Bloodied Knuckles
The blood on the handle soaks into my skin. Pressure on my wrist moves my hand upwards. It thrusts the knife forwards and the blade disappears into darkness. It pulls and I take my hand back. It keeps pushing and pulling, the knife blade dancing back and forward, in and out of the darkness. And then the pressure disappears. But my hand keeps moving, back and forward, in and out, propelled by its own momentum and the darkness starts to change, turning red and taking form until there's a corpse sitting in front of me. Bloodshot eyes plead to me. I look down in horror and my hand's still moving, thrusting the blade backwards and forwards, in and out of its neck. I beg my fingers to loosen their grip but the knife fuses itself to my hand, refusing to leave, burning itself into my memory. I scream but I won't wake up and somewhere behind me, Father is laughing. I spin around, searching for him and a slight, blonde girl steps out of the darkness, holding out her bloodied hand towards me. She's moving her lips but no words come out and I realise she's got no pants and her thighs are bloodied and mutilated and her fingers stretch desperately towards me as she cries. The pressure returns, pushing down on my shoulders, forcing me to stay when I want to run. She calls to me and I can hear my name so I reach out, trying to touch her, to hold her and tell her it's going to be ok when I know it's not. She falls back into the darkness and screams. The sound chills me to the core. I turn around and push against the pressure and it solidifies, taking form, turning into Him. The smell of mothballs and smoke washes over me as cold leather gloves tousle my hair. I shiver, though it's not cold and, though I'm terrified of Him, I push myself closer to Him, gripping His jacket, breathing in His scent. It smells like home and though my scars start to tingle and my heart starts to pound, an inexplicable calm flows through me. But He pushes me away, shoving a smoking gun into my trembling hands. It burns me and I drop it, staring up at Him. He grabs His chest as the blood starts to blossom through His jacket, taking slow, deliberate steps backwards into the darkness. But as He disappears, He's standing behind me again, His hands on my shoulders, His breath on my neck. "Father," I whisper and He starts to push me towards the darkness. "I don't want to do this anymore." The darkness looms closer and closer. "Please don't make me leave you, Father. I need you. You made me need you." I feel every inch of the blade as it enters my body. I scream as blood leaks from the corners of my mouth. Father laughs and moves the blade up, through my back to my neck. Tears spring to my eyes as He twists the knife viciously into my spine. I scream louder and louder until the pain becomes too much and a white, blinding light cuts across everything.
I lie flat on my bed, blinking in the sudden light. I can sense movement by the doorway, but I can't summon the energy to look.
"Andrew?" Lonnie's voice drifts across the silence of my room. "Are you awake?"
I bite my lower lip and lay my arm across my face, squeezing my eyes shut to shield them from the light. "I am now. Thanks a lot. That was a good dream"
"You were screaming." I move my arm and open my eyes. He shrugs. "I never pegged for you a masochist so I thought I should wake you."
"I wasn't screaming."
"Yeah. You were. Again." The floorboards groan as he comes over to stand next to my bed. He's got that shit-eating grin that he tends to wear when he knows he's annoying me. "Sounded like someone was stabbing you." He pauses, waiting for a response. I let the silence grow longer. "You had that dream again."
"I don't dream," I growl. "Now fuck off."
He shakes his head. "Don't try to lie to me. I'm smarter than you are. I can tell." I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up, pushing him away. "You're having nightmares where you wake up screaming."
I stalk over to the wardrobe and grab a t-shirt, pulling it swiftly over my head. "One; fuck off. Two; I don't have nightmares. Three; fuck off." I pick up my watch and look at the time. "Come on, shithead. Get out of here. We've got things to do." I turn to look at him. "I'm going to take my pants off now." He rolls his eyes and goes to stand outside the door.
"You've got mental problems."
"Not listening." I take off my pants and swap them for clean underwear and an old pair of track pants.
"Andrew."
"What do you want me to say?" I snap in exasperation.
"I know you lie to me." I walk over to the doorway. He doesn't turn to look at me but his voice is level and he looks calm. "I'm not vain or stupid enough to think you've told me the whole truth about anything. But it doesn't matter, does it? You're stuck with me. Unless, of course, you want me to go to the cops with your real identity." He chuckles a little. I narrow my eyes as he turns to look at me. He smiles down at me. The son of a bitch is a few inches taller than me and he knows it kills me. "I know you think you're using me, but I'm using you too."
"Oh wow. The thought hadn't crossed my mind," I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "And here I was thinking that you were helping me because you were head over heels in love with me." His cheeks are a little flushed. I lean against the doorway and shrug. "I thought we established the fact that we're using each other on our first meeting. You know, three years ago when you followed me though Gotham?"
"It worked, didn't it?" He says sharply. "Or am I not standing in your apartment waiting for you to shut the fuck up so we can start working?" He leans in close, our noses almost touching. "Or are you still talking because you have this need to tell me about your nightmares?"
He's so annoying.
I push him away from me. "I don't need you. Get out of my face."
He backs off, turning away and walking across the mostly bare living room. "Is it ready?" I roll my eyes as he pushes my old sofa against the wall and perches on the arm. "It's not that I don't love spending time with you – I just assumed that we were gonna practice today."
"God, do you ever shut up?" I mutter, opening a cupboard in the living room. "I finished it last night. You need to try it on and tell me what you think, whether or not you can fight in it. And then you've got to prove that you can use it." I pull out a bundle of bright red material. The couch behind me groans and I turn to see Lonnie standing up and walking towards me.
"Bright red?" He looks at me sceptically. "Don't you think that's going to be a little, I dunno... Obvious?" I pinch the shoulders of the costume between my fingertips and let it fall, shaking it a little for effect and just because I feel like it. "It's a red dress."
One of these days, I'm going to punch him in his stupid, sarcastic face.
I throw it at him. "It's a robe. And it's not as billowy as it looks. And besides, there are pants and a shirt to go with it so it's nothing like a dress."
"How do you know the word 'billowy' and not 'inane'?"
"And here's the mask and hat. Boots and gloves are already in the bathroom." I put all my effort into ignoring him and his bitching. "Go put it on and we'll work from there."
"I'm going to look stupid," he mutters, glaring at me as he heads for the bathroom.
"You always look stupid," I snap, flopping onto the sofa. "And hurry up, will ya?" He mumbles something as he closes the door but I don't catch it and I don't care. After all, I was the one who actually sat down and made the costume while he ranted and raved about the apartment, telling me what he was going to do once he'd started capturing the imagination of Gotham.
"Well... at least it fits."
I look up as he comes out of the bathroom. It looks pretty good, even if I do say so myself. The robe hands loosely off his shoulders, held together at the front by a large golden clasp. Crimson, knee high boots disappear under the robe. He tugs at the gloves, pulling them further up his arms, and flexes the red leather experimentally. Looking to me, Lonnie shrugs.
"You forgot the mask," I point out. "And the hat."
He rolls his eyes. "Do I really need all of this? All this red is going to make me stand out like a sore thumb."
"Isn't that what you wanted?" I stand up and head towards the bathroom. "All eyes in Gotham on you, remember?" I pick the gold mask up off the sink and head back towards the living room. "You at least need the mask." He sighs in exasperation but lets me help him attach it and pull up the robe to cover his neck and the back of his head. "It'll look better with the hat on," I offer.
Lonnie doesn't say anything, but he does go back to the bathroom and pick up the wide-brimmed hat off the floor. He dips his head and looks at it, before placing it tentatively on his head and glancing up at the dirty mirror.
"I hate it when you're right."
He turns around and I smile. He looks good. Intimidating. Mysterious. Everything a vigilante needs to look. This is perfect. Only one more thing to test out.
"Will the hat stay on when -?"
I punch Lonnie in the face.
He staggers backwards, his hand flying to his mask. "What the hell?"
"Batman's not going to ask permission before he punches your nose in."
"I know, but -"
My leg flies out to kick him and, as he moves to dodge it, I punch him in the stomach. He grunts, doubling over for a moment. "Defend yourself."
Open palm to the face.
"Get your act together, kid."
He straightens up and takes on a fighting stance.
I let him punch me in the nose. But I don't move.
"You're going to have to hit me a lot harder if you want to make me stop."
He tries it again and I duck, elbowing him in the stomach. He brings his fist down on my head. It hurts. A bit. I duck and scramble out of the way. He follows me across the living room and I lunge at him, catching him off guard. He ends up on the ground with me sitting on top of him. I stare down at the perfect golden face that looks sternly back at me. His hands are gripping my t-shirt, pulling me down towards his face.
"Get. Off. Me."
I lean down close to his mask and grin. "Make me."
The silence drags on for what feels like ten minutes. Neither of us moves.
"Oh, fuck it," Lonnie sighs, releasing my shirt and letting his arms flop down to the ground. "I'm at your mercy, master."
Grinning, I get off him and help him to his feet. "You're really fucking pathetic, you know." We stand facing each other for a moment when there's a sudden movement and he knees me in the groin. I hiss in pain, going down on my knees. "Bastard," I mutter.
"I'm not above playing dirty." His hand reaches up to his hat. "Hey! It's still on." He looks down at me and shakes his head. "I don't know how you do it. Consider me impressed."
"Go fuck a blender."
Lonnie laughs.
