(This part isn't as good as the first, nor is it required reading, but I thought I'd bring the mood up a little by discussing super-tight super outfits.)

Monique arrives at the hospital to pick you up, and hugs you gingerly in the lobby. "You look really terrible…"

"I feel terrible," you tell her. Your arms are covered in band-aids, and you reek of antiseptic. Your throat is sore from the screaming you didn't realize you were doing when the Joker's bombs went off. "I really just want to go home."

"Come on, I'm in the east lot. It's close." You let Monique lead you to the parking lot, barely paying attention as she talks about the news coverage of the Joker's attack on the mall.

You don't know how you're going to tell your mother that you didn't get her a gift because there was a fucking terrorist at the mall. 'Sorry, Mom, I was going to get you some scented candles, but then the Yankee store blew up! At least I'm not dead, unlike thirty other people, right?'

You don't think she would laugh at that joke.

You can't even laugh at that joke.

You look up, and Monique is watching you. "Sorry, what?"

She sighs. "I just said I'm glad you're okay. But I guess you're not really, huh?"

"Well… I'm not dead."

Monique hugs you again, tightly, and you hug her back despite the pain in your arms. Everyone who passes by politely ignores you as you cry onto her shoulder.

"God."

Monique pops her head out from your kitchen. "What?"

"Just, I'm thinking… Do you remember when we saw that video of him on TV? And he had that coat on, and you said it was the fruitiest thing you'd ever seen?"

She walks out with two bowls full of ramen, and puts one in front of you. She places a fork in your hand. "Eat. You need it." She waits for you to eat some noodles, then says, "I remember."

You twirl more noodles onto your fork. The cuts on your hand sting more than ever. "He was wearing it. And that woman—"

"Harley Quinn?"

"I guess. She was wearing that suit…"

Monique squeezes lemon juice into her ramen, and you cringe, reminding yourself not to touch any citrus until your cuts heal. "Was she as perky in real life as on TV?"

You shake your head. "Perkier."

"What? No way. That's just the adrenaline affecting your memory, no one can look that good in straight up spandex. You're exaggerating." Monique shakes her head, and you laugh. She's been cheering you up for the past hour and a half, and she's planning to stay over at your place tonight. You still can't forget how close you came to dying, but now, safe in your apartment with her, you're able to think about other things.

"She wasn't the only one like that, though. There was this guy wearing a lot of red and green, yellow cape…"

Monique nearly chokes on her noodles in excitement. "You saw Robin?"

"Whoever it was, I saw a lot of him," you tell her. "The image of him and of Harlequin—"

"—Harley Quinn—"

"—is burned into my eyelids, Mo. It was like watching porn, but less decent."

"Oh, you poor soul. Tell me all about it. Especially Robin."

You throw a napkin at her.

Hours later, when the moon is high up and Monique is sleeping on your couch, you stare at the ceiling and imagine it collapsing. Sometimes you think you can still feel the earth shaking like it did in the explosions. Sometimes you expect to turn around and see the barrel of a gun.

You shut your eyes tight, and you listen to the traffic outside, and to Monique snoring, and to your heart beating. "I'm safe," you whisper to yourself. Your breath still tastes like your cheap chicken ramen. Your body still aches.

You fall asleep, and you dream of shrieking laughter, and of blood pooling slowly around you.