Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

The sound of a clock ticking was the only thing that could be heard in the room. It was almost deafening.

You slouched in your seat, then drew yourself back upright, frowning at the posters lining the walls of the office, how they listed all the ways to get help and support, the overly philosophical quotes, and all of the therapist's achievements over the course of her career.

The therapist in front of you had her dark brown hair tied together in a perfect bun, a pair of black rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and deep green, serene eyes. Her name was Rose Anderson. Her lips were pressed together in a tight line as she awaited a response from you.

You really didn't want to be here right now.

"You've been awfully quiet, is there something on your mind?" she asked, raising a brow.

"I don't want to talk about it," you mumbled, looking away from her gaze that still appeared soft but you wondered if she was starting to lose her patience with you.

This was your second therapy session and you barely said more than three sentences to the woman. Leslie made you attend therapy because she knew how much you were struggling emotionally, given the awful circumstances. She wanted you to talk about your feelings because it seemed as though you could hardly look at her or Jim without breaking down in tears. You knew Leslie meant well and that she was doing what she thought was right for you, but sometimes Mother doesn't always know best.

"This is a safe space. Everything we talk about here will be strictly between us, completely confidential. I just want you to remind you of that," she reassured.

"That's nice and dandy, but I didn't even want to be here. My mom is making me, so I don't have much of a choice," you said with a shrug of your shoulders.

"Let's talk about that. Why don't you want to be here?" she asked, her hands clasped together on her lap.

"I don't want to be here because I don't see the point. Talking about things isn't going to fix the problem, it's still going to be there, and it's not going to make me feel any better letting a stranger know what's going on in my life," you admitted.

"What do you want?" she questioned, a concerned expression on her face.

"You know what I want? I want everyone to fuck off. I want everyone to leave me alone and stop asking me how I'm feeling, if I'm okay. I'm not," you answered bluntly.

"I understand where you're coming from, and I know that trust is something that has to be built, but I can assure you that talking about what you're feeling can help, it will help. Bottling up your emotions, repressing them does not," she said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah but at least it beats this," you whispered, fighting through the constricting lump in your throat. "I rather just not talk about it. It doesn't feel worth it."

"If you let me help you, I think I can surprise you," she urged, offering up a small smile.

"Thanks, but I'm good. It's nothing against you, I just don't think I'm up for chatting," you said, staring off into space at nothing in particular.

"From what I heard, you went through something very traumatic. I understand that you might be feeling guilty, angry, hurt, frustrated. But I think I should remind you that it's not your fault what happened to you or your parents," she told you.

"Yeah, but it doesn't really matter what you think," you scoffed. "You don't know what happened, you weren't there. You don't know what I've been through, what my parents have been through. Don't act like you know how I'm feeling, I don't even know everything that I'm feeling!"

"Okay, let's start with that. Tell me what you're feeling and why you're feeling the way you do, at least try," she started.

"Think of every negative emotion out there and times it by ten, and there's your answer," you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

She nodded her head, urging you to continue.

"I don't even know where to begin! I just spend every moment of every day thinking of every horrible thing that has happened to me and to them and all the horrible things that could still happen and I hate it! It's consuming me and there's nothing I can do about it! I have to live with myself, I have to keep going and I can't catch a fucking break! How can you move on when the worst things have happened and you know there's still more to come? What do you have to change inside of you to be able to survive that? How? I'm completely powerless. There! Are you happy?" you spat, your chest heaving as you tried to catch you breath.

"It's okay. It's okay to let out everything you're feeling, no matter what it is. You're allowed to be angry. Anyone in your situation would be and there's nothing wrong with that," she sympathized.

You shook your head and scoffed again. "You don't get it. I'm a horrible person. I'm just as bad as him."

"You're just as bad as who?" she asked, brows raised in question.

You couldn't even say his name. "You know who."

"I think it would be helpful if you weren't so vague," she answered.

"Jerome. That's who. I'm just as bad as him," you whispered under your breath.

"How are you just as bad as him? You don't have malicious intentions, you don't wish harm on others and actively seek it out. You're not a killer," she said, reminding you.

"I am a killer," you corrected.

"Take a breath. Take a deep breath and tell me why you believe that," she said with an unreadable expression.

"I killed those cops. I know you heard about that. I killed them. It's my fault they're dead," you murmured, needing to say those words out loud. "It's my fault that they didn't come home that day. It's my fault their loved ones are grieving. It's my fault that they will never see the sun rise again. It's my fault that they aren't breathing. That's on me. Not Jerome, not anybody else. It's on me," you confessed, meeting her gaze.

"You didn't kill those cops. Jerome did. That's why there's a manhunt on him and a warrant for his arrest. He's the killer. You're the victim," she explained.

"I am not the victim! Please don't call me that. I never was. I'm still not. I'm just as despicable as he is. That's what you don't get. That's what my parents don't get," you said, feeling sick to your stomach.

"You're not like him. You feel guilt, remorse, shame. You never wanted any of this. You're not to blame for the horrible crimes he committed," she told you. She was trying to comfort you but nothing she said made you feel better.

"I don't know what they told you, but I am to blame. I did a lot of shit I never should have done. I'm a fucking idiot," you laugh brokenly to yourself, tears starting to cloud your vision. "I just thought – I thought that maybe..."

"You thought... ?" she probed.

You didn't answer.

Your eyes wandered off to the clock.

"You thought maybe what?"

"I think time's up. Sorry," you said, looking back at her with a frown.

"We still have more time," she replied, glancing at the clock. By the time she looked back you already stood up and shut the door behind you.

So much for talking about your feelings. What were Jim and Leslie thinking? This wasn't going to help you. If anything, it was only going to make everything worse. You didn't want to relive what happened to someone who didn't understand, not when that night had been playing in your head on a loop every second that you weren't awake, and you weren't getting a wink of sleep. No, you couldn't sleep, even though that's what all you really wanted to do nowadays. You couldn't do anything. You tried drinking away your sorrows, and sometimes it helped but only for so long, and it never made the reality around you any easier.

You couldn't even breathe, not without feeling like you were being suffocated.

You took a breath. A deep breath to try to calm the heaviness in your bones, but there was a hole in your heart. A hole that couldn't be healed.

There was only one thing you could do. Jim prohibited it. He didn't think it would help you move on, then again he thought the shrink would work for you, and look how that was turning out. So you weren't going to listen to his advice. You had to do this. You needed to do this.

You were supposed to come straight home after the therapy session but you didn't feel like curling up on your bed and staring at the ceiling for several hours. You decided to pay a visit to the local flower shop in Gotham. You bought a bouquet of white lilies and then you were on your way; to the cemetery.

The closer you got to your destination, the more your legs shook, and the faster your heart beat. By the time you arrived at the cemetery, the sky was just dark enough for one to wonder if it was going to rain, which you thought suited the situation. It wasn't the brightest idea to be in a cemetery at night time, but it didn't feel right not going. You had to pay your respects, it was the least you could do. You had to say goodbye.

You walked toward the gates. You took another deep breath and gripped the flowers in your hand much too tightly. You hesitated, standing still for a while. Gathering all your emotional strength, you proceeded. Your mind was everywhere but nowhere at once.

You hated cemeteries, you hated how morbid it was sitting amongst bittersweet reminders of the bones resting beneath the ground, a simple engravement finalizing an entire lifetime of memories.

You were surrounded by green, there were countless trees in every direction, which you found to be ironic. You were dragging your feet as you stared at the endless rows of standing stones and weeping angels. Flowers left for faceless names.

This was where they rested. You knew these people, they were Jim's brothers and sisters, they were humans with beating hearts, and you killed them. Cold, buried, and deep in the ground. Sadness and grief took over your face at the thought. You were glad no one was there to see you. The times you felt this destroyed lately were all related, one way or another, but you couldn't think bear to think of him right now.

Your right hand held the bouquet of lilies, your left was buried in your pocket. You bit your lower lip.

You found the rows of the cops who were laid to rest. The memory of what you did settled heavy on your chest and you resisted the urge to curl up on the floor and cry.

You didn't want to run away anymore, though. This was something you needed to do. You continued on, your legs impossibly heavy. They moved much slower than they did a second ago.

You knelt down, looking at the gravestones in front of you. Your eyes wandered across every epitaph and the names engraved above them.

These people were someone's parent, someone's sibling, someone's lover, someone's friend. Every single one of them had a life, a beating heart, a soul, and you robbed them of it all. Who were you to decide their fate? You tried to convince yourself day after day, that you did the right thing. You saved your parents, Jerome made you killed those cops, but no matter how much you told yourself that, you still felt just as guilty. You knew these people, they would drive you home all the time because Jim didn't want you walking home alone in this dangerous city, they looked after you, they were family to you. They were family to Jim.

A wave of emotions ran through you at the sight. Tears you didn't realize you were holding back had already stained your cheeks.

You found yourself choking back a pathetic sob when the world around you came crashing down once more. They were not even a snippet of the pain you felt. Your sobs were silent, yet spoke volumes. Your body lurched with each cry, shoulders shifting up and down.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, you didn't even recognize your own voice at this point, so laden with guilt as your fingers dug into the meat of your palm. Your tears blurring your vision.

"I'm so so sorry," you repeated, unable to say anything else. Your voice would betray you if you did.

Ten cops. You killed ten cops. Those ten lives were on your conscience, weighing on your shoulders. You traced your fingers around the engraved epitaphs, and you pictured their loved ones crying their hearts out at the funeral.

The weight of it all crashed upon you again. You felt as if you were standing in that room again.

You cried for what felt like an eternity. You weren't sure how much time had actually passed, though. Your hands wiped away tears that still lingered on your face and you sniffled. You weren't sure you looked just as terrible as you felt. It didn't matter. Nothing really did at the time. Placing flowers on each grave neatly, you sat. You felt numb. You ran your hand through your hair and bit your lip. The more you tried not to think about it, the worse it got.

"It's all my fault," you said, slowly, your voice barely above a whisper.

More tears threatened to fall. You tried to keep your composure but failed miserably. No longer able to hold back, tears spilled from your eyes once more. Your head was held low.

You wanted to give a little speech for each person, but you weren't one for giving speeches and there was nothing you could say to make yourself feel better about what you did.

The air around you was heavy, restricting. The lump in your throat tightened and you exhaled in an attempt to relieve it but it was in vain.

"I'm going to try to make it right," you croaked, though you didn't even know what you meant by that.

You hated funerals. You hated everything about them. They would forever remind you of the day your birth parents died in a horrific car accident. You were just a scared little girl then, and when you look back, you realized that nothing has changed. You're still lost. Broken.

You inhaled, then exhaled deeply. You decided to take a long moment of silence.

Your body began to settle, your dry whimpers becoming less frequent. Your shoulders slumped, and your head stayed low. You were breathing evenly, regaining your composure. You glided your fingers through your hair, guiding them backwards from your eyes. Using the sleeve of your hoodie, you wiped your running nose, sniffling as you did so.

Suddenly, you heard the sound of someone sniffing loudly and dramatically. Your head instantly snapped to the direction of the source and you wiped your face quickly, not wanting anyone to see that you had been a sobbing mess.

Your body stilled when you saw who it was and your heart nearly stopped.

"And the curtain falls! They were taken away too soon. Why is this world so cruel? What will we ever do without Gotham's finest? May their poor souls rest in peace. Gone but never forgotten."

It was Jerome. The asshole was pretending that he was crying. He wiped his own eyes for dramatic effect and made noisy sniffling sounds.

"Funerals always give me the waterworks, especially when such good people are laid to rest," Jerome continued as he approached you, mocking everything about this situation.

You stared at him, in disgust and in disbelief.

"They will be dearly missed. I don't know what we'll do without them, how we'll move on. They were going places, saving lives, saving this city from ruins," Jerome persisted as he spoke in a tone full of faux concern and sadness.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you asked, a glare on your face through your tears.

Jerome's smile faded to a grim expression at that, like he found it ridiculous that you weren't finding this situation humorous like he was. He glanced at you and then back at the tombstones. "Tough crowd."

"Fuck off," you spat bitterly.

"Would it make you feel better to know that two of them were cheaters? One had a drinking problem, one was smuggling drugs, and another was a wife-beater? Yikes, am I right? Where do they find these people?" Jerome said, his hands in his pockets as he chuckled darkly, thinking he has hilarious.

You shook your head, turning away from his gaze. Jerome stared back at the gravestones in front of him, his eyes drifting over every epitaph.

"Ten cops. I'd say you cleaned up."

"Shut up!" you shouted, your words dripping with venom.

"Alright how about this? I've got a proposal for you. I'll consider taking the blame on this one if you promise to stop this 'boohoo' act. It's not a good look for you, doll," Jerome said, stepping dangerously close to you, so much so that you could feel his breath on your skin.

"I told you to stay the fuck away from me, you fucking sicko," you hissed, pushing him away from you forcefully with a hand. "Why do you get off on making me miserable?"

"Who else is going to get you out of this rut? You used to be so much fun! And now, look at you. You went to playing Russian roulette to blowing your nose over dirt and speaking to dead people! Talk about a downgrade," Jerome taunted, laughing out loud in his own sick amusement.

"Don't you fucking start. You did this to me. You made me kill them, you forced my hand and now I have this on my fucking conscience because of you! I could handle all the shit you pulled with me but you dragged my family into everything and I can never forgive you for that!" you screamed, your voice echoing in the quiet cemetery.

"I didn't make you do anything. You're the one that pressed the button and made them go kaboom! How did it feel? Was it liberating? Did you feel powerful? Like you could do anything?" he asked with a big smug grin, the little shit was proud of himself.

"You are so fucking sick in the head! I should kill you!" you cursed, your eyes flared and you were fuming. You grabbed hold of his jaw with your left hand and you dug your nails into his skin, trying to pierce it.

"Ooh easy, killer! We wouldn't want you to have another full-on mental breakdown now would we?" Jerome mocked, laughing in your face.

"Fuck you! If I killed you, I would be doing the world a favor. Maybe then I would be able to sleep at night! Maybe then their deaths wouldn't be in vain because even after all the despicable games you played, at least you'd be dead and it'd be over," you cried out, moving your hand down to his neck and then squeezing. Unfortunately, you couldn't use your right hand as you were still wearing an arm sling.

"Sorry, I don't know about you but it's hard to imagine a cop killer as a savior. Try as you might, but that's all you'll ever be, and I'll make damn sure of it," Jerome managed, a strangled laugh pouring from his mouth.

You continued to squeeze his neck but then Jerome grabbed hold of your wrists in a tight, nearly bruising grip.

"Besides, what would be the joy in killing me when we wouldn't be able to go at each other like this?" Jerome teased with a shit-eating grin. "It's kind of cute that you think you can kill me, doll. I'd love to see you try."

You cried out in pain when he gripped your right wrist and he simply laughed at your agony.

"Let go of me!" you weakly tried to fight but his grip didn't let up.

"But you're so cute when you're squirming, makes it hard to resist. C'mon, you gotta give me something, dollface. I need something to think about at night when I'm by my lonesome," Jerome sneered, smiling cruelly.

Without thinking, you spit in his face.

Jerome let go of your wrists and he released a breathy laugh. "Ha! It's been a while since you've done that. Looks like you haven't forgotten that gets me going. I've missed you, doll."

"I haven't missed you, and I never will," you snarled.

"You keep telling yourself that, dollface, but I know you miss the thrill of it. That kind of intensity, that kind of passion, only comes once in a lifetime," Jerome said, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips.

You shot him a glare before you made a run for it.

"Leaving so soon? Such a pity. And here I thought we were getting somewhere. Tell the shrink I said hi!" Jerome called out, laughing.

Leaving the cemetery, you headed for a street. You ran as fast as your legs could carry you, not knowing where you were going, just as long as it was away from Jerome.

You looked back and you didn't see him. Looks like he wasn't following you.

You stopped in the middle of an alley to catch your breath. You planted a hand on your knee and leaned your head back, your breath coming out in puffs.

You stayed there for a while, just in case. You wanted to be sure he wasn't following you.

Then you remembered you didn't get to say everything you wanted to at the gravesite. You didn't get to say goodbye. You didn't tell them why you did what you did.

You decided to go head back to the cemetery on impulse, feeling like you couldn't ever truly move on if you didn't get everything off your chest.

But as you walked back toward the cemetery, you saw someone. It wasn't Jerome. No, he left. You halted in your tracks by the gates as you stared back.

You saw Jim.

He was placing flowers by the gravestones. The same gravestones of those ten cops.

Your heart sank.

Jim didn't notice you were standing there. Though, your gaze remained focused on him and his every move. He was holding a bouquet of red roses, the most sorrowful expression on his face.

You found yourself lingering for far too long. But then when you were finally able to move again, you ran off, bursting into tears.