Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: Sorry, it's a short one!
August 26th
23:01 EST
Lawless Residence
Ice. My shoulders are shaking, jaw quivering, gooseflesh raised down my arms and legs, my nipples taut. I tuck my shivering arms close to my chest, but my fever has robbed my warmth. "It's fucking cold." I croak.
"It's called ice, Paltron. Frozen water, remember?" He grins tiredly, but reaches for a crimson bath towel, draping it across my shoulders, affording me what little modesty I have left.
I watch, distantly, as he presses his gloved fingers into the flesh of my knee…but feel nothing. "You feel anything?"
I shake my head no, then close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. It hits with a gentle thump, my airway open and clear. Alcohol-tainted oxygen makes its way into my lungs, expanding them fully. It feels so goddamned good to breathe-
Then Lawless' voice again. Hazy. Fading. I blink stupidly. I couldn't have heard that right…
"You like cherries?"
"W-what?" I groan.
He shakes his head. "Wrong question. Got any allergies to red food coloring?"
What the hell? I roll my head and eye him suspiciously. "No…"
He senses the question and mumbles an answer. "Amy buys these damn popsicles by the gross and the boys just love 'em. But they hate cherries, so now I've got a deep freeze full of nothing but goddamned red popsicles. Been trying to get rid of 'em all summer-"
…Too tired. Too weak. The boys. I assume he is speaking only of Ian. I will soon learn how wrong I am…
"Popsicles," I state. The word tastes funny, unformed on my lips, as though repeating for the first time a foreign phrase. Popsicles. It is a word I have not spoken in years…
"Point being, you can have red…or red. Take your pick." Lawless says wryly. "What'll it be?"
The cogs finally fall into place. "What the fuck, I'm feeling adventurous…red."
"Good girl," He chuckles. There is a sudden crinkling of shrink wrapped plastic, the rising heat of the running tap, and the heavy, syrupy scent of cherries, melting ice swirling in the drain like dripping blood. He tells me to open my mouth. I comply. The sugared, splintered popsicle stick is placed between my teeth.
My heart starts to pound. A lifetime of violence has taught me the anticipation and dread of pain is worse than the injury itself. And I am not immune. "This is gonna hurt." I whisper.
Lawless snorts. "You think?"
23:06 EST
Lawless Residence
I shudder as he takes hold of my leg again, a strange tickling sensation where his rubbered hands hit chilled flesh, the eerie pressure of touch against numbed skin….his fingers run down the scars, finding the base of each tendon.
Gracilis. Semi-tendonous. Semi-membranous. Quads…
"You've had this knee partially replaced," his voice comes, far and distant."When?"
"Eighteen…
"You were eighteen, or eighteen years ago?" He asks, as I inhale sharply, his fingers now probing around that meaty wound. "Ago." I pant.
"Wayne Legacy foundation did it for you, didn't they?"
Goddamned Stop the Violence. A week to the day. I nod. He asks which doc. I tell him. "Daluga? I was under him for residency. He's a good man. Good surgeon." Silence again. He is concentrating. His hands move to my left leg, passive ROM. He grunts, satisfied, and I shudder as he moves back to my right knee-
A sharp, screeching cry. I fall back, panting, teeth grinding into splintering wood. It hurt as fucking bad as this morning-
Lawless looks sickened. "Sorry, Paltron." He is pale, bloodless. I know that look, have worn it well…
Angel shivers in my arms., tiny fingers curled tightly into my blood-smeared shirt.
"It's okay Angel, it's okay-" I place him down and he cries out, clinging to me I kiss his hair, his face, the tip of that perfect, mole-skin nose. I tear away, run to the bedroom, kitchen, scissors and sewing thread clenched in my hands…
I don't know how I do it. Some terrible monster within me rises, rises, fights against my instinct to hold him, cuddle him….but I love him. Love him terribly. And that maternal monster does what I cannot. He screams as I wrest him down, We sob as one as I rip those flailing hands away, tiny nails biting deep in my flesh, wrench those pants off the bright shock of blood scarlet against the paleness of his skin I am vomiting, sobbing he shrieks in wordless betrayal dark eyes pouring tears but there is a gaping tear still bleeding-
The needle pierces his quivering flesh. He shrieks, not knowing, not understanding…
My Angel. Beautiful baby boy. He is screaming, screaming, and it is I who cause his pain…I die. And yet I continue. Must continue. One clumsy, tear-blinded stitch at a time.
"You alright?" Lawless asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He is pale, sickly looking in the bright lights. And for the first time I realize that this surgery-like the Legacy-will be no easier for him to bear than I…
"Yeah." I gasp, tears pouring heedlessly, sugary splinters piercing my teeth and gums. "Yeah."
"I'msorryAngelI'msorryI'msofuckingsorry-" I lay on the bathmat next to Angel, aching to hold him, comfort him…fearing to touch him lest he not understand. My chest is burning, heart throbbing as his eyes pierce me, accuse me, whimpering in shrill, wordless betrayal…
I am sobbing. Sobbing in shame and bereavement there is blood on my hands my face my clothes I killed killed four men kidnapped a child what have I done what have I doneOhGodwhathaveIdoneI'msorryI'msorryAngelI-
I gasp in shock. A cold hand laid on my face. A child's hand. Angel's hand…Tears still prick his doe-like eyes, cling breathlessly to his impossible lashes, bead like dew and diamonds down his perfect face…but they are tears of pain. Not betrayal. He knows. And those fragile fingers move softly, trace the lines of my own trickling tears, rest their tiny tips against my parted lips…I kiss them, my eyes adoring, reaching a hesitant hand to pull my Angel close…
He surrenders to my embrace. Safe, held warm and trembling against my heaving chest, safe in my arms where I will protect him, safe, held against the softness of my breasts, pale face bathed in those bastards' blood, a seal, a signet, a solemn promise they will never hurt him again…
Lawless' large hands are trembling, and he shakes his head, fighting sickness. It isn't easy to hurt another. Not when you love them.
23:11 EST
Lawless Residence
"Good news." Lawless pants. "Lockman was negative. Your ACL's fine."
Then why'd it hurt so fucking bad, I don't have to ask. He is staring at the knee, engrossed and intent, mind steeling against his heart. "What the hell did you do to this?"
"Fell…rocks…"
"Uh-huh. And you dug them out with what, exactly?"
I feel suddenly foolish. It had seemed so rational at the time… "Keys." I whisper.
"Christ, woman. No wonder this looks like shit" He shakes his head in consternation, hazel eyes shutting, rolling far back into his head…"You know, Paltron…sometimes I think you're the goddamned stupidest person I've ever met. No, I take that back." He says, running the fingers of his right hand through his hair. His nervous habit. "You're the most goddamn stubborn." He stops, phrases his next words carefully. "You wonder why you've been having trouble walking? Your MCL is shredded."
"Just a shredded tendon?" I ask through clenched teeth, eyes tearing. It was goddamned stupid, digging blindly with the sharp edge of the keys…
Stupid. Asinine. Reckless. The sort of dumbass rookie mistake I can't afford to make….
He shakes his head. "There's no ''just' about it, Paltron. It's ripped to hell….it's a million dollar ligament. You cut that thing in surgery and you're in lawsuits up to your ass…I can't believe you've fucking walked on this."
"Yeah." I pant. And the real question: "What does it mean?"
"It's cartilage. Specialized connective tissue. Highly avascular. In your case it'll heal-if you fucking let it-but it's gonna take some time. Months. Years maybe."
Months. Years. Angel is dead. The Joker at large…I am fighting sickness and death. I do not have that long. Gotham does not have that long. "So that's it then?" I choke.
He shakes his head, grimacing. "Nah. That's just me bitching at you. Cartilage is de-nervated. No sensory or motor. It's just a structural support, like a joist. What's hurting like shit is you've got an obstruction of some sort still in the joint. Damn." He says. "If you've ground that joint capsule too much you're going to have to have surgery. Real surgery, you hear?"
I shake my head, baring my teeth.
"Stop being super-bitch and listen." He says gruffly, gesturing with the dripping scalpel in added emphasis. "You get broken pieces of plastic off that and you trigger an immune response. And that'll loosen the cement and you'll lose the whole damn joint, you hear? You're lucky this one's lasted this long."
He's fucking right. I don't have time to wait for another surgery, months physical therapy. I must be careful. Cautious. I have to conserve what little I have left…
The gentle tinkering of metal against glass, and he shakes the last drops of alcohol off the sterilized scalpel. "I'm just gonna open this up again, clean it better, get whatever the hell is stuck in there out-pray to God it's not part of the prosthetic- and pin it up the best I can." He says. "Sound good?"
I nod. "You're the doctor." But my whisper is muffled, dried lips snagging against the wood clenched between my teeth. He sighs. Shakes his greying head...
Then without warning, his hand slides up my thigh and I jerk back in instinctive fear, that glass falling and spinning in sharp shards across the marble floor, rising fumes choking me. Lawless withdrawals his hands as though burned, eyes squinting and uncertain.
"I need to compress your artery to get a bloodless field." He states slowly. "That okay/"
My heart is still hammering, adrenaline pumping, clenched fist around a stoneware soap dish. Unconscious. Nastic. Reflex. My wrist goes weak. Limp. I release it. Lawless didn't see. Doesn't know. But I do, horror and guilt welling up inside. Had he not retreated, had he waited a second longer, my hand would have flown on its own…
Stupid bitch, I seethe. Yesterday I stood before Gotham's most notorious rapist and felt no fear…today the touch of a friend has sent me flinching. But yesterday I was vengeance. Fury. Tonight I am wounded and weak.
I nod nervously, not meeting his eyes. His hands slide uncomfortably up my bare leg, fingers palpating, pressing against the inside of my thigh.
23:15 EST
Lawless Residence
A folded towel. Blue exercise band. The homemade tourniquet cinches tighter on my leg, and I cry out in pain, my body protesting the deep, throbbing pinch…
His gloved hands are grimy, face and hair flecked with iodine. He closes his eyes, sighing deeply, rolling the handle of the scalpel in his shaking fingers. And in my fever I sudden wonder how it is that most major surgeries were performed before the days of modern anesthesia, ether, even chloroform…Lawless is a strong man. Perhaps the strongest I've ever met. Fiercely loyal and protective….yet contemplating my pain has nearly broken him. Was is greater strength-or something more sinister-that permitted primitive surgeons to do what they did-?
...I will soon know. "You ready?" He asks. I nod my head, baring my teeth, breathing deeply. I lay back, heart hammering, shuddering in fear. He grips my leg, looks me once in the eyes, and whispers this is gonna hurt like hell.
The scalpel finds my skin. I feel the eerie pressure of his hand on my icy, feeling-less flesh, grow dizzy with the sudden, sickening spurt of blood-
"Close your eyes." He commands. I do.
More pain. More pressure. I am writhing.
"Lie still." He commands.
I groan. And comply. Pain. Sharp blade snicking through skin.
Angel-!Bright metal against smooth skin, pressing deeper and deeper, a single, perfect bead of blood…And that Bastard's hideous, hellion grin…
Pain. Only pain. And must bear it. Will bear it. Welcome it. Savor it. My teeth clamp harder into that pithy stick, the taste of the treat oozing from the splintering wood.
…I died with my son. Pain can no longer harm me. Only prolong my misery.
23:27
Lawless Residence
My breathing is deep. Heart racing. The numbing effect of the ice has long since worn away and still I lay motionless. Minutes pass. He is meticulous, methodical, and the transcripts of the night of the Joker's initial capture echo in my aching head: wanna know why I use knives? Guns are too quick…you can't savor all the…little emotions. Ya see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are. So in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did…
Lawless is stoic. Strength. His hands are steadfast, solid, never shaking, not even once. But he is not like the Joker. Not at all. He finds no relish, no release, no thrill of rape in neither pain nor fear.
The little emotions…Brows contorting. Flinching. Facial tics. Pressing lips or baring teeth. Jaw quivering or locked. What does he see? I take another ragged breath. Stop being super-bitch and listen…what is it he finds that drives me to do what I do? What I have done? Strength? Numbness? Obsession? Insantiy?
My heart quickens. …and would he be right-? Have I become what they have always predicted? Harlene Quintzel, Joan Leland, Jim Gordon, Osiris….what if they were right? Am I a psychopathic killer, so insensitive to my own and other's pain and humanity that I must be locked away for the safety of others and my own as well-?
Lawless' voice. Fading, distant: Almost done.
I open my eyes, desperate for his familiar face, a firm reality, an anchor in this nightmare of doubt and disturbing dreams. Hydrogen peroxide. Lawless unscrews the cap and clear liquid pours smoothly from the dark bottle. For a moment, I feel nothing at all-
"Nnnnnnuagh-!" The noise escapes my lips against my will. Pink froth is bubbling from my knee, pouring warm and fizzy down my leg, gritty with gravel. The wound burns. Pulses. Throbs. I choke back vomit. Lawless places the flashlight in my trembling hands, directs me to sit up, hold it over the churning, blood smeared mess….
I do.
Forceps disappear. My eyes snap shut. Roll back… the flashlight falls from my fainting fingers. A sudden, stabbing pain. My leg jerks, Lawless' strong hands holding it down. "Hold still, I've almost got it Paltron you've got to hold still-!"
A sudden bang. My eyes fall open. Lawless whips his head-
"What the hell are you doing-!" A shrill voice demands. I squint, the room spinning, head hanging awkwardly upside down from the soiled countertop…
Flashing blue eyes. Dark hair….Lawless' wife.
"I'm obviously having an affair." He snaps. "What's it look like I'm doing, Ames?"
Silence. He is bent over my knee. Doesn't see. But for one sputtering, strange, surreal second an ugly look mars her careworn countenance. Anger? Guilt? The room is spinning, I cannot tell which-
Suddenly her eyes meet mine. Widen. Shift-
Then a sudden, jerking pop and a scream consume me, colors whirring fading blinding white, I am choking coughing throat dried from that cry-
She rushes to me, face paling, Lawless' strong arms stopping my fall to the hard floor below. I vomit. Uncontrollably. The sugarysweet-saltiness of Gatorade emptying from my stomach to the tile, sopping Lawless' chest, arm, my face the room is spinning, spinning that woman blurring Lawless shaking my face shouting PaltronPaltronPALTRON-!
The world goes white. I sleep.
…Angel's eyes open, staring into mine.
23: 41 EST
Lawless Residence
I wake. Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. They are liquid and light, lachrymose yet laughter, dark curls falling softly against his pale and perfect face…
"Don't know what your damn problem is."
Voices. Raised voices…Angel's mother and father. Screaming-
I wake. I am lying on my side, legs bare, right knee bandaged stiffly.
"Oh, so it's my problem? And what the hell were you thinking?" Amy Lawless' voice rings. It is low, but whiny. Girlish. Weak. Tinged with frustration. Mistrust….jealous and accusatory.
"She needed help, I helped her." A gruff voice counters. "That's what I was thinking."
A huff of indignation, the rustle of plastic, hefting blood soaked towels into a black garbage bag. "You sneak her in here, don't even call, don't wake me up what the fuck was I supposed to think-"
Dull punch. Cracking plaster. "Goddamnit, Ames!"
Flying hand. Bone on bone. Snapping acrylic. Sprawling limbs. Green eyes wide in shock, dead before she hits the floor-
I sit up, eyes wide, feeling dirty and wretched, small and sick. They stop. Turn. Tiff forgotten. Ask me how I am…You almost went into shock. Lost too much blood. Sat you up too fast. Stupid move...More Gatorade, Tylenol. Use Amy's old asthma inhaler until I can get you some stronger steroids…We can wrap that if you want to clean up, take a bath…
Pungent ammonia hangs in the air, clearing my aching lungs. The sink and floor are scrubbed spotless, no evidences of the butchery that occurred here. The bathwater is deliciously hot, bare feet slipping in, tensed muscles, feverish shaking immediately soothed. The downpour of the showerhead roars like the pounding rattle of machine-gun fire, echoing eerily in the tiled bathroom. My knee is stitched, bandaged tightly, swaddled in gauze, supported by athletic tape, and slick with saran wrap. Hardly waterproof. But enough, Lawless assures me, so long as it is not submerged.
I am suspended in the water, soiled beater translucent, sticking like a second skin. I am lethargic, lack the energy to strip, content to lay and let lapping waves of heat like memory roll over me…
Home. Whole. A gentle cascade of warm water, pinkish blood gargling down the drain. Angel sits like a naked cherub, beautiful and breathtaking, elven and ethereal in the dripping downpour.
I scrub his pale skin a shining pink, wash away the filth and shame of his abuse where it will be remembered no more. It is ritual. Sacred. Maternal. Like a cat licking clean her newborn kits. He sits still, patient, encircled in healing heat and a mother's fierce love. I blow bubbles in the soap and he smiles, paws my hand playfully as I cover his dark eyes, rinse the suds and soap away, hands shaking should they burn him. But he is tired. Fading fast. A stifled yawn, squinting eyes. He sighs sleepily as I wash his hair, bright eyes lost in his lashes, content with my caress...and suddenly he is sleeping. Pale face laid peacefully, resting in my open hands.
I drape him in a towel, hoist him dreaming from the tub. He is limp in my arms, cradled against my chest, naked and helpless and agonizingly beautiful. My clothes are soaking with warm water and blood from my long labor as I stroke his pale face. Kiss his dark curls. Dab the stubborn damp still clinging to his brows and lashes...and his bright eyes flicker open, fawning and content. Angel. He is mine. I am his. This is the life, the lie we have chosen: but it is not deceit. It is a gift. Precious. Bought with blood. Refined in fire. For I am Hannah. Naomi. And in the broken pleas of my barrenness I too have been granted a son...
A sudden twinge in my breasts. Tears prick my eyes. Poignant and potent beyond measure of pain: Child, behold your mother. Woman, behold your son.
23:48 EST
Lawless Residence
The door is open. Cracked. I rub the orange stain of iodine from my scarred skin as the din of angry voices seeps in from the hall. I lay my head against the cast iron tub, biting my lips in misery, the staccato rhythm of cascading water drowning their raising voices. But their fight has only gotten worse…
Thehelldoyouthinkyou'redoing-!
WouldyoujustlistenforafuckingminuteAmes-!
I'msickofthisI'msickofitAaronisittoomuchtoaskyoutellmewhat'sgoingon-
FirstJimmynowthisisittoomuchtoaskthatyoujustfuckingTRUSTme-! I shut my weary eyes, slip my head under the steaming water, but it's not enough, not nearly enough to block out her retaliatory cry.
"You can't just take me for granted-!"
Then silence. Deep, deathly silence. I surface, gasping for air, steam and sweat rising from my dripping face. Lawless' voice. Low. Begrudging. Bitter. A parting shot. "You're right, Ames…you're damn right." He growls. "I can't."
Angry footsteps. A door slams. And Amy Lawless is sobbing in the hall.
Even in the heat I shiver, settle lower in the tub, skin, stomach crawling. That intercourse was not meant for me to hear. And I feel guilty. Unwanted. Unwelcome. Even without these scars I am suddenly wretched. Because whatever Lawless may think, however much he may protest, joke that I have big, brass ones dangling between my legs, regardless of how much I try to forget or disguise what I am…I am still a Woman. And for the first time in six goddamned years I find I am not disgusted by her weakness…
Jon. Jon-! I have hoped, prayed, cursed, pled…convinced myself that if I could just see him again, talk to him, be with him…that he would come back to me. That he would love me. Love me as relentless and passionately as I love him-
But he only stares. Folds his arms. "Look, can we make this quick? Nikki don't know I'm here."
Nikki And now I know her name. Red called her his bimbo girlfriend and tried to laugh it off. Bear called her a goddamned cunt and in a fit of drunken rage brought my wheelchair crashing down on her head. I know her only the woman who has taken my husband. My Jon. Hair done up, slinky black dress, even now I can see the glint of satiny paint on her manicured hands, dangling limply from the stretcher as they bundle her into the ambulance beside his unconscious form…
And even now, two months later, I am shaking. Shaking in fear and misery and doubt. "Yeah. Yeah, we'll, we'll um, we'll make it quick…"
I sniff and dab a tear from my bloodshot eyes. I raise my face to his, and his dull eyes are clouded. Unreadable.
"Jon, I-" and I lose it. Sobbing, whimpering, bawling like a baby. Heads turn. Patrons stare. The clink of silverware on china has ceased. And I cannot contain it. My jealousy consumes me. I am agonized, raw, bleeding, crying his name, crying his name like that day in Pakistan, my insides hot and sticky in my hands black blood running everywherescreamingJonJonJONohGodJON-!
…neither do I pity. I simply understand.
And relief, relief like that hot water seeps through my soul with that nascent compassion. They were wrong. Wrong. All of them wrong. Foolish to think that I do not feel. For I am both human and hate, mother, and monster. A Killer…but not crazed.