Scars We Share
So, some of my documents were deleted from which actually included a few of the new chapters, which I had only written online. I tend to make bad choices, but I don't quite understand why we have a 60 day limit on how long we can keep a document for ourselves? Anyways, writing has gotten VERY annoying lately. The way my computer is set up, is the mouse pad sits right where your left palm sits... so occasionally it will randomly click something and/or delete an entire paragraph or start typing in the middle of another sentence and I have no clue how to make it stop.
Ugh. Well I had to completely re-write these chapters, sooooo... here we go. *DEEP SIGH*
The 98' Ford Explorer crunched upon the damp gravel, pulling into the turn about entrance to the mansion. Built in 1942, the Falcone Residence was home to Vincent Falcone, the man responsible for The Roman and Gotham's hard-ended mobscene. The remaining heir to the Italian mob's throne as none other than the last in the bloodline, Mario. Fuming to himself in the office, he massaged his temple with his dominant hand, the other wrapped in gauze from the Joker's nice handiwork. The pressure and fear of knowing the deadly man was still alive held him at the edge of his seat, planning his ideas of revenge and killing him in cold blood.
He had never contemplated the idea of his own death until the Joker fired off shots at every one of his guards, knowing the clown could twist upon his heels and spit a 9mm piece of lead into his cranium. The Italian cringed at the thought of being shot, and the levels of consciousness a victim would endure before finally choking on their own blood or having their brain matter and skull fragments decorate the walls.
If he died, what would happen to the Falcone crime family?
Who would take the money?
I could leave it to Paolo...
No, no-The rat would take it all and run.
My family?
Would anyone avenge my death? Of course someone would...
He pulled his tan lips into a thin smile, mentally reassuring himself that someone would eventually step up to the throne. Between his own musings and self preservation he had failed to hear the barely audible clank of metal from outside his mansion...
The Night Before...
The young man shivered against the late night gusts of wind, reaching below freezing this early in the morning. Frozen fingers wrestled with the jingling keys in his bare hands, unlocking the motel room door and stepped into an equally freezing room. The dying light bulb flickered on, everything that had been deserted remained in its place. Knowing his time was running scarce, he shoved all the loose objects that littered the floor- cigarette boxes, wads of dollar bills, makeup tubes, and several shirts and socks into duffel bags.
Jack dragged the heavy bags out of the room and into his 'borrowed' car. Groaning at the effort, his arm brushed his side.
He carefully pulled off his shirt, locating the edge of the sticky wrap and ripping it from its place. Gently removing the soggy bandage from his side, he peeled back the bandages to stare at the purple, swollen area where he had been shot. The sutures were almost finished holding his body together on their way to a healing process. The blond pulled another shirt over his head, moving slowly as to not disturb the area, the loose fabric hanging freely off of his shoulders.
He gave his figure a glimpse in the mirror.
He had seen worse days, but examined the body that had been victim to a full term pregnancy. His collar bones and shoulders seemed to jut out of the skin holding them together, his tan complexion dull and weathered. The image was near frightening, yet he shook it from his mind. He wasn't dead, yet.
Crumpling up the tail of his shirt he pulled the fabric taut, turning to the side to stare at his ever-changing figure. His abdomen stretched further than what he'd prefer, still prominent that something had been there.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, he finishes dressing, adjusting his signature violet coat over his shoulders.
"What do you want to do, Robert? I can't change anything about it, if I would I could..."
"I know that..."
"I just don't know what to do anymore. My body... won't allow it."
"We could go see Emmerson again, try again-"
"No!... No. I don't know... maybe doing this isn't a good idea. If God-"
"Fuck what god thinks! It's not fair!"
The Joker stops applying the black smudge paint from around his eyes, hearing the barely audible conversation on the other side of the drywall.
"We can do this... we can do this, alright Sarah?"
He hears sobbing, indiscernible to who it comes from. Turning his attention to the makeup, he lets his mind wander...
WAYNE Manor
His eyes snapped open as the first wave of nausea tore him from the induced stupor, barely able to locate the bedside trash bin in time before heaving his sour insides out.
After relieving himself he ran his fingers through sweaty brown tendrils of hair, wiping away the perspiration collecting at his hairline. "Oh, God..." He groaned, setting the soiled container on the floor before recognizing his situation. "Jaaa-ck!" Bruce called out still squeezing the salty tears from his eyes. Blinking away at the first blurry vision, he scanned the room.
His voice strained from his burning throat and dribbly lips, "Jack...?"
Earning no answer, he shrugged it off desperate to fetch himself a glass of water.
The reflection in the mirror startled him, unbelieving that the ghostly, sick figure staring back was himself.
"What the hell happened to me...?" He mouthed to himself, more than shocked. Deep maroon bags hung below his usual glittery gaze, lips chapped and bearing the remains of what lay in the trash bin. Sweaty and still light-headed, he rolled his neck back having the slightest hope that stretching would somehow wake him from this cosmetic nightmare.
"J-Jack... why are you doing this?"
"What do you mean?"
"You don't have to do this for me, Jack. I want you to want it, not feel obligated to please me.
I'm not Mario."
The words from the previous night swirled in his foggy mind, unable to recall anything after those words. Wait-JACK! The billionaire tore himself from his reflection to searching the bedroom once more, flinging the comforter off of his bedspread, twisting on his heels to run down the hallway.
"Alfred!"
He stopped to swing open two more bathroom doors to find them empty as well.
The balcony!
Swinging open the French doors to an empty Gotham skyline, he panicked.
Struggling through the house on a pair of jello legs, he hastily searched every room and window for the young man he had grown to love. A tight feeling bubbled up his throat into a cough-sob. His entire frame shook, the reality of the situation sucking his energy and thoughts into a mocking black hole.
He's gone...
He's fucking gone...
I should have known.
A timid voice in the back of his mind assumed the shoulder angel who cried out to him: Don't think like that... he's probably... just-
"...You should never underestimate that friend of yours." Alfred Pennyworth parked himself in the threshold of the living room, catching his frantic young master's attention. A small, nearly unnoticeable grin twitched at the corners of his lips, an apologetic and guilty expression etching itself into his features. The billionaire's hands groped at the sofa's leather arm rest as support, voice quivering out of his lips.
"What did you say?"
Alfred sighed, "He left you a message." The elder British man revealed a folded piece of paper from the lapel of his suit.
He trudged forward, nearly ripping the letter from his hands.
The butler shook his head as his voice trembled, feeling as if he had betrayed his master. "I'm sorry, he threatened your life if I hadn't let him go..." His apology was not even heeded or noticed; Bruce staring at the handwritten letter addressing himself:
"I apologize for the anesthesia, you might not feel too good when you wake up in a few hours. Drink water. For obvious reasons, I couldn't let you stop me. I started something, and now I have to end it once and for all. You have everything you've always needed right here. Don't be mad at the old fart, trust me. He didn't like it either. I owe you a good explanation; unfortunately, that can wait. There's something I need you to do for me. When you're dressed, visit the address on the back. - J"
He reached up, gently touching the back of his neck where he could feel the pinprick. The letter quivered in his hand, and he swallowed the huge lump in his throat. Bruce blinked away the swelling pools in his eyes, confronting the butler. "He gave this to you for me?" He voice nearly cracked.
Alfred bowed his head down, "Yes, sir."
Bruce bit his lip, shaking his head. Dammit, Jack... why? He crumpled the piece of paper in his hands, moving past his elder as he headed for his bedroom.
"What are you going to do?"
The brunet man was already pulling off his tee-shirt as he sauntered up the stairs, "I'm doing what he says."
Alfred nodded, "Should I look up directions?"
By the time the third hard 'thunk' happens, the Italian glances up from checking his bank balance. He sits himself completely still, breathing becoming more shallow as he allows his senses to recognize the situation. Another loud noise finds its way to his hearing. Suddenly alert, he scoots his roll-away desk chair back, opening up one of the drawers in his office only to pull out a black pistol. Quickly flicking off the safety, he rises to his feet.
A chorus of yells erupt from the floor below him, followed by gunshots.
He flinches as each round explodes from the chambers, blood spilling upon his home turf.
Alarmed green eyes widen in recognition turning his attention to the intercom on his desk.
"Shirlena? Shirlena... are you there?"
Cursing to himself, he cocks the gun and peeks his head out of the door. "Shirlena?"
An impending feeling of doom overwhelms him, understanding the situation in its fullest. A flash of violet and green confirm his suspicions. He gasped in absolute horror, slamming the door behind him and locking himself in the office. The barrel of the gun points at the entrance as he waits. Minutes pass, no other sounds heard.
He sucked in a deep breath, a clammy sweat gathering at his temples and armpits. The Joker would waltz in, or at least try to... and he would be shot dead before he could even take a step into Falcone's room. He smiled ou, t of fear to reassure himself that he was just here for a chat.
He could have killed me last time, so why did he not?
It's because he won't kill me... I am to important to him.
Right?
He heard the boots romping up the wooden staircase, slow, but adamant. He swallowed the tightness in his throat, blood boiling, pulse accelerating way past its limits. The steps reached the hardwood floor, audibly wandering around the level. And then, the boots stopped, as well as Mario Falcone's heart. His fingers squeezed at the trigger, ready to pump lead into his ex lover and child.
No... it's not a child. It's the seed of a demon.
A demon that has to be exorcised and cleansed.
The father, Lucifer... the fallen angel he had created would join it in Hell.
Shards of brass and aluminum exploded from the mahogany door, blowing a hole the size of a grapefruit through the splinters of where the padlock used to be. The Italian mobster jumps onto his feet, barely avoiding a round as it hovered mere inches from his skull.
Both hands clamped to the cold metal, he yanked back the trigger, firing shots into the door one after one, each sending splinters in every direction. He shot until the gun clicked, locking itself in an open position.
His mouth hung agape, hands shaking... the pistol falling to his desk with a clank. Hyperventilating, he looked towards the door, it groaning at its owner's abuse. A black boot followed by its twin kicked it open, Mario staring in defeat at the Joker and his blood red smile. He strode in calmly, looking upon the remains of the Italian's entrance. He smirked.
"You didn't like that door very much, did you?"
Mario stared at him, mentally browsing through the objects in his office that could be used as a weapon. The Joker smiled again, fingering the switchblade in his pocket. He waved around a pistol in the other hand, pointing its open end at the man's chest.
"Sit."
Falcone quickly followed suit, planting himself in the office chair. He looked through the ajar, destroyed door in frustration. Nobody had come, presumable all dead.
He clutched the arms of the chair, nearly breaking the off as the Agent of Chaos crossed the room over to his elder, previous mentor. The Joker stepped behind him, pressing the switchblade against his throat. The Italian swallowed again, the knife responding with a firmer pressure, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Mario... Mario... Mario." Jack shook his head laughing, "Tell me something, dear." He leaned in close, their cheeks touching- the clown's devilish grin grazing the Italian's stubble. "How... have you enjoyed fucking me all of these years, mmm?" He paused for a reply that would never be spoken.
"You've raaaaaped me-" He voice slurred the word hatefully, "Used me. Tossed me to the little pooches. And you... fucked me good and hard." A growl emitted from his red lips, slipping the knife away to let a trickle of blood flow.
"You agreed to it." Mario protested as the violet clad man strode around the room once more.
"Did I forget to mention... the stab wound? The 'promise' to kill me?"
He sunk further into his sear, eying the desk for anything.
"I wonder how your wife would react if she ever... found out."
That's when he spotted the same letter opener that had drawn his blood before...
Bruce Wayne stared at the address in his hands and the brass numbering at the top of the door of the small town home. He gazed around at the side of the city he had never seen. Old, rusted, and exactly the kind of place the Joker would lure him to. Somehow one of the names on the plaque outside sounded vaguely familiar.
"Sir, is everything alright?"
The young man turned around to see Alfred making his way up the stairs behind him. He smiled gently, glad someone was there for him
"Not staying with the car?"
"Not unless you'd like me to sir."
The billionaire shook his head, returning the same warm smile. "No. Thank you." Drawing in a deep breath, he knocked.
He strode around the room, circling the Italian once again with the green eyes watching him like a hawk. "I wonder what will happen with the Falcone crime family... after you and your faaaather, Maroni, The Chichen..." he snarled at the last word, dangling his knifed appendage over the crime lord's shoulder. "You failed your father's wishes, you failed your wife."
He motioned to the framed polariod on the desk, Mario gritting his teeth. "You've never done anything right."
He bit his tan lip, letting out a harsh whisper, "I made you."
Jack frowned, tangling his fingers within the black hair and yanking his head back to stare at him. "What was that?"
He gulped. "I made you."
Bursting into a fit of giggles, Jack laughed as he released the head roughly. "Oh, I'd give you credit... you-"
"You're just a freak. Nothing more than a freak."
The cool eyes bore into his own, halfway upset that he had been interrupted, the other mentally pleading for the Italian to seal his own fate.
Mario could feel rage swelling up inside of him, squeezing his fingers around the letter opener in his palm. He lunged-
"I will kill you... and that demon spawn with you!"
The worn cedar door squeaked open after two minutes of knocking, and elderly man in his late sixties standing in the doorway. He scratched at his white goatee and matching hair, squinting beneath his glasses. "Can I help you gentlemen?"
Bruce became doe-eyed and shied away, "I-I'm sorry... I think I have the wrong address."
The older man shrugged, "That depends. Are you Bruce?"
He froze at the mention of his name. "Y-yeah..."
"Bruce Wayne, eh?" He held out his hand in greeting, smiling through closed lips. Confused, the billionaire shook his hand. "I've been expecting to see you." He released, motioning towards Alfred. "Come on, come in..."
He ushered them into his house, taking a glance around before shutting the door and locking it.
He turned around, sharing a smile. "Take a seat." He offered up his sofa, snatching a few newspapers and magazines out of the way.
Bruce nodded to him in thanks.
"And I'm sorry... you are...?" He looked up cluelessly at Alfred.
The Butler exchanged a smile, "Alfred Pennyworth, sir."
He repeated the name to himself several times before lightening up once more. "Can I get either of you something to drink? I don't have much, maybe some pepsi, orange juice..."
Strangely feeling at ease, the billionaire relaxed his shoulders as he accepted the new hospitality. "Water is perfect."
Alfred and his young master exchanged uncertain looks and shrugged.
Why was this guy important again?
He snapped back to attention as the new host provided them with ice waters. Bruce cleared his throat, "I'm sorry... I don't think we've been introduced either."
"Oh!" He set the pitcher of water down, holding out his hand once more.
"You can call me Bill."
That was painful to write. I've been writing in class (somehow that's always the best time to write) and this was a lot longer in handwriting. Oh well. I hope you enjoy and that you don't hate me for my absence Dx Anyways, let me know what you guys think! I need all the inspiration I can get to fully rewrite all the chapters I have lost!