Chapter Two
It wasn't that he saw no colors, or did not know the smell of a rose. It wasn't that he couldn't spell love, or hear the lullaby of a woman's laughter. If anything, he knew more than others the sensation of what an obsession can do to an individual.
In his mind, he was an artist. What he showed to the world was a masterpiece oh so beautifully disguised. It was the significance, the meaning, the statement that his work displayed that meant more than the creation. But everyone else only shrank back in horror. Were they blind? Couldn't they see the message behind it all? To him it appeared crystal clear, you just had to look with an unclouded mind and think with open eyes. Reverse the order. It isn't hard.
In his adolescence he couldn't understand how the world could be so ignorant. Give them time. Yes, maybe they just needed more time to development and fully understand his work. Patience, he reminded himself. Let their minds evolve as his did. They all just need to find their sanity. Sooner or later he would come to realize that he was the one who had lost it in the first place.
They're everywhere, his canvases. They can be anything. Sometimes it's a person and other times a structure. This time it was Gotham. Demolish. Destroy. Create. The artist inside himself called out, and he was always happy to answer.
'All these citizens, going through their day as if it's a dream, unreal.' Isn't that what you're doing? Time. Time. When was the last time you woke up to daylight? Your feet are off the ground and you're floating in mid-air. Plans! PLANS! PLANS!
But you never plan. Isn't that right? An artist does not know what he paints until it is complete. Your job isn't finished.
It is in an array of colors that we find beauty, for one color that stands alone is nothing without another. Something defined as perfection, meaningless without a reason to be provided. Is it in theory that such a conclusion comes to mind, a theory based on unbalanced opinions? What do people even know about true beauty? Only what they have been told. Society no longer thinks for itself, no longer comes to their own conclusion.
And yet there is such a thing as destructive perfection. It is wild, spontaneous, and unpredictable. It cannot be weighed, measured, or changed. Beauty will never be held down and tamed. Colors overlap one another in a constant battle of dominance, blues are cried and reds spilled. Especially red. Red. Red. What was red? What is red?
You're forgetting again, the meaning of words. Is it the memories? Memories of a time filled with horror?
Don't you remember? It's morning. The artist didn't sleep. He was up all night working at his easel. What did you paint? A tree? A cloud? Or was it a little girl with pigtails? Who is she? You know this. You know everything about this little girl. Her favorite dress was the blue one with ribbons on the sleeves, her favorite toy was a tiny stuffed cat named Angel. You named it, don't you remember? Because that was what she was to you. A heaven sent child with wings.
'No...I never had a child...'
You tore off those wings. Her back bled with scars, pooling around her delicate brown hair. She called out for you, begged you on her weak, broken knees to save her. Are you deaf? Can't you hear her tears? What's wrong with you?
"Angel, what happened? Why are you crying?"
"..."
"Sweetie?"
"...It was that bad boy...that boy with red hair and freckles who rides...rides his bike around here..."
Six years old. She was so young. You knew that boy. Freshman in high school. Spoiled.
"He made me do something, daddy. I didn't like it."
"...Tell me what he made you do, baby."
"The ground hurt against my back...He pushed me down...he ripped my dress. My favorite dress, daddy. He told me to say I liked it..."
What happened to that bad boy? You know the answer. She was your little angel. You were only trying to protect her.
'She isn't real...This never happened.'
It turned out that freshman had a very powerful father. His daddy just wanted to protect his kid, too.
'He was protecting a monster...'
Monster. Poor choice of words.
The red headed boy's daddy arrived at your house a day later. You could see his son from the kitchen window, sitting in the car with his head held down. Even at the distance, the purple and yellow bruise down the side of his face was distinguishable. Someone had squealed on you.
'He deserved it...'
The boy's father pulled out a pistol from his coat. A large burly man followed from behind. You ran to grab your Angel. She was sleeping in her room.
'Not real...NOT real...'
Oh. You didn't make it in time. They were already coming through the front door. Bang Bang!
And the floor bled red.
He squatted down, and you could smell his cologne. "You shouldn't have fucked with my son." He walked down the hall to your daughter's room. The big man from before flipped you over, a blade gleaming in his hand. And as he pulled it towards your face, you could hear the gunshot from the back of the house. A single shot.
What was your daughter's name again?
Oh, wait, you know what it was...
'Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! It..it wasn't...It never happened!'
You named her after her mother. Your adoring wife. It was-
"ENOUGH!"
...
...
...
Enough of what? You're an artist. You create, and that includes memories. It's only a portrait. It was your choice to give it a story. And there are always a multiple of choices.
By the time you make it to Seattle you'll have already forgotten about her. Your little Angel.
Gotham...what ever happened to reality?
Seattle
11:53 P.M
It's late, isn't it?
The view is absolutely spectacular. This city is nowhere near the size of Gotham, though. Puny in comparison. Would anyone even miss it? But that's not what I'm here for. This time it's just to let them know that I can be anywhere. That this is just a game.
An important political figure is meant to arrive here tomorrow. Noon. What does it mean to be important? Just another human. Let's see how great he is without legs to walk, without a mouth to speak, without a head to think. Anthing can be destroyed, therefore nothing holds significance.
Except for the message. It's always what remains.
"Isn't it wonderful?"
Someone's talking to me. I turn to see a woman with red, curly hair. Red.
A smile. A nod. "Yes, it is."
She smiles back, her blues eyes sparkling. Burn. Gouge. Rip. Bleed. All she sees is a man in awe. Can't you see the scars? Of course not. They're hidden.
"It's very pretty, yea..." That's all she was. Pretty. But when I imagined her face cut up, those sapphire eyes nothing but dark pits, I realized how I could make her beautiful.
12:05 A.M
Location: Area surrounding Space Needle
"That is why, citizens of Seattle, I plan to create a better environment not only for ourselves, but our children. They are our future!"
Cheers. Smiles. They were eating from his palm. But I know who this man really is. A filthy excuse for living. How many prostitutes was it this time? Five seconds. You know how to manipulate these people, make them squeal. They only want to hear what satisfies them. And that's what you do.
Three...
Two...
One...
And the clock reached zero.
It was like an audience of a billion had begun clapping, as flames and smoke on the stage filled the air with ash. Screams sounded like bells, and it was absolute music.
Only one man was left laughing.
Timing...It's what matters.
A/N: I decided to not introduce other characters for a while. I like it better this way.