A/N: Hi, sorry for the short delay! If this fanfic used chapter titles, this would have been called: Why Heath did what he did. Enjoy!
The branches slashed across his face as he ran through the woods. The dark figures slammed into his eye, he heard his shuddering breath echo in his head. His foot tripped over a root. The damp, freezing soil pressed into his face, burning against the scorching tears. His raw scars scalded as the cold dirt seeped into the bare muscle. Winnifred was afraid of him. She was afraid that he might kill her. His little, poor girl...he kills only one per night. Billy was already dead. The sweaty fingers dug into the soil, the dirt satisfactorily tricking in between his fingers. He has to kill her for her. How did she not understand that? He felt the ashy taste of ground in his mouth. His stomach turned, vomit creeping up his throat. Freddie hates him. By God, she does.
Heath jolted awake, drops of sweat streaming next to his eye down the left side of his nose. Lena curiously stared at him from the table, her short tail wrapped around her paws. Heath stared back at her, trying to understand. After a few seconds, the present slowly returned to him. He seemed to have fallen asleep while sitting on the chair, one leg still pushing the table's edge. Heath's eyes traveled down on the blank piece of paper in front of him. Sighing, he pushed away from the table with his leg, the chair rolling under him, and stood up.
"C'mon," he gestured to the cat. Lena happily jumped up and trotted with him outside. The night was cold, like any November night. Heath pulled over an old crate and sat down, observing the starry night. Thousands of empty garages surrounded him, stretching as endless metal in front of the tired eyes. Heath absently stroked Lena's fine hair as she purred next to his thigh. His eyes lowered on the ground, a used cigarette stamped into the soil. Automatically, Heath picked it up, but didn't bring it up to his lips. Instead, he simply observed it. His lips practically itched from the desire to feel the dry paper and the calming effect of the smoke in his mouth, but at the same time, the image of pale cyanide scattered around the wooden floor stood in front of his eyes. A minute passed. Heath wordlessly tossed the cigarette aside and, crossing his arms on his knees, lowered his chin on them. Lena stirred next to him, but when he didn't respond, offendedly left back into the garage. Heath vacantly stared at the rusty garage wall in front of him. He didn't remember how he came back to Gotham. Everything was in a fog of rage, bitterness, madness, complete with a random track playing in his head, occasionally interrupted with gunshots. Heath found Lena wandering lonely on the streets and picked her up. She didn't mind. She remembered him. Then, Heath tried to find a job. But the scars ruined everything. No matter how Heath tried, no matter how brave the employers were, the scars immediately introduced him as an "untrustworthy street-fighter". That's why Heath came to Calavera. Leader of bounty-hunters. Kill-for-money.
Someone in the farther garages put on the music. Heath closed his eyes and quietly rocked to the tune. He knew that Johnathan was somewhere in this strange town. Heath didn't want to find him. He was tired. Heath opened his dark-circled eyes and walked back into the garage. He needed to get some sleep. Sammy appeared in his dreams yesterday. Heath wondered who it would be today. Charlotte? Jacob?
It was Mark. He was happily whistling to himself, the pot dangling in his hand. Heath silently watched him kneel down to the river, the cold water gurgling and banging against the metal pot. Heath felt sweat drip down from his hair. Mark straightened out and walked back to the camp. Heart wildly beating against his threat, Heath followed. Charlotte was wrapped in a strange, pleated blanket next to the fire. Riley was wearing a bright red cap with the words GOTHAM LOCALS. He was cooking completely black sausages on a bright pink frying pan. Heath slowly scanned the campsite, relief slowly unclenching his rib cage. Then, he saw Winnifred. She stood behind the fire. Heath's fingers automatically turned into curled fists. Please, not again. But as he slowly lifted his gaze on her face, Heath saw the same horror locked in her features. Billy suddenly came up behind her and slapped her by the shoulders.
"Did you have a good night sleep, dear?" He jokingly asked. Winnifred didn't answer. Billy glanced in confusion at where she was staring, then looked back.
"What is it, Freddie?"
Winnifred didn't answer again. She simply stood, burning Heath to the core.
Lena, unsuccessfully scrambling up his shoulder, slipped and fell down on the bed, swatting Heath's face with her tail. Heath's eyelids shuddered and he opened his eyes. Lena apologetically meowed. A low chuckle escaped Heath's throat. He sat up, passing his hand over his sweaty forehead. Pressing his back against the wall, he closed his eyes. It was cold that afternoon. He was sitting on the counter in his gun shop, writing a letter to Winnifred with a dying pen. Heath slid off the bed and walked barefoot to his shelf. Shuffling through the letters, he found the one from that day and pulled it out to the light. There were only scratches on the paper, occasionally ripped by blue streaks of ink, but Heath could perfectly tell out the coarse words:
Dear Freddie,
The days and nights are getting cold. It makes my nose run. It's annoying.
How're the people down there? Still okay?
He remembered cursing through his teeth as he pressed harder and harder into the paper, nearly ripping it, pouring out his frustration.
I have no idea what is going on. I work in the gun shop, eat, sleep, and that's about it. Not much, right? But my mind is going in circles, like rolling eyes.
Heath's eyes flickered down, and he placed the letter back onto the shelf. There was some noise in the storage room. He thought it was some drunk bum or something…. A hand flew right for his face. Heath rapidly ducked down, but he was caught unaware. The thugs used his clumsiness, and a fist crashed right into his jaw. His scars roared, blinding him for a second, two pairs of hands gripped both of his arms, and Heath was forced on his knees. Heath slightly shook his head and focused his vision. Falcone, in a black, long coat, was standing in front of him. Heath's bloodied lips stretched into a grin.
"Falcone? I thought mafiosi walk through the main entrance."
"Not this time," Falcone smirked, eyes traveling around. Heath slightly tilted his head, squinting his eyes.
"The chair is behind the boxes you know."
"Yes?" Falcone quickly glanced at him, before craning his neck over the boxes filled with weaponry. Heath silently waited while the mafiosi dragged over the chair and sat down, placing one leg over another. Falcone folded his hands and fixed his piercing gaze on Heath.
"The scars suit you."
Heath was silent. The mafiosi smirked.
"A gun shop clerk? A bit better than a drifter between drug dealers. Awkward, isn't it, knowing that I established your current comfortable position?"
"I liked being a drifter," Heath quietly noticed. Falcone leaned forward, a threatening smile on his dry lips.
"And what did your friend say about your drifting? Liked it, didn't she?"
Heath preferred to stay quiet. Falcone leaned back against the chair, dark eyes glistening.
"I saw her you know, a couple of days ago. She was looking for you."
Heath's eyes flickered apwards, gaze hardening. Poor, poor, foolish Freddie.
"What did you do to her?"
Falcone shrugged, carefully watching Heath.
"Nothing. Scared her a little so she would keep her nose out of the business."
Heath held back a heavy sigh of relief, sensing that he was being watched. Cautiously, he made out a taut smile.
"You didn't beat me just to talk about Fre-my friend, didn't you sir?" Falcone stood up.
"No. Take him to the car," he ordered. Heath lifted his eyes back again; he lunged towards the shelf and began tossing out the letters, crumpling their edges with his spasmodic fingers, carelessly dropping him to the floor. The room was completely dark. They pushed him into the chair, simultaneously tying his hands behind his back with a belt. Heath licked his lips, eyes darting from side to side. Suppressed fear sucked on his insides, sharpening each object. There was something in front of him. Heath squinted his eyes. Slowly, the darkness in front of the wall turned into a translucent wall- actually a wall with glass imprinted in it. There was something behind the glass, but Heath couldn't tell out what. His wrists ached and the dried up blood awkwardly wedged in the corner of his lips.
"Ready, Mister Heath?" Falcone's breath shuddered next to his ear. Stay calm, pain is only in the mind anyway…..
"Ready." Heath metanlly prepared himself for anything, quietly sucking in the air with his nose. The light switched on behind the glass. The breath hitched inside his throat. Robbie was staring across the glass, large, green eyes bulging in fright. He shouted something something, but the glass muted his words.
"We spared you of the full spectacle," Falcone smirked.
"Damned fuckers," Heath coarsely said, not tearing his eyes off of Robbie. The little boy was so scared, that he even didn't mind the scars smiling across him. Falcone leaned in close.
"We've caught you, boy. Do you want to know what waits for you?"
Heath didn't answer. Instead, he wronged his arms, trying to loosen the belt. A gun was tucked in Falcone's pocket, he just needs to get to the gun ...then , a figure appeared behind Robbie.
Everything blended. Muted screams that shook the walls, blood splattering in uneven droplets over the glass, the tiny body wringing in agony as it tried to get away. Tears. Tears streaming down Robbie's twisting, dementing face. Heath silently watched. His eyes felt dry, as if being touched, just lightly, with the back of a heated frying pan. They refused to watch it, he refused to see it, but he couldn't close them - it was what Falcone wanted. But the worst were the screams. Heath could hear them, not actually, but in his head; the little, boyish yell that escalates higher and higher like a police siren, breaking and choking and unbearable…. They grew tired. It was only half an hour, but they were already tired of the little boy. The figures slipped a nylon cord around Robbie's pulsing, alive neck and began squeezing and squeezing, in an agonizing, slow way ... the belt finally ripped after Heath's twists, he jumped up, grabbed the gun hanging at Falcone's side. The first shot smashed the glass, the second killed the first figure, the third shot killed Robbie, and the fourth shot killed the second figure. Then, the gun was taken away from him, his hand was twist, and Falcone's snobbish smile hovered over his head.
"Unpleasant? I know it was disturbing to watch? But what is Mister Hales compared to Mister Hardy ...or Miss Hendrickson ...or Ms. Lewly?" Heath didn't answer, eyes slanted somewhere to the left. Falcone slightly squinted his eyes, before nodding to the thugs. They let Heath go. The young man silently stood up, eyes hidden by the shadows.
"Remember this, boy. I bet you want to kill me now, but I can guarantee that you'll be shot down before you make it even a mile in front of my porch." Heath didn't answer. Falcone nodded to the thugs.
"Guide him to the exit," he ordered. The thugs dragged Heath through the corridor, but once he saw the metal door, he struggled up, freed his arms, and walked out on his own. The stench of Gotham's morning air declawed in front of Heath like a breathing organism. Heath found it. It wasn't even necessary to toss everything out, it was just above his previous letter.
Dear Winnifred,
They started with the arms. They always do. They wrung his bones like you wring out skirts after picking them off the clothesline.
They'll get everyone. They'll get everyone. They'll get everyone. Heath staggered to the side, sneakers slipping over greasy cardboard on the asphalt, occasionally hitting some junk out of the way. Robbie's screams were dancing in his head, tapping on his brain with their heavy feet. Then they moved over to the nails. Needles, Winnifred. Needles under the nails. Robbie was crying so hard, he twitched and fidgeted, but that made it worse, that made the needles move side to side inside. Heath dropped the letter on the floor and started towards the doors.
"Come," he motioned to the cat. Lena cheerfully picked her pink nose up from the letters and, hopping and inevitably slipping over them, ran up to his side. They walked out into the alley, barely illuminated by the lampposts. Heath silently breathed with mouth slightly open, cooling down the scalding scars. They burnt a couple of days, probably from his habit of ripping off skin off of them. A cloud of his breath lingered in front of him, dissipating before he could even walk through it. After Robbie, Heath drank himself to oblivion. In the state of hangover and irritation, he killed Lucy and Ramey. After that, Heath didn't remember. Lurking in alleys, hiding in stashes, running, always running. After awhile, he noticed Falcone's men following him. He killed them. Hesitantly the first time. Decisively the second. They killed Robbie, they'd kill him too. More alleys, more stashes. Crows flying above the head. Heath stopped next to a brick wall falling back in forth between the shadows. A Mickey Mouse with a skull instead of that sappy, cheery face stared at them with his large, lamppost-like eyes, teeth glaring in a devilish grin.
"Look Lena," Heath quietly said. "What a lovely piece of artwork." Lena just arched her arm back and squirmed, hissing from the cold. Heath glanced down in amusement, before picking her up with a short chuckle. Lena purred, ducking her head into his coat, her brown hairs still standing up. Heath stroked her, examining the graffitti. Among the neon flashing streets and passing cars on the road, there was only one thought - he should've killed Robbie before anything started. Robbie died anyways, so it didn't matter if he died half an hour earlier, but without that horrid sadism. His hand slowed down, storking hardening down to clawing. Jack was easy, Jack was just a continuation of the anger and hatred from Robbie's murder. It was Jack that took the kid, Heath was sure of it. On Hallow's Eve, when he saw Jack, it was just an impulse. Mark wasn't an impulse. Neither was Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, or Billy. Heath's eyes turned cold, breathing becoming slower. Winnifred was. His mind told him to kill her, but impulse told otherwise. Out of all the people. He saved the latter. He didn't save her.