Christineoftheopera-I do not celebrate Easter for...religious reasons. Which means that he hates it and has spent several of them targeting churches. But yeah, they are bad. Sickeningly...happy. But with no jelly beans. Forgive me for having no happy childhood memories of Easter. I seem to recall a good one in college. With the Playboy outfit! You had to bring that up, didn't you. I might still have it somewhere, actually.
Johanna Crane-How do you think I feel? I still remember that story. You never told me that. I can't tell it like she did. Couldn't you try? No. It wouldn't be the same. There was something about the, 'is there a moral to this story or is she just trying to scar me for life?' that added so much. You have yet to scar me for life, love. I compensate with half of Gotham. You're good at that, aren't you. Of course.
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-Fear is a powerful motivator, and young children will believe anything. Boogeyman legends exist to keep them in line: threats of 'eat your supper or Bloody Bones will get you' can be astoundingly effective. You're adorable when you go all Professor on people. Sometimes I thought I should have been a teacher...but then I remembered that I despise idiots.
He comes to with the feeling that he's being watched. Perhaps he's dreaming? Perhaps not.
He opens his eyes and sees nothing but the blackness of his bedroom. Nothing. Just the remnants of a nightmare, then. He's fine.
There's a low rustling in the doorway and he squeezes his eyes shut again. Slowly, hoping he looks as though he's still asleep, he rolls over and cracks his eyes open again. He can't see very well, but he can see enough to know that there's a tall, thin blur at his door.
Granny.
She does this sometimes, checks on him late at night to make sure he's not doing anything. What he could possibly be doing at this hour is a mystery to him, but she is completely insane.
She's never come in, as far as he knows, and she never stays long, but that doesn't make it any less creepy.
The rustling comes in. Why is she coming in? Oh, god, what's she doing? Surely she hasn't found his hiding place…
He feels her looming over him and tries to make his breathing slow and deep. What does she want, why did she come in…
For one long, agonizing minute she stands there, looking at him. Then the rustling turns and leaves, shutting his door on the way out.
What was that about?
He shivers and wraps the blankets around himself a little more. He hates it when she does that. He could stand it, maybe, if she would wake him up, shout at him…anything but just stand there and stare.
His heart is still pounding against his ribs and not for the first time, he wishes one of them-preferably her-would drop dead.
THE END