Part Ten (2): Where We End - The Aftermath

It's been a while, readers! First of all, I apologize that I haven't updated in a while. Inspiration for this story eluded me and it came down to the point that I needed to take the story in a different direction to find my Muse again. Originally, something vastly different was going to happen after the trial but I've updated so many things. I hope you like where this is going. And for any new readers, welcome! I hope you enjoy the story! Thanks to anyone who has waited for this update! :)

Also, thanks to the reader who pointed out the problem with Bane's method of getting nutrition. I was so unsure of how in the world Bane would eat and somehow came up with this. Sorry for the mistake, readers! I will update again with a new, less hazardous way of Bane eating in the future. For now, enjoy!

My lawyer drops me off at my apartment complex without so much as a goodbye before he drives off to celebrate his victory with his equally greasy friends. I watch his dusty black vehicle fly off down the road before I turn to look at the two lumpy buildings that make up Dusk Falls Apartments. Their gloomy, brown, dilapidated forms welcome me back without so much as a smile. It's already evening, so a few lighted windows wink at me from up above, but as usual, there isn't much activity going on here.

I rub at my upper arms and walk the stretch of parking spaces that it takes to get me into the building that contains my little unit. The man behind the counter barely spares me a glance over his newspaper. It's not raining today so my clean shoes offer no threat to his freshly waxed tile floors. He coughs, the only sign that he's noticed my entrance, but doesn't look up from his newspaper.

I glance at the front of the paper and feel my heart freeze when I see yet another colored photo of me at Club Gothix. Skin, dark hair, and passionate hands wave at me from the bright photo on the front page of the newspaper. My cheeks are on fire as I hurry across the lobby and dash up the stairs.

Once I'm safely inside of my apartment with the door locked behind me, I let out a breath of relief. I glance around my apartment and pull off my black blazer and sling it over the back of my couch. I pull my hair out of its stiff bun and shake my hair loose, mildly noting that the humidity in the courtroom has caused my hair to get frizzy. I step out of my heels at the door and continue walking, heading towards my bathroom down the short hallway. Out of habit, I close the door behind me and then face the mirror that's above the sink.

The tired girl in the mirror stares back at me. Two trails of tears that are made black and gooey by mascara roll down her ashen cheeks. Her lips are sagging in a perpetual, frown. Her wide eyes are dull, lifeless, guilt-ridden… just two red-rimmed circles with irises that share the same color as mud. Her whole body is slumped over, like an inflatable funhouse that's slowly losing its air. A hospital band is wrapped around her thin wrist. She gently touches one of the many discolored bruises that litter her face and winces.

The sudden pain makes it click: she is me. After such a horrible weekend, I'm surprised I don't look worse, really.

It's not so hard to take the make-up off my face or shower away all signs of sweat and dirt, but getting rid of the bruises and the tiny scabs or the empty, guilty feeling that's eating away at me from the inside out seems like it's going to be impossible.

I shuffle out of the bathroom, wrapped in generous amounts of steam and a fluffy towel, then change into my pajamas. It's not even 3:00P.M. yet. I ease down on the sofa in the living room like I'm under a spell. The ceiling fan's blades travel their rickety, circular path above my head; the "thk, thk, thk" sound they make is the only other noise in the apartment unit besides my shaky breathing. Every fiber of my being wants me to stay on this couch and just stare at the walls. I don't want to look at the bruises on my body, the cuts trailing down my skin. I don't want to move. I don't want to think. I don't know what I should do anymore. My life, as pitiful as it is, isn't in my hands anymore. Really, has it ever been?

But, I'm okay. I have to be. I've been alone before and I can do it again. I'm not weak. I don't need friends. I don't need company. As soft and warm as this sofa is, I know sitting here isn't going to do squat besides force me to relive that horrible scene in the courthouse and I don't want to think about that again. I can't.

For the next few hours, I'm all over my apartment, trying to escape reality by hustling from room to room and focusing on the trivial and mundane tasks that "needed" to be done. While my phone blasts my favorite Spotify playlist, I clean the ten dishes that I own, toss old food from the fridge into the trash bin, sweep and mop the kitchen floors, rearrange the dishware in my cabinets, vacuum my living room, remove traces of broken glass and splintered wood that remained from the time the apartment was trashed by the Abolishers, and dust anything that looks even remotely gray. I throw clothes in the washer, then in the dryer, then sit and fold for who knows how long. A few times I catch myself crying, and the soft crying quickly morphs in choking sobs, but after a few minutes, I'm okay. I'm okay. I swallow down my sadness, push away my tears as quickly as I can, and continue cleaning.

When I run out of things to clean, I stand in the center of the living room, hands clutching tightly to the vacuum's handle, red eyes darting about for something, anything else to get my hands on.

I should clean Bane's … I mean, the spare room, shouldn't I? There's no one living there anymore. Can't have stuff in there that doesn't belong in my apartment.

I walk down the hallway to the familiar door, where all of Bane's belongings lurk. A tentative hand goes on the door. A few moments pass and I still haven't moved a muscle to open the door. Now I realize that there's something wet dripping on the floor near my feet. I blink at the damp marks. More water comes spilling from my eyes and lands on the floor. More crying. I can't do this.

I push away from the door and head back to the living room, leaving Bane's room untouched for now. I sit back on the couch and stare at the blank television screen. My phone's battery must have died while I was in the hallway because it's quiet in the living room now.

"Thk, thk, thk," goes the ceiling fan. The silence in the house, so peaceful when Bane was here and before Bane ever came here, now seems like it's the loudest sound in the world, ripping apart the very foundation of the apartment building, ready to let the rubble come crashing down around me.

But I'm okay. This is for the best. Bane will be with someone who isn't a complete disaster and I'll be free to continue my life without being in the limelight. Normalcy has returned to me. Funny … I don't recall my "normal" feeling so enormously empty.

Sound, I need sound. I reach blindly for the television remote that's on the nearby coffee table and press the "power" button, knocking some of Bane's thick textbooks to the carpeted floor while doing so.

"You klutz," I scold myself aloud. I don't like the sound of my voice. It sounds whining, unsteady, weak. Like I'm on the verge of tears again.

I'm reaching down to pick the books off the floor when the sound of a familiar voice starts blaring from the television set.

"After one of the shortest and most nontraditional trials in the history of Gotham City, Miss Valencia Gale Paisley has been relieved of her position as Bane's caregiver and transitional assistant."

Forgetting the books, I look up at the television to see Candace Weaver staring back at me. Her expression is prideful, her bright lips curved in a taut sneer.

"The trial was brief and, after viewing some distasteful photos of Paisley taken on a wild night out at a popular nightclub, the jury was inclined to remove Paisley from her position. Jury members found her 'unfit' and 'too young' to oversee such a sensitive situation and the presiding judge agreed. Reports are now saying that Bane has been extracted from Paisley's home and is now awaiting a decision by the jury as to what his future may hold."

I cover my mouth as the photos that were shown already to an entire courtroom are now broadcast on television for the world to see. I rub my bruise-ridden arms and squeeze my eyes shut against the terrifying reminders onscreen.

Candace's voice continues on. "The beginning of this parent-child relationship that GCPD tried to foster between Paisley and Bane was shaky. Bane reportedly requested a quiet home to complete his transitional period in. Furthermore, he asked that the number of occupants be low. Paisley's name was drawn out of a pool of citizens who matched Bane's request. Although many thought the 20 year old would immediately reject this request, the world was surprised when she accepted. For the past three months, Paisley and Bane have been living together. Of course, problems arose, as was foreseen by many political figures of the city."

"Paisley and Bane were part of a high-speed chase and car pile up near the Westward bridge in late October, a horrible act that put countless people in the hospital. They were also connected to the brutal beating of Officer Sai Rolfe back in September, although Officer Rolfe has declined to verify these claims. Paisley also ignited a riot within the nightclub where the previous photos were taken. Although some clubgoers reported that Bane was also on the scene, officers have avidly refuted these claims."

That's strange … The officers were the ones who drew the guns on Bane in the first place. Why would they now say they hadn't saw him?

"The partnership between Paisley and Bane has been filled with turmoil and has caused the city thousands of dollars in reparations. Fortunately, it seems as though the failed decision of GCPD has finally been rectified. People around the world are now calling for the execution of the dangerous terrorist."

I open my eyes. My shaking hand tightens around the remote. "No," I whisper.

Candace's sneer falls into a dissatisfied scowl. "However, it seems as though other citizens of Gotham, some of whom say they were "touched" by the times they saw Bane and Paisley in public together, are offering their houses as transitional homes for Bane to slowly reenter society. Among these newest candidates, the most vocal is Dr. Harleen Quinzel, a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum known for her work with felons such as The Joker and The Riddler."

The screen switches to live footage of another woman. She's standing on the steps of the courthouse that I recently left, addressing the hundreds of reporters and cameramen that flank her. Her white lab coat sways in the wind as she glares defiantly at the bloodthirsty crowd from her behind thick-rimmed glasses.

"I believe that Valencia G. Paisley had the right idea," Dr. Quinzel says. Her voice is powerful, authoritative, her eyes steady. "She knows that any person is capable of change. I believe that Bane is capable of that same change. That is why I offer my home for him to continue his rehabilitation."

A relieved laugh escapes me. A doctor! What better person to help Bane than a licensed psychiatrist? I'm so blissful that I almost miss Candace's next words.

"…. Although some have speculated that the generous payment from GCPD is a big factor of why anyone would wish for a known murderer to stay in their homes with them."

"Oh, shut up!" I yell at the TV. I push the "power" button and Candace flickers away. I toss the remote onto the other side of the couch and flop backwards. That's when every fiber in my being freezes.

Payment … What if Bane hears about the incentive? Did he know that I was getting paid to keep him in my home? Will he think that that's the only reason I wanted him here? It's bad enough that he saw those pictures of me; what will he think of me once he hears there was a payment behind keeping him here?

Someone knocks on my door then. An urgent pounding followed by, "Rose, open up! It's me."

I know who it is. That flowery nickname only traveled so far after I got stuck with it. I go to the door and look through the peephole anyway.

The good detective stands outside of my apartment. His forehead is creased with worry and he's got purple circles beneath his brown eyes. Wow, I've never seen him in such casual clothes, either. He's got arms under those long dress shirts he's always wearing. I'd crack a joke about them … But I can't smile right now.

"Rose, please. Open up," Blake nearly begs. "I really want to talk to you about everything. I need your perspective on things."

I don't reach for the doorknob.

Blake waits a little, sees the door isn't opening, and tries again.

"Rose, I know you're doing all of this for a reason. I want to help you. And I want you to help me. To understand. Bane doesn't even understand what's happening. Don't you think he deserves to know something? He just lost one of the only friends he has in this city."

I slide the bolt out of the latch, twist the doorknob's lock to the right and pull open the door. Blake and I stare at one another, each a mirror for how tired the other person is.

"Good evening," Blake says after a few seconds have passed.

"Bane hasn't lost me," I tell him. My voice is dull. "You and him have done more for me than anybody else in this entire city so I'll always be there for you both, in one way or another. I just wanted to do something for him, for once."

Blake chews at his bottom lip, still watching me. He nods at the living room behind me.

"Mind if I come in for a second, ma'am?"

I step back and open the door wider, allowing the detective to step past me and into my apartment. He looks around.

"It's cleaner than I've ever seen it before in here," he notes. I almost get offended, but he's right—I do tend to let things pile up over time.

Blake looks at a bouquet of drooping red roses that's in a vase on the living room table. I'd nearly forgotten about them.

"Who gave you the flowers?" Blake asks. "They're nice."

After closing and re-locking my door, I go over to the red roses and pluck them out of their vase. With tears blurring my vision, I take them over to my already near-full trash bin and deposit the bundle of decaying red inside.

"Not really," I say as I look at the small cut that a thorn had given me on my forefinger. It joined the rest of the abrasions on my skin. I turn away to look out of the black window beside my television. "What are you here for, Blake?"

"Because this isn't you," Blake says. "You're not the smiling, sweet girl I always see when I come in here. This whole thing is tearing you up on the inside, I can tell. It's not too late to change things. We can get Bane back for you."

I feel my heart jump. I clutch at my chest. Calm down, Valencia. This isn't the time to be weak and hopeful.

"Why does Bane have to be in my care, Blake?" I ask, while spinning around to face him. "He has a professional psychiatrist who is willing to help him! Don't you think that's better than some silly, smiling, ditzy idiot who can't keep her dress on? Who gets kidnapped? Who causes good people, like you, to get hurt? I don't want to be the reason Bane fails his rehabilitation, detective. And I don't want you to risk your career on me. I'm … I'm not worth it. I can't live up to those expectations."

"Rose, you shattered my expectations!" Blake steps towards me. "You took Bane in when anyone else would have gotten an appeal and had him sent anywhere else but their home."

I snort. "Yeah, any sane person."

"That's not it at all, Rose. You have a good heart. You saw past his mask and his past and opened up to him. You helped him see the good in a Gotham citizen. He cares about you, even if he doesn't show it much."

I smile a little bit but it immediately dies. "That's what I wanted, was for him to see that not all of us are bad. I didn't think I'd start to really care for him, though. I mean, he's one of my closest friends now. One of my only, really."

Blake smiles. "Aren't you forgetting me?" he says, almost shyly.

I smile and this time it stays for a while longer. "But being friends with him just makes it so much harder to see him weather my mistakes and then clean up the pieces. This could all be so much easier for him if he was under someone else's care."

"Maybe you're right," Blake says. "But I just don't think Bane is going to see it that way. I think he's going to take this as you're tired of him. That you've given up on him. He told me you said he was making it hard for you to live your life as a college student."

Ah, shoot. I did say that.

"I only said that to make him forget about me more easily," I nearly sob. Oh no, the tears are coming back. I turn back around to face the window. "Can't he just forget about me?"

"Dunno. Will you be able to forget about him that easily?"

My shoulders slump a bit. "Of course not. I just … I don't know what to do. This is so much bigger than anything I've ever had to face before and it feels like if I mess it up, Bane's going to suffer."

"Looks to me like you're both suffering right now."

I heave a sigh that's part relief and part anger at myself. I've been so stupid. I could have handled this so much better but I just felt cornered, with no other options.

"I really want to talk to him," I admit. "Could I do that? Let him know that I don't hate him?"

Blake grins. "Yeah, I can definitely do that. We can go to Arkham tomorrow and arrange to talk to him."

"Arkham?" I nearly yell. "They put him in Arkham Asylum?!"

Blake steps back a little. "Yes, they had no other choice—"

"We need to go there, now!" I urge Blake. I throw my blazer on over my pajamas, step into my flip flops that are near the door and start ushering Blake out of my apartment.

"Right now?" Blake asks as I try to guide him out of the door. "Visiting hours are over!"

"That's alright, I can persuade them with those smiles you were talking about or you can flash your badge and that handsome smile of yours! No one's going to turn us away!"

"Handsome? Miss Rose, I'm, uh, flattered."

As I'm locking the door behind us, I turn to look at the pretty-boy detective who seems shocked to hear that I called him handsome.

"Seriously, Blake?" I asked. "Whenever we're together, it seems like girls and guys are tripping over themselves to be near you. It's not just your personality, although that's really great, too." I give him a big smile and then turn and start rushing down the stairs. After a brief pause, I hear Blake following after me, and he's laughing to himself.

"Hey! No running in the lobby area!" the man at the front desk yells behind Blake and I as we rush out of the lobby. We hurry to Blake's squad vehicle, the beautiful Camaro I had the luxury of driving to the abandoned skyscraper a few months ago. We jump in and Blake hurriedly starts the car.

Country music, loud, twanging, and filled with string instruments, starts blaring at nearly full volume. I startle while Blake turns it down as quickly as he can. Silence follows.

"Country music?" I ask.

Blake chuckles. "Don't judge."