The burning sweat simmered down the closed eyelids, scalding the thin skin. The eyelids fluttered, and slightly opened. A narrow, horizontal streak of color breached in between the absolute darkness. Heath licked his bottom lip. His breathing was uneven, shaking between shallow and abnormally deep, painful breaths. The blood dripped from the knife. His fingers slightly twitched and tightened their grasp on the hold. Heath squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head on his arms.
The mighty skyscrapers stared at him through the window glass. Ants of cars hurried underneath. It was hard to breath under the mask. The breath just knocked against its inner surface and reflected back on you. He made the mask in seventh grade. Freddie drew a happy face. He drew a concerned, shifting into angry one.
Heath lifted his head up and rested it on the wall behind him. Tears of acid relief and incomprehension steamed down the cold cheeks. His eyes blankly studied the graffiti on the wall. He couldn't make out the words. It was something between DEATH and DEAF.
Every single time someone walked past the door, his insides would tie themselves into a clump, which would then be squeezed, drenching out the juices of nerves. When they would leave, there was a bitter taste of relief and impatience on his tongue.
The lamplight dully flickered and burnt out, hiding the graffiti.
The paper to the DA was safely in his pocket. Heath felt it with numb hands. He had a strange fear that he forgot to get it. The same moment, the key turned in the knob. Bill Mitchell calmly walked in into his office, whistling a happy tune. In the window glass, his figure was down, cheerfully walking around his desk. The eyes behind the mask wordlessly followed the dim, fading contours. The reflection suddenly turned, its face looking up directly at him.
"Good morning, judge," Heath calmly said. The hands, folded in front of him, clutched the knife.
"Why...good morning," Mitchell answered at loss. "How did you get into my office?"
"Damn it judge, you just took five dollars away from me."
"What?" Mitchell asked in confusion. Heath slowly turned around. The mask pressed heavily against his face.
"My five dollars I bet with Nicky, judge. Nicky said your first question would be how did I get in. I said that your first question will be who am I."
"I'm sorry to have taken your five dollars, but maybe you can keep some with my second question. Who are you?" Mitchell's voice was extremely strained. His eyes ran up and down the strange man. The man in the mask smirked.
"I like your optimism. It'll help you." Mitchell's eye brows tightened into a tied string, but before he could scream, Heath lunged forward, skidding his knee over the desk, papers crumpling under his weight, and grabbing Mitchell by the shoulder, sliced the skin on his neck wide open. The belated scream transformed into something like a gurgle, spilling out with the blood that soaked the bleached white collar and tie. The mask pulled on Heath's face, draining the breath out of him. Heath staggered back, observing watching how the thirsty papers drink in the blood, tired of their usual ink wine and demanding something stronger. Mitchell was lying on those papers, feeding them. It was dry in Heath's mouth. Slowly, he took out his deck of cards. The blood on his fingers stained the edge of his pockets, but Heath didn't care. His eyes flashed down on the cards in his slippery hands. Heath slowly began shuffling through them, looking for the right card. It didn't come. Heath's movements became faster, more agitated. Anyone could come in. Not that it would matter, but he still needed to see Freddie in the eyes. Six of hearts, ten of diamonds, jack of clubs, queen of hearts, king of spades, ace of spades, joker. The card winked back at Heath. He wordlessly placed it next to Mitchell, slightly tilted to one side and just a bit pushed under a piece of paper, as if the murdered accidentally forgotten it.
Heath slowly reached into his pocket, feeling the deck of cards. He took it out and began apathetically moving one card after the next from hand to hand. King of hearts , three of spades, two of spades, six of spades, jack of spades...Heath flatly switched a few cards around to break the spade streak. Continuing on with his shuffling, his gaze flickered back and forth as black and red passed in front of his eyes. Six of hearts, ten of diamonds, jack of clubs, queen of hearts, king of spades, ace of spades, king of hearts. The joker was gone. Heath silently tucked the deck back into his pocket and, standing up, walked out of the alley. The morning was just beginning, the sun just shyly peeking over the corners of the horizon. Heath walked down the subway station, but instead of going into the train, quickly ran down the steps and began walking alongside the tracks. He was in a slight hurry. It pulsed in the back of his brain, but not hardly enough to cause him to run. The mask's strap dangled back and forth on his fingers. There was a sudden rumbling behind him, and a train whizzed past his side. It was there, and then it was gone. Heath followed the disappearing train with his eyes and looked away. It was twenty minutes on the train, forty by foot. By this time, the news would have probably aired the Murder of Judge Bill Mitchell. Heath found the title funny and laughed. It was a broken, bitter laugh, escaped and gone just like the train a few seconds again.
[...]
The mill greeted him with an eery smile. The early rays of sunshine supernaturally glowed in the wooden, fading building. Heath tossed his mask on the floor and roughly sat down across the table. He carefully put the bloody knife on the windowsill. The blood on his hands gradually dripped away while he was coming here, leaving only an uncomfortable feeling on the palms. The papers were all ready for him. Grasping his pen, he traced out the first line.
My dear lovely Freddie
His fingers were shaking. For a moment, Heath stared at the paper, then abruptly crumpled it. Holding the curled fist with the distorted paper in them next to his chin, he absently looked out the window. For the first time, he did not know what to say. Heath heard someone's footsteps echo outside. Automatically, he reached into his pocket and tossed out the deck on the floor. The cards splattered against the wooden boards, some skidding right up to Winnifred's feet in the doorway.
"Heath?"
Heath did not want to see her face. Instead he kneeled over the papers, clasping the pen once again.
"Can you sort out the cards, while I finish this?"
Winnifred's eyebrows came together in unexpected surprise.
"What?"
Heath impatiently gestured with his hand, pen between his fingers. He still did not look at Winnifred.
"You know, kings with kings, queens with queens. Please, do it for me."
For a moment, Winnifred stared at him, then wordlessly kneeled down and began shifting the cards together. Heath returned back to his paper.
My dear lovely Freddie,
Do not ask me if I did this. I hate this question. You might look trivial in my eyes.
Her trembling fingers passed over the cards, eyes flickering back and forth between the reds and the blacks. She slowly moved the jack of hearts next to the jack of diamonds.
Funny thing. Johnny killed three people, and you don't mind. I guess it's more of an witness type thing.
Winnifred shakily placed her finger on the ace of clubs. Slowly she dragged it out from underneath the three of spades.
I don't feel sorry. It's actually quite funny - our and Jack's fight is so pathetic. I carried this patheticness to another step.
The ace was splattered in blood. Winnifred's eyes widened in shock, as they traced the wooden floor to the object lying a few feet away from her. It was a mask.
"Heath?" Winnifred said in a flat voice.
"Yes, my dear?" Heath quietly inquired, finishing up the sentence. Winnifred's eyes transferred back to the cards in front of her.
"Where's your joker card?"
Heath was quiet for a moment, then quickly finished his letter.
Damn it, Winnifred.
Heath
He got up and, kneeling over Winnifred's shoulder, arms digging into his knees, looked at the cards.
"It's missing?" He half merrily, half-surprisedly asked.
"Yes," Winnifred answered, eyes frantically going for card to card. Her voice was on the verge of breaking hysteria.
"Oh well," Heath shrugged, straightening out and walking towards the opposite wall.
" I had to give the police something to find me."
"Did you actually..." Winnifred didn't finish the sentence, tears running from her eyes. Heath heaved a sigh, looking up into the ceiling.
"Of course, Freddie."
Winnifred covered her face with her hand, trying to stifle down a sob. Heath turned around and walked up to her. Crouching down next to her, he wordlessly hugged her. Winnifred pressed the side of her face against his arm, crying into her hands. Her fingers were wet from tears, clogging her uneven breathing. Heath's arms strengthened their grasp around her as he answered all her unsaid questions, one by one.
"The mobsters did not force me to do this. I forced myself. Believe me, it was necessary. No, I will not tell you the reason. I'm not sorry."
His words echoed in her mind, resonating against the walls and bouncing back at her. Winnifred. Winnifred.
"Winnifred," Heath softly touched her cheek. Winnifred slightly jerked when his fingers touched her skin. The tears cooled on her face, slowly dripping from her contour down on her neck. Her fingers dug into Heath's lower arm, leaving bruises.
"Winnifred, it's going to be alright," Heath gently said, slightly rocking her in his arms. Winnifred's eyes traveled across the room, trying to find something that wasn't there.
"Winnifred, it's going to be okay." Winnifred simply tightening her grasp on his arm. Heath sighed and looked upwards.
"You managed to live knowing that Johnathan killed his grandmother, admirer, and paralyzed his enemy," he quietly commented, looking back down at her.
"You'll manage to live with this too?"
"I have to try," Winnifred whispered, voice coarse with tears. Her eyes stared blankly into space. Her fingers tightened on his wrist, crumpling his sleeve.
"It's either living with it, or hating you forever. It's an easy choice."
"Or so we think," Heath sighed, resting his chin on her forehead. He felt distorted gladness and pride fill him. Freddie remained true to their friendship. It was something.
"Why did you kill him?" Winnifred quietly asked. Heath moved his arm, shaking of the numbness.
"I'll say that to the court."
"The court?" Winnifred frowned, blinking her eyes. The movement sent a few teardrops water falling down her cheeks.
"Of course," Heath lowered his face towards her with a crooked grin. "Why do you think I went through all the pains of leaving a joker card, not cleaning my knife, and placing the mask in the most obvious place possible?"
Winnifred shivered, automatically glancing at the mask.
"You didn't clean your knife?"
"No, it's on the windowsill," Heath nodded his way that way. Winnifred jolted and abruptly thrust Heath's arm off of her, quickly standing up. Heath sighed and looked to the side, arms limply lying in his lamp. Winnifred made a few steps towards the door, her hand wavering towards her head.
"Is it the fit?" Heath asked, watching her movements.
"No," Winnifred shook her head, lowering her hand. "No, it's not that." She fell quiet, looking outside the door.
"I think someone's coming. For you."
"Great." Heath stood up and stood behind her.
"Go away," he quietly said. "I want you and Charlotte to be ready with your documents."
Winnifred's eyes traveled down, then she wordlessly stepped down, quickly walking away from the mill. Heath passed his fingers through his hair, then leaned against the wall. God damn it. God damn it.
The TV monotonously buzzed in the living room. Johnathan slowly lifted his head up from his arms, outstretched on the working desk. Tiredly swinging in his chair, he grabbed the remote control from the handle of the sofa and pointed at the TV. The screen flickered and died away with a soft beep. Johnathan tossed the remote back on the couch, missed, and swiveled back around, pressing his hands to his mouth. Heath was an idiot. The fact that he planned it and not spontaneously improvised from excessive adrenaline highlighted two alternatives - that either Heath was a complete moron, or that there was something greater than adoration to Winnifred. Johnathan had a disturbing assumption that it was the latter. His gaze fell on the glass tubes lying on the corner of his desk. He was almost finished with his fear toxin. The burlap, or the potato sack as Freddie called it, was lying next to them. Johnathan took it in his hands, sensing the rough material scratch his skin. He remembered the day when he placed it on and fired the gun in the parking lot, causing Bo Griggs to get paralyzed and Shirley Squires killed. Still. It wasn't direct kill. Johnathan thoughtfully rested his chin on his fist, the mask still clenched between his fingers. He remembered the satisfying chaos flickering in front of the blurred vision behind the burlap, the sudden shudder when Griggs' car ran into the wall, and Heath's amused, hilarious face.
The pillow was wet and cold from the sweat. Winnifred feverishly pressed the uncomfortable to touch pillow to her chest, trying to stop her shaking. She refused to acknowledge the fact that Heath was a murderer. Her brain just spotted it back at her with the image of his eery calmness when he mentioned the knife. Winnifred buried her face into crumpled sheets. She couldn't break off. She wanted to, but she couldn't. In the mill, unknown to himself, Heath had such an...expression on his face, that Winnifred was afraid. Actually afraid for the first time. Blood slowly trickled down the wall of her nose, clogging up her breathing. Winnifred slightly opened her mouth to help herself breath. How is she going to look in her aunt's and cousin's eyes? The snakes curled around her stomach abruptly tightened into a knot, making Winnifred writhe from pain. She tossed to the other side, wet hair sticking to her temples. The blood tiptoed down her upper lip. Winnifred closed her mouth, allowing the blood to fall between her upper and lower lips. Her lungs thrashed for more air, and Winnifred abruptly breathed open. The blood fell on her tongue, soaking it with the salty, bitter taste. Winnifred squeezed her eyes shut, helpless tears automatically rolling down.
Still looking up, Winnifred tossed her right hand to the side. Her fingers felt the cold metal handle of the alarm clock. Lifting it up, Winnifred switched on the light, blinking from the sudden brightness. Five forty seven. Placing the clock back on the floor, Winnifred sharply got up, sending her mind into a dizzy kaleidoscope as its vestibule apparatus readjust for the sudden change of horizon. Winnifred wearily took her grey suit from the closet and tiredly made her way to the bathroom. Her bruise-rimmed eyes brokenly gazed at her from the mirror. Winnifred looked down and quickly wiped off the blood, cold water streaming off her face. Rubbing herself with a towels, Winnifred quickly dressed and fixed her hair with a black, velvet bow. She looked at herself in the mirror again.
"Winnifred?" Winnifred's blue eyes shifted to the other corner of the mirror. Aunt Martha was standing in the doorway.
"Yes, Auntie?" Winnifred tiredly responded, the snakes curling in anxiety. Her aunt's features were soft, with the slight flavor of concern.
"I am sorry about what happened," Aunt Martha gently said. Winnifred quickly looked down at sink. We all are. Except Heath.
"You are not at fault, honey. Who could have known-"
"Auntie, please don't," Winnifred harshly replied, turning around from the mirror and walking past her aunt.
"I still trust Heath even if he committed like a thousand, a million murders."
Her aunt sadly watched as Winnifred tugged on her shoes and coat.
"But that's foolish, Winnie. Everyone would say that."
"Well then everyone is," and closed it into her aunt's face. Once outside, she pressed her hand over her face, trying to keep herself from breaking. Taking a deep inhale, Winnifred marched down the road, clenching her fist to numb down the pain in her mind.
She made it quickly to the bank. Flinging her folder down on her desk, Winnifred heavily sat down. Her fingers automatically scattered for something to fiddle with. They ran into an old paper clip and instantly began distorting it in every direction. There was a slight knock on the door. Winnifred shuddered and swiftly tossed the paper clip aside. Her features momentarily transformed.
"Come in."
Jack carefully walked in. His eyes darted across Winnifred's face, before averting to the side.
"Good morning, Winnifred. May I have a moment?"
"I don't think I have the right status to refuse you, Jack," Winnifred lightly smiled, putting her hands in front of her. Her fingers intertwined and clenched with incredible force.
"How can I help you?"
"Oh don't sound so casual, Winnifred," Jack quietly slashed, moving the chair closer to her desk and sitting down in front of her.
"As if I don't know the basic psychology of a person in your situation." Winnifred looked away, deciding not to tell him how much Johnathan, the real psychologist in town, would disagree. Her fingers slightly twitched.
"My situation is all right, thank you," Winnifred quietly responded.
"I certainly do not need people like you telling me that."
"Like me?" Jack coldly raised his eyebrows.
"Two faces," Winnifred slightly shrugged, watching him from the corner of her eyes. Jack smirked, intertwining his fingers in front of his face.
"Two face? Mind explaining yourself?"
"Can you drop that...snobby tone of yours?" Winnifred snapped in irritation, finally letting go of the lid over her steaming cauldron.
"I have no idea what you are trying to get, Jack, but don't look you feel anything except...satisfaction that Heath is finally behind the bars."
"Which happens to be his place," Jack retorted, anger simmering in the way he cracked his finger.
"C'mon, if he didn't end up in jail, he'll probably be lying somewhere dead in a ditch."
"He's too smart to be lying in a ditch," Winnifred seethed, clutching the edge of her table to keep herself from blasting into his face.
"Really?" Jack sarcastically lifted his eyebrow. "I'll be sure to tell him that at the court."
"What court?" Winnifred blanked out for a moment. Jack snorted.
"An example of true friendship. Complete ignorance of each other."
"Heath spoke to me about the court," Winnifred crossly rebuffed, mad at herself for letting go of her position.
"And what did he tell you I wonder?"
Winnifred tightly grinned.
"That he's going to beat that shit out of you."
She could see how Jack's facial features fight against each other, desperately trying not to balloon into her face. Here we go. The real Jack Browning, student of 10th C, third desk right of the bookshelf, diagonal to Sammy and behind Jacob's. Winnifred felt her nails pierce her skin.
"Very well," Jack finally breathed out. He stood up. "See you at the court on Tuesday. And don't dare slack off of work."
Winnifred stared at the door. She was insulted. She was so insulted. Grabbing her bag from the stool, Winnifred frantically scoured through her bag. Here they were, the photos which would wipe Jack off the face clean. The photographs shivered in her hands. Winnifred released her grasp before she could crumple them even more.
Heath quickly stacked his letters onto the shelf and walked out to the middle of the room. He looked around. Everything seemed to be in its place. Heath agitatedly crackled his knuckles. He had to look normal, so that the police wouldn't suspect that he knew about them coming. There was a loud knock on his door. Heath startled. For a moment, he just looked at the door. Slowly, his agitation faded away, crawling back under the lock, being replaced with joking calmness. The door opened up to four policemen.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Heath politely greeted them, following the one police officer who walked passed him and entered them.
"Mister Heath?" Heath's head snapped back to the officer.
"Yes sir?"
"You are accused of the murder of Judge William Mitchell who was killed this night," The police officer articulated into Heath's face.
"You will spend your time in jail to wait for your trial on Tuesday."
"Fair enough," Heath shrugged and obediently followed the cops to their car.
"Sir," It was the young cop which entered the mill. The officer stopped, turning to the young one. Heath also halted near the door, ignoring the other police officer's attempt to force him in.
"There are bloodied playing cards sorted on the floor. And a mask."
The officer looked back at Heath, who answered him with an intent stare. The policeman looked back at the waiting at the doorway youngster.
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. I found a knife on the windowsill. It's covered in blood." There was a tense silence in the forest clearing. Heath's chuckle sounded like scratching nails over wood.
"C'mon guys. Why so serious?"
Heath sat down into the car and shut the door after himself. The cops quickly followed inside, hurriedly starting the engine. They swiftly took off, passing the lonely houses on the desolate road. Heath's eyes breathed in the bleak scenery. Summer seemed to be ending when they were only in the midst of July. The car stopped, rocking back and forth. They were in front of Gotham Outskirts Local Prison. This town was never creative with names. Which is why Heath was always the center of vividness; he did have the best Halloween costume in fifth grade.
The cops led Heath inside, tightly holding him by the broad shoulders. They walked inside a gloomy place. Heath eyed the empty benches behind the bars. Looks like it will be only him today making himself company. Oh well. The cop was fiddling too long with the lock. Heath impatiently waited, rocking back and forth on his toes and heel.
"Excuse me, can I help you?" He finally offered, slightly tilting his head. The cop glanced at him.
"Stay back," he ordered. Heath raised his eyebrows and slightly leaned back.
The cop returned back to the lock, painfully yanking it to the right. The lock clicked. Heath quickly thanked the officer with a nod as he paced into the what do they call it? "Waiting room"? Heath sat down on the bench and leaned his head back on the wooden bars. It was uncomfortable. The bars heavily pressed on two sides of the back of his head. Heath slightly shifted his body and closed his eyes. He needed some sleep. The door suddenly flung open, and Heath opened his eyes. Some men walked in, laughing and joking. One of them, the fatter one, stopped in front of Heath, smiling from ear to ear as he examined him.
"Well, young man, I dare thank you. You finally got me work in this crime less town! What the hell did you do to be behind these bars?" Heath slightly grinned.
"Nothing much. Yesterday I went to the doctor. You know, at Gotham Hospital? Well, he told me that I have exactly one year to live. So, in the heat of the moment, I killed him. The judge, meaning you, will give me fifteen years. Problem solved."
The smile faded off the judge's face. "You're pulling my leg."
Heath's grin widened.
"Of course. Yesterday, I killed Gotham's fine judge, one of your kind. A good incentive to let me go, right?"
The judge's eyebrows knitted together. He turned to the cop. That one answered with a nod. The judge turned back to Heath.
"I'm afraid it will be a bit more than fifteen," He flatly said. "Just to make sure that you don't go hunting me in the night."
"I like your logic, sir," Heath's lips were ready to crack from the piercing grin.
"It will help you at the trial. Have a nice day." Heath rested his head back on the bars, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes.
Johnathan slowly opened the door, the cop close behind him. Heath was there, sitting on the bench with closed eyes.
"I'm not sure you can get something out of him, sir," the young cop quietly whispered.
"He seems to be asleep."
"Then we'll have to wake him up," Johnathan responded, eyeing Heath's strained features. He slowly walked closer to the bars, leaning on them on one side. His eyes quickly scanned the arrested from head to foot.
"Heath," he quietly calmed. Heath's eyes slammed open.
"Oh, hi." The cop stepped aside, not wanting to be part of their conversation. Heath quickly looked Johnathan over, not standing up from his bench.
"A sweater, leather jacket, jeans and tennis shoes. Don't you have work today?"
"At three."
Heath leaned his head back, gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"Did you know?"
"That you'll one day rip off your chain and decide to do whatever you want? I never excluded the possibility. You have these occasional irrational emotions which cloud your other senses. I just thought it grew less once Jack left and your friendship with Freddie tightened."
"God, I don't think she'll ever smile again," Heath muttered through his teeth, arm muscles tightening in their crossed positions. Johnathan smirked.
"More likely smile than forgive you." Heath's eyes darted back at Johnathan.
"She said she'll live with it."
"Of course," Johnathan sighed, looking at his watch. There was a barely noticeable sadness in his voice.
"Half of the people in this world live like that."
"But she forgave you," Heath pointed out, unexplained sweat forming on his temples.
"Because she never had to forgive me in the first place."
They fell silent. Heath's stare was blank, but the way his jaw was working gave away his concern. Johnathan sighed and tucked his hands in the pockets.
"Is there anything you want me to do?"
"Yeah. Your door unlocked, all the times. In case I'll have to run." Johnathan shrugged in agreement, then left the room without another word. Heath sighed and closed his eyes for the third time. He wasn't disturbed anymore.
A/N: Warning, it won't get any more happy after this! We're getting deeper and deeper into the trench. But foreshadowing aside, Sherry Squires was a cheerleader Johnathan had a crush on in high school and Bo Griggs was the high school bully (according to the DC Comics). Crane was rejected both by Squires and humiliated by Griggs. To take revenge, Crane shot a gun at the prom, Griggs got into a car accident which paralyzed him and killed Squires. So these are all the allusions that Johnathan is remembering. As for Heath, well, there's not much I can say aside from the fact that madness is like gravity - all you need is a little push.