Author's Note: I'd be lying it I said this was more then just something to do. I'm nevver commited to anything on this goddamn site, but that applies ten-fold to this piece of crap. This is just something to unleash my inner angst. Plus I like cursing. Alot. And I figure that cursing too much in stories would get pretty annoying after a while. I also figure that an eight/nine/ten year old in mourning would be cursing alot in his inner-angsty dialogue. Hence, we begin the grieving process. I just thought I should explain myself. Starting a new one-shot that'll probably take a while called Bring Your Sidekick to Work Day. If you can't figure that out, then you really shouldn't have access to the internet.
Disclaimer: DC owns all. It has been abusing it's Death Stick priveleges, but still. I own nothing.
Stage Three: Bargaining
I'll give it to Bruce Wayne, he knows how to throw a party.
Women in dresses more expenses then they're worth glide across the clean marble dance floor, their fifth glass of whatever twirling in thier long, sharp fingers like carousels, amber liquid spilling from over the edges. I wonder why they come. They obviously don't know anyone, and all they do is drink until they can't stand strait. Maybe that's the point. Maybe they just throw the parties to get the girls drunk. By the way the old man with the bald spot and the Geraldo mustache is eyeing one blonde in particular, it seems more then likely.
I stand in the corner with my hands in my pockets, watching the girls twirl around like lopsided tops, and my imagination works against me.
Maybe they...landed somehwere else...
Another girl laughs loudly, like a crow, and I'd wish she'd shut up. I wish they'd all shut the fuck up. I'd wish people I don't even know would stop coming up to me, telling me how fucking sorry they are when I know they're not. No one's sorry. Only I'm sorry, and no one cares about that, either.
Maybe...they're fine.
They fell on a mattress and bounced into the audience and hit their heads and lost their memory. Now they're wondering Gotham with no idea who they are and it's up to me to heroically save them from the clutches of evil...yeah.
I look at these shoes, too small and not mine, digging the heels into the marbel floor. Maybe, if I press hard enough, it would crack and the whole floor would open up and swallow me whole.
I contemplated how much I hated my life for a while, occasionally drifting off to imagine being back at the circus. But it was mostly hating my life.
Maybe, if I had gone up first...
If I'd screamed sooner....
Maybe if I sell my soul or something?
Give me a price, I'll pay it. Anything to get me out of this goddamn party.
Another girl sqeals at a bad joke, gulping down the remainder of her drink and motioning for a waiter to bring her another.
I miss my mom. She never drank.
Author's Note: I'm not sure what they mean by bargaining.
