The Puppeteer Patient 120402-You've missed nothing of importance.
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-I blame you as well.
He coughs, feels something slide up his throat, and spits it out. Blood. Always blood. Fitting, he supposes. He won't be going out in a hail of gunfire, or even by lethal injection. No, he'll die in bed, probably choking to death.
He washes it down the drain and turns away. He doesn't care. He can't muster up the energy, not anymore.
"Jonathan?"
She's not here. She fell to her death two months ago. But he doesn't care about that, either.
"Hello, Kitty."
"You need a doctor."
"No." He coughs again, tries to swallow it down and can't manage it. "Too late."
She looks at him with sad eyes and says nothing. He finally turns back to the sink, gripping it to steady himself while he's sick. When he looks up again, she's gone.
She never stays for long.
He'd considered, for a while, ending things. Quick and painless and easy-an overdose, perhaps, or a gunshot. But that would leave Gotham-Batman-unpunished. He could have saved her. Could've reached out one black-clad hand and grabbed her. But he didn't.
He makes his way back to bed, rather surprised Batman hasn't tracked him down yet. Not that he cares or anything, but still.
God, he misses her. It had never really occurred to him that something could happen to her, to be honest. Life simply didn't work that way-they went out, caused mayhem, and were thrown back into Arkham, maybe with a few cuts and bruises. Never death. And not like that, not so suddenly. One minute she'd been there and the next...the next there'd been nothing but the echo of her scream.
He falls back, lungs aching, and thinks that maybe he should undress, get under the blankets. But he's comfortable now and doesn't want to.
Kitty?
She doesn't come back-she never comes when he asks.
He rolls over. God, he's tired…he hasn't slept well since…since it happened. He's tried everything, but nothing works.
Well, almost nothing. The exhaustion after an adrenaline rush knocks him right out, but it's risky and…
And it really doesn't matter.
He gets up and prepares a nice cocktail-nothing permanent, hopefully, but enough to be effective-before lying back down and swirling the glass. Self-injections are messy and don't leave him the time to get comfortable. Besides, aren't you supposed to stay hydrated when you're sick?
"Jonathan, don't."
He ignores her, drains the glass, and settles down to wait for it to kick in.
THE END