The Black Notebook Chapter 5, a batman fanfic

(The remainder of this notebook has been badly mutilated. Numerous pages have been ripped out. Others have been violently scratched out with a pen, rendered unreadable and in some cases torn to shreds. A few fragments of writing are all that is left. The most coherent are included here:)

Damn you, Superman. Damn you for catching me.

I'm making my home in a corner of the Batcave because the World's Great Heroes couldn't think of anywhere better to put me. Superman recognized me after he snatched me from my flight and apparently felt I bore watching. I don't much care.

This bit of the Batcave is nice considering B----, A-----, and J---- (the new Robin) are a bunch of stodgy old bachelors. I'm not supposed to know who they are but I do, and I let them know it so they could stop wearing those silly masks around me.

I want to go home but I don't have one.

Batman just left me. My God that man is sexy. Even if he could be my father. He was Batman when he came, not -----. He says he wants my help. I told him to go f-----------.

The fusty old man has cleaned my uniform.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My mask is staring at me. My cape is staring at me.

I don't know why I put a cape on this thing.

Every schoolchild playing Capes and Masks on the playground knows that capes are the good guys, and masks are the bad guys.

And the mask is saying that Bats is right, I should get dressed and go draw some blood. That would make me feel better. It doesn't even matter whose blood, as long as it's not clean.

I'm not quite sure what the cape is saying.

I just got off the phone with Candy. I explained the entire situation to her, and she said she was sorry. Empty fucking words. She'll take care of my things. That's her job. I just want her to do her job. I don't want to tell her I love her.

I went out with Bats tonight. It wasn't fun.

Robin knows how to make me smile.

Want to go home.

I'm feeling more useless by the hour.

Speaking of which, it's noon. Time for me to go.

Jason and Stephanie live in a very nice little apartment.

I arrived a little after 12:30 and knocked on the door. Jason answered. He was absolutely shocked to see me. (Probably because I was in costume.)

"Who is that?" said a disembodied voice that turned out to be Stephanie's. She appeared in the doorway and stared at me. I noticed she was wearing a very beautiful engagement ring. Oddly enough, I don't hate her for it. I would have, even a month ago.

I did, even a month ago.

I talked to them about-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Then I took off. My next stop was another old friend.

That good old Joker has changed locations, but he wasn't so hard to find. Then again, I know more about the situation than most.

I went past the guards unchallenged (though I'm sure they set off an alarm to let the boss know I was coming.) I had switched my mask for a half-mask and done the exposed part of my face with just a bit of geisha makeup…just to make him wonder. I must say I looked like a cross between one of the Joker's boys (we were all his "boys" except when it suited him to think of Harley or me as a woman) and an earless girl Batman. Very schizophrenic. I thought he would appreciate that.

I approached the throne. (Vain, isn't he?) Harley was doing lazy little cartwheels and such by his side, hiding the gun I knew she had. There were a couple of thugs who stepped back to guard the door, who didn't bother hiding their guns (but they weren't aiming at me yet, either.) And then, of course, the boss himself had God knows what on him. I was the only one unarmed in the room.

Riddler wasn't there. Either they haven't gotten together yet, or he skipped out. Or else Batman already got him. Always a possibility. Bats doesn't always tell me what he's up to. I guess I don't encourage him.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So, my little flapper has come back," he said. His grin suddenly turned into a scowl. "What do you want?" Frowning his hard for him to do, not to mention physically painful. He was pissed. (I guess I would be mad at me, too.) But if he stayed in a bad mood I knew I woulnd't get anywhere (except maybe Heaven. Or Hell.)

"I'm not the Flapper anymore, boss," I said. "Haven't you heard? My last official name was Esmeralda. I was thinking of being just Liss again, but I changed my mind. Or rather, my reasons changed positions. Now I've somehow landed the role of hero. Don't go for the gun; I'm not here to stop you. I'm not posing you any threat."

"Then what do you want?" he asked.

"I've come to ask a favor."

"You know, Chuckles, you're not giving me any good reason not to shoot you."

"Like reason has anything to do with you," I said. "Listen, boss…You know, I still can't get out of the habit of thinking of you as my boss. I never thanked you for it, but you taught me almost everything I know."

"Almost?"

"Yeah, almost. You never taught me about revenge." The guards put their guns away, and Harley settled to sit at the boss's feet. Why that was a signal for them to relax I don't know…but apparently it was.

"Really?" the boss said. "I would have thought all that double-crossing we did in those good old days would have taught you something." He grinned again, fondly reminiscing.

"That taught me about betrayal, not revenge. You want to hear a story, boss?"

"Yeah," he said, sitting back in his throne. "Tell us a story."

"Once upon a time, there was a girl named Liss. She was a very normal girl, until she was kidnapped and held captive by the Joker. At that time, she tried hard not to let anyone know it, and she didn't quite understand herself, but she knew that life wasn't really worth it. Yet living with the Joker made her oddly happy. He made her smile. Life was worth living. But she couldn't decide which life. Did she belong with her friends who cared about her, in the world of Batman who would become a father figure? Or did she belong with the criminals who didn't really give a damn but sure made things interesting, in the world of the Joker who would also become a father figure? She played both sides and found that neither was right for her. She took what she had learned and moved on, building her own criminal empire, with the loyalty of thousands of homeless kids all over the world. She stole billions of dollars' worth of jewels, and earned the support of the populace by giving most of it away. She was never caught by the police, although she had enough close calls to keep things real. She tangled with Superman once and got beat to bloody hell, but she survived it. He didn't even take her in. She was lucky. She went to Italy to recover, and there she met a little lost boy and took him in and loved him. It was love, you see. He made her smile not because he was particularly interesting, but because he loved her and she loved him. She decided to live happily ever after. They were on their way to retirement when he was murdered. And I want my revenge."

He laughed, just a little. I was smiling as hard as I could.

"That's an interesting story, Flappie. But it doesn't quite tell me why you came to me for help."

I burst into tears then. Stupidest move I could have made, to cry in front of this guy. He liked me because he could make me laugh, and because I could make him laugh. That's why I'm still alive. Not because of any real emotions. Just because of a shared laugh where two sane people would have had…I don't know, something else.

"I just want to know if it was you." I couldn't look at him. "If you had anything to do with it, if you found out where I was and decided to come after me…I just want to know before I die."

"Hey, Flappie," he said. I looked up at him then, still crying, knowing he was about to shoot me or hit me with the Joker venom or do something even worse that would somehow make me giggle before I bit the big one.

He wasn't smiling. He wasn't angry. I can't even write down what I thought I saw in his face.

"I didn't do it," he said. "You know my work. How can you even think I would do something so utterly lacking in a good punchline? There's no laugh to be had from sinking your ship and leaving you alive. I was just going to leave you with a smile on your face."

"So you did have plans to kill me." It was almost a relief. "Now?" His face relaxed into its morbid grin.

"Now's good for me. Is it good for you?"

"I did have something I wanted to do first. You know, the vengeance. I was sort of hoping you could find out for me exactly who it is I'm mad at, here. Because Batman won't do it for me. He'd like to save me, the doofus. I don't know why, but he actually wants to save me. He's coming for you, by the way. I didn't tell him where to find you, but he's very interested in tracking you and the Riddler down. He'll be here, eventually."

"Because of information you gave him, regarding a partnership. Information you got from Smitty, am I right?"

"Yeah." Why lie? They found Mr. Smith's body in the Gotham River last week, so there's no more protecting him, is there?

"And after that, and everything else, you have the audacity to come here asking me for a favor?" He cackled. "That's why I like you, Chuckles. You may not have more balls than brains, but you make a darn good show of it." He stopped laughing. "What'll you give me if I help you?"

"I won't tell you who Batman is, and I won't kill him or get you close enough to do it yourself. He's put an awful lot of trust in me, and I won't betray that. But ask me for anything else, and I'm yours."---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Lot of things you could call it, boss," I said. "Say I thought you might help me out for old time's sake. You're not that sentimental, but maybe I might be that dumb. Say maybe you owe me something. I haven't been keeping track of the wrongs and rights, but maybe there's something you'd like to square. Say I know your nature, or at least as much of it as anyone ever will. Maybe you'd like to do something unpredictable, freak the Bat a little. Say I haven't been smiling since I lost my boy, and I know how much you hate it when people stop smiling. Say I'm in this to win, but I don't care what happens after. Maybe even if you don't give me anything, you'll do for me what Superman wouldn't let me do for myself. In fact, I know you will. You were already thinking of it."

He thought about it.

"Do something nice for someone, eh? Harley, get me a cape."

So the boss didn't kill me. Interesting. I wonder why. Warm feelings? Yeah. That's a laugh. Maybe because I asked him to. He was just being contrary. I'm afraid I've lost my faith in the other option.

Batman was furious when I got back. Worried just like my father, demanded to know where I'd been and what I'd been doing. I told him everything. Why lie?

He did catch the Riddler. Put him back in Arkham.

Told me not to go back to the Joker unless I was planning to stay. Sounded just like my mother.

They're dead, you know. My parents.

I seem to have only two emotions: sad and off. Just now, off.

You know, I went back and edited these things. For Mark. What if he went back and read the notebooks? I'd hate to be the one who taught him the F word. So I Xd them out and sometimes wrote new things in their places.

So what does that mean? That bowdlerization is a waste of time because we're all going to die anyway?

I feel like dropping F-bombs all up and down this page. But since this is almost the end of the page, I could only drop a few. And I don't really feel like it. Maybe someday some kid will read this and then I will have corrupted some kid who should have been Mark but wasn't.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to clean up my act or be a good role model for the kiddies, or anything. I still like to steal stuff, or at least I think I would. I'll still kill anyone I have to, anyone I should. I'm just lazy, in part. Lazy and tired, and I don't like the way the world is going anymore. I don't want to make it worse.

I don't want anything anymore.

I don't want anything.

Not one single thing.

I don't even want my revenge.

So here I am, staring at a bottle of sleeping pills.

My absorption with sleeping pills didn't go unnoticed. Batman and I just had a nice heart-to-heart. Good old Batty. It's almost like he's my friend. Or my father. Papa Bat.

He has such a sob story. Lost his parents as a little boy. Grew up oh-so-alone. Dedicated his life to avenging their deaths. But no amount of pounding on bad guys could ever bring them back. Holding on to the darkness never brought him back to the light. He couldn't keep his surrogate children, either.

Poor Caped Crusader. His sad, sad story has reaffirmed my faith in living.

Excuse me while I go away and vomit.

I'm no adventurer. I never have been and I never will be. I'm happy in the world I know—it isn't safe, but at least I know it. But you can't listen to all this babble without getting a little caught up in it.

I do feel a little better now. Thanks, Batman, for your awkward attempt at being my father figure.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Life is nothing more than riding the waves. We win, we lose, we live, we die.

They're here. Celia, Steph, Jason. They all showed up this morning. Bunch of damned idiots. ----- told them I was staying with him. Thought it would cheer me up to see my friends again. He doesn't get it.

I'll feel better when they go away.

Celia. My beautiful, witty friend who deserves a long and successful life. Jason. My green-eyed might-have-been who maybe, someday, still could be, I still believe in spite of everything. Stephanie. My too-sweet…friend…who I want to hate…but I can't quite bring myself to do it.

(The bitch.)

I wish they would just go.

Reading a book. Saw a photo of Mars. It looks…like Mars. What can I say? It's Mars. That's what it is. A sunny (but probably cold) Martian afternoon.

It's so alien. And yet…so familiar. Seeing the pictures brought me all the way back to fifth grade, and the Alien Group.

There were nine of us. Me, Celia, Amber, Corey, Nicole, Frances, Heather, Rachel, and Michelle. We each came from a different planet (and Frances came from the moon) to study Earth and report back to our parents. We were all space princesses, of course. Half the group was fighting for the longest time over who got to be from Mars. Nicole seized on it first, and Celia followed right after. I laid my claim next mainly to spite Celia. I loved to fight with her. We used to scream creative sexual insults at each other just for fun. She was the best, that tramp! That trollop! That demimondaine! That lady of the night! That BIFFER!

Damn, where did that come from? I'm crying.

I hate this goddamn place. Nowhere to cry alone.

At least nobody bothers me when I'm writing. When I sit just right, on the floor with my knees up, notebook against them, head bent so my hair hides everything.

When I was in high school and I got my first job, I started wearing my hair up. Then I had to learn to be stoic in public.

Have I lost that discipline?

Someone's coming. Have to write. Have to look busy.

But I don't have much left to say. Every time I try to write something, I wind up remembering and crying. I hate myself for this. I have lost my discipline. I'm a wuss. But damn it, all my memories hurt. Everything hurts. I'm ignoring you, Batman.

The Bat took me out for a ride in the Batplane (afterburners rock) and we had a serious little chat.

I think I hate him like I used to hate my parents. Best interests, my ass.

It isn't nice to hate.

I swear to God, I can't take all this pseudo-parenting crap. All this smothering "guidance" and "protection." The friendly little chats. He's teaching me to drive, for god's sake. My real dad didn't even do that.

Once upon a time. ONCE UPON A TIME. I'm sick of "once upon a time!" There is no time, and if there ever was, I was not upon it. This is no fairytale. There! Are! No! Fairies!

Magical powers notwithstanding. I don't have any, now do I?

Once upon a time. Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Mark. A little boy named Mark who had just lost his last baby tooth. A little boy named Mark who liked to cook scrambled eggs. A little boy named Mark who couldn't handle himself after a chocolate ice cream cone. A little boy named Mark who wanted desperately to be grown-up. A little boy named Mark who liked to tell his surrogate mommy that he loved her.

That he loved her. A little boy named Mark.

What was he? And why did he come to me? Why was I allowed to love someone that much? Who sent him here? And why? And why was he taken away?

No, I will not whine about that. It's my fault. I killed him, you know, I know, and no amount of asinine questioning will take away my own responsibility.

Batman's a cruddy father figure, and I'm a cruddy mother. I let my boy die when he should have lived, and the Bat's making me live when I want to die. But I guarantee, the minute I do decide to live and be happy, something will kill me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Blah.

Thinking of the future. No more of that, stupid. Wallow in the past if you must, but don't you dare think of the future.

I want…

Still wondering…

What?

Tired of waiting for my answer. I'm going to go get cross-eyed and burn myself with hot glue. And then I'll try to eat my weight in M&Ms.

So many of these heroes have stories about overcoming adversity. Wonder Woman is an exile. Her sister-person Troia was kidnapped and forced to reincarnate and die horrid deaths, over and over. Raven's demon father raped her human mother. Superman's planet exploded. Only he and his dog were left alive. That's right, his dog. And his cousin Supergirl, I guess.

Well, so. I guess we're the advocates of lost causes and tragic pasts. Yeah, why not. We.

Maybe I'll do better this way.

Hi! I'm writing in my fucking "journal."

All my life I've thought about God. There is a god. There is not a god. Is there a god?

Now I know I don't care if there's a god or not. If there's not, fine. One less thing I'll have to deal with. And if there is, fat lot of good it'll do me down here. He isn't going to intervene. He doesn't reach His finger down to stir shit into my life. And he doesn't reach down to pluck me out of trouble, either. Unlike a real parent, this supposed Heavenly Father is willing to let me fuck things up for myself. Is that because he believes in me, or because he doesn't give a damn, or because he doesn't exist?

God doesn't give a damn. That's a good one.

Shit.

Nothing feels right.

(There is a gap of several pages. Those toward the end have been neatly removed. The final page, however, is completely intact.)

I'm ready to leave now. I've learned, I've grown, I've recovered. I still don't feel right, but I think I'm as "better" as I'm going to get.

I don't know where I'm going to go or what I'll do when I get there. But I can't stay here anymore. I'll never forget you, Bats. I'll never stand against you. You're a good man.

I'll actually miss you.

I hope God will watch over you. I really do.

As for me, who knows?

There's got to be something left to do.

Author's note: Thank you for reading, everyone! This is the end of the original series. I started a fifth Notebook, but scrapped it when I decided the idea was too silly. Having just watched the web cartoon, Gotham Girls, I guess the idea wasn't so silly after all...but my execution was less than stellar. Go watch the third season of Gotham Girls to see it done well.

After a break of more than two years, another Notebook came out of the ether and insisted on being written. So in August and September 2006, Liss was a part of my life again. It came as quite a surprise, I can tell you. I consider these a separate series, since they go off in a wildly different direction than The Pink Notebook (abandoned late in 2004) and the original ending of The Black Notebook, regarding the identity of the killer.

(By the way, whoever you think it was, you're probably wrong.)

Apologies for the truth-bending in the disclaimer. Not all good things must come to an end...at least, not yet.

Jesteress, you rock!

And so does everyone else who's been reviewing so faithfully. You know, this is all for you.

Now, go read The Mildewed Notebook.