Raw

Chapter One.

It was an ordinary day, or at least as ordinary as it could ever be for me. I had just recently moved to Gotham after completing my life goals: 1, earning a black belt, and 2, writing and publishing five novels. I was twenty-five and did everything I ever dreamed of, and at the same time, I have done nothing. I felt both relieved and empty. There was nothing left for me. I was estranged from my family after refusing to take sides in my parents' bitter divorce. They were alive and there, but gone. Even though my car could drive the miles, they were unreachable.

'You don't love me! You love him, you took his side, let him throw me into a mental institution, hell I bet you even told him to!' her mom screached. She froze, paralyzed by the shocking nature of her mother's words. She froze now, remembering them. It happened years ago, back when she was in college, but it was permanently burned into her mind.

'You're nothing, Kelsey, you hear me, NOTHING. You are a failure, you don't know how much you hurt me by turning out this way. You just sit there, you're not even writing, you're never going to get a novel published, its all lies, its PRETEND, you live in a FANTASY WORLD, KELSEY! I should have only had David, Kevin, and Illea. Just go live with your father if you love him so much!'

I remembered sitting on my bed, frozen. It wasn't true, I wrote all the time, I just didn't show her my work. I was almost twenty, I deserved at least an ounce of privacy!

"Are you going to call your father or do I have to ask David to call?" she screached. "Are you even listening to me, Kelsey?"

She was drunk. She was always drunk, either that or on pills, she was weary, tired, betrayed by her husband. My father. My father did bad things in his life, to my mom, to me, to my sister, but not that bad. Not the kind of thing that can't be forgiven. But maybe it can't be. He wasn't the only one, though. It wasn't one-sided violence. That wasn't the story. They threw furniture at each other. He broke her ankle, but she threw glass at him, threw chairs at him, forced him to sleep in the garage, destroyed his suits. It wasn't right. It was all wrong. It was all pathetic. But they were my parents. And I loved them. And I thought they loved me. It turns out I was wrong.

She threw the bottle of wine she was holding when I didn't respond. The glass shattered in front of me - in front of my eyes were the shattered pieces of my mother's hatred family. It wasn't like I didn't predict this from the very beginning, back when I was ten and got lost at Niagra Falls and my father told me to eat shit. My family had always been chaos. A broken puzzle piece. But my parents never had all of the pieces. They didn't have all the pieces to the puzzle, I wouldn't let them in on the dark veil that fell over my eyes, the numbness that I felt, the emptiness that resonated inside my core. I didn't let them know, because I couldn't. How could I tell them, when they had their own problems? I hated them, with passion, but I also loved them, with passion. I loved them enough to leave when I was told, and spare them. Spare them from the demon that I knew they could never contain.

I don't know why I moved to Gotham. All I can say is a voice inside my heart told me that I must go to Gotham. I don't know what carried me here, what is left for me to do or be, except for the one thing that has kept guys away from me for years: my razor blade.

Which is in my right hand right now. Digging into the scarred flesh of my left arm. This was my addiction, my forbidden pleasure. Cutting myself.

Anyone who got close enough to love me freaked out. Got scared, ran away. How could they not judge me? It was impossible. No one cared to truly see me, see past my eccentricities. They only saw my dark clothes, look at the little emo chick hiding in the shadows, watch her put her dark blue over her hood, look at how it cascades over her eyes, can you see her tears? But I am not emo. I am dark, maybe, if you want to call it darknes, but there is no such thing as "emo." What is a world that disregards emotions, forbids the world to trully feel, tells us that it is a sin, you are dark, you are disgusting, if you want to be in tune to your emotions. No one wants to truly see the girl who casts her eyes down on labels, the girl who doesn't give a shit what they think of her. Look at her, they say behind her back, thinking they won't see her, she doesn't care about any of us. What a heartless bitch, how cold do her viens run? But none of that is true. It shatters my heart that I hurt them, I don't know them but my heart bleeds for them. I don't care what they think, but that doesn't mean that I don't care.

That night it was all too quiet in my apartment. I was numb, I was listening to the wind, I was cutting myself, watching the blood flow freely out of my arm. It excited me. My heart raced, the adreneline pumped through my veins and I played with the pearls of blood with my pale fingers. Its funny when people cry when they are happy. Its even funnier when people laugh when they are sad. I do it all the time, though. I dig the blade into my arm once more and I laugh histarically as the blood gushes to the surface, I sing: I AM ALIVE, I AM ALIVE!!!!

Then I heard a loud noise outside. Instinctively I stood up, and, without making a sound, opened my door and snuck outside. Curiosity propelled me forwards. The noise very easily could have been a box falling. But then I heard someone moan. If I hadn't been trained to focus in on even the dimmest of sounds, I wouldn't have noticed.

But I noticed. The sky was dark. A still air hung over the alleyway and the dust underneath my bare feet felt strange. My arm was still bleeding, but I didn't notice.

On the floor was the man who had supposedly killed five people. Batman. There was blood, too, although it was hard to spot it, camouflaged by the midnight black of his armor. His breathing was heavy. I almost didn't see it – and that would have been a disaster for Gotham – but in the shadows another man held a gun. I didn't know if Batman noticed, I didn't know how wounded he was, but I knew that this was the moment – I knew it right then – that I had been training for.

I leapt into action. It must have been a weird sight to behold, a slim but muscular girl wearing only a black sleeveless nightgown knocking a gun out of a bulky man's arm and putting his arm into an arm-lock. All this, while bleeding.

I knocked the man – whoever he was – unconscious with one punch to the temple.

I went to help Batman, but by the time I got to his side he was already up. I suddenly felt extremely self-conscience; here I was with all of my cuts exposed. I felt naked. I didn't know what to say, I had just knocked a guy unconscious, I might have just saved Batman's life, but he's standing now and I was sure he'd be fine, I could see in his eyes how stubborn he was.

It was dark out. He might not even have seen my arm.

"Thank you," he said in a low, grunting voice and then disappearing into the midnight sky. I stood in the cold night and watched as he reached into his utility belt and pressed a button. A car from hell raced around the corner and I watched, frozen, as Batman got into the car. I stood out there, watching as the car disappeared into the night.

I was mesmerized. That was to put it lightly. It was freezing outside, but I was frozen in place, the dust under my feet, the cold black pavement, the trash bag forlorn and abandoned in the middle of the alleyway. I couldn't move. What had just happened?

Then I remembered where I was. Gotham City, crime capital of the USA. I may have a black belt, but I'm no Superman. A bullet would kill me. I hurried inside. Washed my arm. Slid into my bed and let myself fall asleep.

To Be Continued….