Wednesday, September 4th, 2030

Gotham City Public Transit Station #003

That Chinese family wasn't the last.

I see three more 'paintings' before I go on. Each time the teens move in quickly. Ambush. Retreat. Few—if any—are ever caught. Pools of paint and the rubber remains of their make-shift grenades mark their previous hits. Signs of their warfare surround us in a stark reminder of the pointless Terror they serve. Their graffiti is even more disturbing:

WHO WATCHES THE WATCHMEN?

ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?

SCARS AND STRIPES FOREVER

DOWN WITH PIGS

The last has me gasping. Scrawled over an advertisement for Stop the Violence in violent blood red, wet drops still falling as if he is bleeding, bleeding still, my Angel's anguished face now forever marred with that same gaping, sanguine grin.

I turn away. Weep. And no one in this city of millions stops or cares.

We are Gotham. We do not learn from our mistakes.

We have eyes, but we see not.

Ears, but we hear not.

Beating hearts, yet we do not feel.

Suffering surrounds us. Pain permeates our every existence. Strife, toil, sorrow, struggle, they are all we know. Have ever known, or will.

May I rest for I am weary, may I lay down my head, may I never rise again. To be or not to be. In a world without my Angel there is no question

God of Gotham, whoever you are, will you not hear us? Will you not take pity as you took out your wrath and judgement so long ago? Will you not flood the world with raging waters once again? Will you not look down from your Heaven and see us? Will you not answer me?

…Will you do nothing?

No. No, I am no longer a child. I have put away childish things. There is no God of Gotham. Gotham is eternal, unending, existential. She can never be created, never be destroyed. In the end, Gotham lives inside all of us, and even when we are gone she will live on in the cosmos, proof of the callousness and coldness of warm human flesh. Universe, take note of us: do not build unto yourself life, consciousness or will. Do not strive for form or function, they are the lies told by the Deceiver long ago. Envy us not our awareness. You are better as you are: asleep.

Around me the subway station teems with the thrum of electric engines, the lifeless patter of feet habituated to movement. I see the people, the Sick, the Tired, the Poor, Huddled Masses Longing to Breathe Free packed underground away from the sun breathing in the pollution of millions and the exhaust fumes of cars rattling overhead. I see the lie of my life stretched on before me, that grey rain curtain drenching everything and all, and a boy—an Angel—standing in the tracks before the oncoming train with his lips upturned, his slender hand outstretched, his evanescent eyes offering me sleep.

I'm not done yet, I say to him. We'll be together again, but not yet. Not yet, not yet, my heart beats sluggishly in my chest, struggling against sickness and despair. But hatred flares still hot within me, even when wound only to ashes and ember it is enough.

It is enough.