, first of many to come. And why?
Because she screamed.
He would think of her again, in Vietnam, as he rode through fields of fire, and remember her strangely clairvoyant words. He would shake his head, and continue on his path. He would rape and kill and stop the war. By then, he would be so deeply immersed into his practiced cynicism, that he would be unable to comprehend the importance of that moment lost in time, that happened so long ago.
His actions were mechanical. His mind was blank. He was gone.
As he scrubbed the floor clean of her blood, preparing himself to leave her in the hallway after staging an unsuccessful robbery-turned-murder, he found a smiley face drawn on a yellow piece of paper.
It's all a joke, she said.
Everybody will laugh, she said.
That night, a Comedian was born in New York.
AN: Your thoughts are highly appreciated.