Part 14: Betrayal

There is betrayal.

It sits on my chest, hot and heavy and teasing, and burns an oozing, fiery hole all the way to my heart. It tastes like blood. I breathe it in and let it steep inside of me. When I go to cough it back out, nothing leaves my lungs except a crackling whoosh of dead air.

I can't open my eyes. Something like mortar has sealed them shut; my eyelids are encasing what feels like tiny shards of broken glass. I struggle to see the world, but my eyes stay closed; the lids won't so much as flutter against the sharp pain that cuts through them. I stop trying and just focus on breathing. My windpipe constricts and writhes with the effort.

He's done it. He's really gone and done it. He's taken everything, every little thing, we were striving towards, shredded it to bits, and set the remains on fire. His hope for a peaceful future, of ever having a life, of fading out of the limelight—he's burned it all to ash. He's killed his second chance, left it to dangle from the executioner's platform like a victim of a hanging. I don't know what's left for either of us now, besides persecution and then, inevitably, death. But, he never cared about me getting hurt, did he? No, you don't do this to someone you care about. You don't take all they've done for you and throw it back in their face like their efforts meant nothing. You don't treat their life as though it's a meaningless plaything, something that can be manipulated and used until you finally succeed in getting what you wanted from it in the first place. Then, you destroy and abandon it. You don't leave someone you care about behind to burn and face the consequences alone.

Disgust ripples up my feet, through my chest, and settles next to betrayal in a sickening pool of black.

I am so juvenile. Did I really believe for even an instant that Bane felt the same sense of affection for me that I feel for him? It's embarrassing to think about how much time I spent planning out what I wanted us to experience together. I wanted us to go visit my family again, and maybe go to Keystone City to see Tippy's new home. A train ride to another state, a flight to New York, maybe even a cruise. I had it all planned out for us. Before I realized that he would be better off with someone else, I wanted us to finish our last few months together making great memories for him that would last a lifetime. Wishful, juvenile, silly thoughts. Stupid. He didn't want or care about any of that. His mind was always elsewhere: on plans to escape Gotham, to make all of us pay for whatever unspeakable crime he thinks we've done. I didn't see this betrayal coming. Or maybe I did and I just turned a blind eye to it. It just felt right having him with me. It felt nice not being ... alone. I thought I was doing the right thing. But, Bane was right about this one thing—I am a child. I should have seen this coming.

Bitterness plunges its hollow fingers straight into my ribcage and meshes its hands with disgust and betrayal.

I drag my hand to my neck and feel the deep marks that Bane left on me. The skin is crushed and tender, like the flesh of a rotten peach. Dried blood ran a path from the corners of my mouth and made an itchy, sticky coat across my neck. It's painful, but I swallow. It feels like it catches in my throat yet manages to crawl its way down to the churning pit of my stomach. A wheezing noise filters out of my lips as I go to exhale.

Is it bad that I almost want to stay this way? Forever sheathed in the empty, shallow, smoky silence, staying sweetly oblivious to whatever's coming next, be it death or prison... It sounds like a much better place to be than the truth.

But, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, reminding me that I'm still here for now.

Numb fingers dig into my pajamas' pocket. I struggle through my weariness to place it next to my ear, then tap blindly around on the right side of the screen until the vibrating stops.

Tippy's voice immediately flows through the phone, accompanied by what sounds like men talking quietly in the background.

"Hey, V? Is that you?"

I smile at her voice. She's still alive, still breathing. Whatever plans Bane has, Tippy managed to escape them. I knew she would.

I open my mouth to tell her to get out of the city, but nothing comes out except for more wet gasps for air. Licking my rust-flavored lips, I give it another try. Still, I can't talk. I inhale and the action makes me start to gag.

Suddenly, from the phone, there's a loud crash and the sound of gunfire. I hear people screaming and explosions ring through my receiver. My heart picks up its pace as I continue my attempts to talk. Nothing comes out. More screams blare out of my phone.

Tears start to roll down the sides of my face as the gunfire and explosions abruptly stop. No other sound comes through the phone. The call has ended. I lay in shocked silence for what feels like hours, waiting for Tippy to call back and tell me everything's okay. My phone doesn't make a noise.

Fear starts to make hasty decisions on reality for me.

Tippy's okay. She's tough. She's the strongest person I know. She got out of there and is somewhere safe. She's probably looking for you right now. Bane would never hurt someone I love. No, he would never…

I don't really know him, do I?

It's getting harder to breathe. Every inhale I take feels like it's not getting enough oxygen into my lungs, so I suck greedily at the air, fighting against the sharp discomfort. Panic rises when I find that I'm starting to feel light-headed again. Consciousness is slipping, and I know there's no chance of me coming back from the darkness this time, not if I slip under again.

There's a slight vibration in the surface I'm lying on. A clicking noise comes from nearby, something that sounds like a car door opening. A new presence is near me. Someone starts cursing hot and fast as I hear hands rustling over clothing.

"Where are my keys?"

The person is right beside me. Regardless of if this new presence is a friend or foe, I need to get them to notice me. I need help for me and Tippy, and if I don't get it soon, this lightheaded feeling and shortness of breath tells me I'll be out of time.

My eyes still hurt too much to open, so I fight to use my voice again. After a few moments of struggling, I somehow am able to mumble, "H-H-Hel … me."

The person shifts in front of me.

"Ma'am?!"

This time, I recognize the voice.

Another sound like a car door opening and Detective Blake has picked me up. I wince as he balances my head on his shoulder and gently puts his arm under my knees. The smell of smoke is stronger next to him. I cough and try to speak again, but can't. I just focus on trying to breathe instead.

"Hang in there, Valencia," Blake says, but he says this quietly, like he's talking to himself. He called me by my real name. The sound of it coming from his mouth makes my stomach clench. Does he think I can't hear him? Is it already too late for me?

I'm bouncing, so I know we're moving. He's taking me somewhere. I hang limply in his arms, struggling to stay awake, as Blake keeps warning me to do:

"You've got to stay awake. Okay? Stay with me."

"Tr-trying," I whisper.

For the next few minutes, I try to focus on the quiet, gurgling breaths I take, and the sound of Blake's feet hitting the pavement. There are other noises, too: swerving cars, people screaming, gunfire, and wailing sirens come together to play a chaotic symphony for tonight's events.

"We're here, we're at the hospital," Blake says and then I'm pulled away from him. I'm laid out on something, a bed, and then I hear wheels squealing beneath me as my body is thrust into motion.

"There's a lot of blood coming from her mouth," a woman's voice says from above me.

"Do we really have time to help this girl? We should be getting out of here!" a man's voice argues.

"Dylan, I became a doctor because I want to save lives. We've got people coming in here by the dozens; go ahead, leave them to die while you run back to your empty apartment," the woman snaps.

The man is silent and the conversation quickly turns back to medical talk.

"Most likely tracheal injury—there's bruising on her throat beneath the blood. Strangulation. Considerable force was used. Possible domestic abuse."

"Her face is losing color; not enough oxygen is making it ino her lungs. Let's get an X-ray, quickly. We're going to need to perform a tracheostomy."

I grip the edges of my bed at the prospect of surgery. The male doctor must have noticed me tensing up because he says, "It's alright, sweetheart. You won't feel a thing."

Something pricks my neck and I wince. I felt that crap, and it hurt!

"We're going to go with local anesthesia. I'm worried about the blood, so I want to do this quick," the female says.

My neck eases into a numb, tingling feeling, like that feeling your leg gets when you sit on it for too long. Then, something starts to pull and tug at the numb part of my throat, and I try to stay as still as possible.

"It's okay, just remain calm and quiet. We're going to open up your throat and put a tracheostomy tube inside it temporarily. It's going to help you breathe much easier," the male doctor says.

I blot out the image of my throat being opened up and get as still as I possibly can, although my throat feels uncomfortable with all of the tugging they're doing. I'm too tired to question anything, too mentally and physically exhausted to move even if I wanted to.

"Alright, it's in there," the female doctor informs me. "For now, don't talk. Just nod or shake your head to give me answers, okay?"

I gently nod.

"Good. I'm Dr. Gray. We're going to do a quick X-ray and see what's going on inside you. Hopefully, we'll be able to stitch you right back up soon and pop that stoma out. Can you open your eyes for me?"

I shake my head.

"It's okay, sweetheart. You can do it. It might feel painful at first, but I need to take a look at what might be causing that pain. It's most likely to be an easy fix, one that won't require any more needles."

Warily, I peel my eyes open. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Everything's so bright. And my eyes are stinging like crazy. They feel like someone poured red chili powder straight into them.

The world looks like a splotchy, amateur watercolor painting at first, but eventually morphs into shapes and forms that my mind can give meaning to.

The female doctor stands over me, dressed in her blue scrubs and surgical mask. She's a middle-aged woman, with an Afro that can't decide if it wants to shimmer black or silver. She has a round face beset with thin wrinkles, but a beautiful, youthful smile.

She studies my eyes closely, then turns to talk to the male doctor who has been assisting her. "She has a few burst blood vessels in her eyes and perhaps overexposure to smoke, but nothing serious. Are there any nurses that are free who can bring us artificial tears to ease the pain?"

The male doctor shakes his head. "Everyone's flooded with work right now. If she's in stable condition, I can run and find some."

She nods. "Thanks, hurry back." After he takes off from the wide, gray room, she turns back to look at me. "Honey, how is your breathing?"

It's weird, I want to say. All of my breath doesn't seem to be reaching my nose and mouth. Instead, it's coming in and going out through something else before it gets there.

Still, I can breathe, so I nod at her.

"Good, good," she responds. "Whoever did this to you is going to pay, don't you worry. We'll find him and have him taken in. Just because the city's gone crazy, it doesn't mean he's going to get away with hurting you."

I avert my eyes away from the doctor's honest and kind face. He's already gotten away with it, I want to say. And he's hurt my heart a lot more than what he did to me physically.

"It's okay," she says. "You don't have to tell me about it right now. Just know that whoever did this to you, you shouldn't go back to him. He's dangerous and he's not good for you. If he hurt you like this, he's capable of doing it again. I've been there, and that kind of person needs more help than we're able to give them. You don't have to be the one to change him."

I say nothing back, but my eyes start to burn even more fiercely.

The doctor pats my hand. "I'm going to give you a bit of morphine to ease any discomfort you may have. Once the anesthesia starts to wear off, your throat might start to feel a dull pain. When that happens, let me know and I'll bring you some more medication. For now, just get some rest."

There's a small prick in the crook of my arm as an IV enters my bloodstream.

"I'm going to go check on the other patients, but Dr. Crawford will be back with something for your eyes in just a moment. Did you need anything before I go?"

I give a small nod and point at the door. I try to say "Blake", but air doesn't even pass from between my lips. What the heck?

"You're not going to be able to talk comfortably while that's in your neck, but hopefully, it won't have to be in for long. Just until we're able to see why you're not breathing correctly." She reaches over and grabs a marker and a surgical mask from a nearby operating table. "Can you write down what you want to tell me?"

After swallowing, I give what I hope can be identified as nodding. I take the surgical mask and marker from her and sloppily write, "Can my friend come in?" on the mask's blue surface.

She takes the mask back from me. As she reads over my messy handwriting, I notice her thin eyebrows begin to furrow together.

"The man who came here with you? He's your 'friend'?" She asks this carefully, almost like she's talking to a toddler.

I nod at her.

She stares at me. "He's not the one who hurt you, is he?" she asks bluntly. "I'll tell you now that if he's the one, he's not setting one foot near you."

I shake my head.

The doctor eyes me a while longer, and then, hesitantly, she agrees. "I'll take you to a post-op room and he'll come in shortly after that."

Dr. Crawford comes back with my eyedrops (those make my eyes feel less like grated cheese), and then I'm wheeled to the post-op room, which is a small room with minimal decorations. There are plastic flowers resting in a cheap vase on the bedside table. The curtains are drawn shut over my window, but there's a pale, orange glow lighting up the thin curtains. The smell of cleaning solution is so strong, I can almost taste it. A news anchor is yelling from the box television rigged up near the room door, and he keeps repeating one name:

Bane, Bane, Bane.

I lay quietly in the room, finger tapping absent-mindedly against the strange object protruding out of my neck like some unknown parasite, my morphine-addled brain slowly being eaten away by anxiety, guilt, and the way this news anchor keeps saying Bane's name over and over again like it's a piece of gum that never loses flavor.

"Reports are in and the speculations are true: Bane is one of the patients missing from Arkham Asylum," the male anchor, Tom Brown, tells Gotham. "An unknown party managed to set the asylum aflame a few hours ago, right after releasing all of the patients inside. Bane is confirmed to be among those freed. Earlier today, Bane was placed in the asylum after suggestions from the public to have him retained in a facility that would help his efforts of rehabilitation. Now, not even a day later, everyone seems to have realized that this may have been a fatal, fatal mistake. Police estimate the body count caused by this fire to be around twenty-seven so far. Witnesses report seeing many patients board what appeared to be attack helicopters after the escape. Was Bane among them? Currently, we have no answer to this question. Police are tracking the helicopters and working to bring them down without harming any innocent citizens. All of Gotham is advised to stay indoors and away from windows until the police are able to bring this situation under control. Call the police right away if you see anything out of the ordinary…"

I hear footsteps entering my room. I look to my left and see Blake approaching me. He looks as though he's just emerged from a long, hard-fought war. He's got a long, bleeding gash on his face, stretching across his right cheek. Soot caked all over his body like paint. His police uniform is missing; he's just wearing a basic white undershirt and … boxers?

As soon as I see his boxers, I hurriedly avert my eyes to ceiling.

If I could talk, I might crack a joke and say, "I may be in a hospital bed, but at least I made it out of Arkham with my clothes still on."

I'm glad I can't talk. I don't even find the joke funny right now.

Blake gives an embarrassed laugh. "Uh, I would have put something on, but they didn't really … How are you?" I hear him sit beside me, but I don't look at him. Not only am I embarrassed at his lack of clothing, I'm embarrassed at the situation I got us in. I look over at my glowing curtains and slowly, I shake my head.

"Did Bane do this to you?" Blake asks. He's got a certain edge in his voice, one I've only heard creep in when he's completely serious about something.

I don't say anything or move my head to give an answer. As stupid as it sounds, I don't want to make Blake feel guilty about what happened to me. I'm starting to understand how he thinks more and more these days, and I know he's going to place the blame on himself for this.

"I'm sorry this happened, Rose," Blake says. "I shouldn't have let him near your home. I knew something like this could happen."

I didn't. Not after the first few months.

"We're going to find him and—"

Over the anguished yells and clamor happening in the halls, a strong, decisive voice echoes down the hall and into our room. Both Blake and I turn to look at the doorway, where Blake left the door open.

"This girl is bleeding out. Whoever has a free hand, we've got to do something!"

Blake's face lights up with recognition. He shoots to his feet and, after a wary look at his bare legs, he starts heading towards the doorway.

"I know who that is. Give me one second," Blake says, and then he's disappeared out of the room.

"According to latest reports," Tom Brown says from the TV, "Valencia Paisley's apartment has been burnt to the ground. Paisley was the college student in charge of masked terrorist Bane's rehabilitation. She only recently gave up the title of Bane's caretaker, but it seems it was not soon enough. Dusk Falls Apartment is aflame in what seems to be a direct connection to the Arkham Asylum fiasco. All of the tenants seem to have made it safely out of the building, but one person is missing: Paisley. Police have not found Paisley's body. The search for the missing caretaker is on. Some are saying that Valencia might be the one behind the escaped Arkham patients, but this is purely speculation…"

I touch the hollow device in my throat and stare back at the softly glowing curtains. My heart is thudding against my ribcage and I feel more stupid, wasted tears rushing back to my eyes. The sound of crackling and sobbing comes from the television as Tom Brown's rugged face is replaced with live footage of what must be Dusk Falls, but I don't look at it. I'm lost in the sea of orange and yellow draped in front of the fiery window. It's so beautiful. I know behind it lies the truth, but I don't want to face that. I don't know how to. My hands are gripping my bedsheets and releasing them, and they repeat this action, over and over. My teeth are grinding into one another as the people from Dusk Falls continue to cry out of the television, tears rightfully marking me as the one to blame. I can feel their tears filling my throat and choking me, he's choking me, I can't breathe, I'm going back, Bane, why would you —

"Rose!"

I slowly look over at the door and see Blake watching me from the doorway. His eyes are fixated on my face, a look of guilt and shock etched into them.

He's seen something in the hallway.

I edge myself up on my elbows and stare back at him in silence. Something like a rock lands in the pit of my stomach the longer that he looks at me.

He approaches my bedside and holds something out to me. It's a small and thin driver's license. I reach up and carefully pull the license from between his fingers. My hands are shaking.

Tiphani Brown, the license reads.

"Did you know her?" Blake asks quietly.

Did. Past tense.

I nod, but I almost want to shake my head "no". The rock of dread in my stomach seems to expand as Blake's crestfallen look grows.

He reaches out and places his hand on my arm. I put my hand on top of his rougher one and grip down tightly. Blake opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then opens it again. I search his face, waiting for his answer, but I know what's coming, like a ship approaching a whirlpool that's sure to be its doom.

I start shaking my head and a horrible gasping noise comes from the stoma in my neck.

"No," the stoma breathes out. "No, no, no."

Blake then says something that will forever change my life:

"I'm so sorry. She's … She's dead."

Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Here's that tumblr link I promised for B R for those of you who want to read oneshots and more bonus material:

If you look up banishment and redemption on tumblr, you should be able to find it. I'll also post the link on my profile *thumbs up*

See you next chapter!