Friday, August 9th, 2024, 22:25
It is another wet and stormy night in Gotham. A couple of weeks have passed since her last interaction with the Riddler, and she feels she is getting back to her old self. She has not been unbothered this long in months. The marks left from their last meeting were completely healed, leaving only a light pink scar in the shape of a bite mark on her skin. He has marked her, and now she will never forget, no matter what happens.
Eliza felt she needed a change, something to signal the new chapter in her life. So, what does a woman do to signal this? They bleach and cut their hair. Her beautiful, waist-length dark chocolate locks were severed and bleached. It was such a drastic change that even her co-workers did not recognize her when she traipsed in to work one evening. They thought she was a new girl. She remembers the attention and the compliments, how it gave her a hit of dopamine to have everyone focus on her. They made her feel important again, respected, and desired.
She went on some dates, too. So far, they had only led to shallow, distracting fun—something to blow off steam. But she needed it. She needed something vanilla to reset her mind - something uncomplicated. She enjoyed it, but something still felt off. The people were nice and seemed to really like her (but, mysteriously, have not responded to her messages since). They were normal. They had normal lives, normal families, normal jobs, normal backgrounds, and normal personalities—normal, healthy lives.
Normal.
Banal.
Humdrum.
Boring.
For some reason, she had come to associate normal with boring. Eliza wonders when her perception of what was acceptable started to warp. Normal is not bad. Normal can be good. Normal means you fit in and can be stable. For example, she could find a stable spouse; they could have stable incomes; they could have children (maybe); maybe she could finally go back to school to for nurse practitioner like she wants; maybe she could be happy and grow old and die peacefully in her sleep.
A mundane life to live. A safe life.
Normal people would want this.
But as Eliza reviews the past few months of her life, it has been anything but normal. She wonders where she would be now if Edward Nygma had not been brought to her trauma bay at Gotham General Hospital. He was escorted via ambulance, with the help and protection of Batman, after a gunshot wound to the chest. He nearly died. With the help of her teammates, they brought him back.
From then on, he came to her for help, for company, for shallow intimacy, and just for the hell of it. A nurse typically does not turn down someone in need. They are the real heroes. There were close calls. Situations where she begged him to let her take him to the ER, but he refused, promising to terrorize her for the rest of her life. (However, now, she considers that he terrorizes her anyway.) The Riddler knew if he went to the ER, then, as soon as he was stable, he would be transported to Arkham.
Eliza has pondered the purpose of continually indulging him many times before. If it were not for him, her life would be normal. But does she want normal? There is a feeling of ozurie when considering her situation.
Jerrika is right. He is no man. She deserves better.
Eliza sighs and stares at her work. She runs her hands through her now chin-length, wispy blonde bob. She is designing a program to improve patient quality and safety measures in the emergency department. It is not holding her attention enough.
Sans abuse, part of the reason she would like to say goodbye to the Riddler forever is because he is distracting—not only in his presence but mind as well. When she has a moment to think, her mind drifts to him. When she daydreams, it is about him. When she buys or steals supplies, it is for him. When she leaves her balcony door unlocked, it is for him. She inconveniences herself for him.
Is she obsessed?
Eliza fingers the emerald hanging around her neck. (Why have I not removed this fucking thing?) She shakes the previous thought away. Surely not? She is mentally healthy. Or she was. . .
The nurse drops her pen onto the desk, and her head follows.
Eliza is still confused.
Is it not the definition of insanity to repeat the same behaviors, hoping for a different outcome?
Why does she want to indulge in his antics? Her best medical judgment and self-respect scream in the forefront of her mind. She deserves better. She is too smart, too capable, and too much of a good person to subject herself to the risk of physical and mental injury and the risk of being stripped of her license (possibly arrested) for helping a wanted criminal and stealing supplies.
But her mind's darkest, deepest, most hidden parts want to please him. It is fucked up.
Does she think she can change him? Eliza cringes at the cliché and wraps her arms around her head on the desk.
She deserves better.
The hair on the back of her neck stands up before she processes a foreign thud. Her head pops up quickly and whips around. The room is dark, except for the light of her desk and the light of the television she keeps on for company. She sees nothing but does not trust it. She trusts her gut – it has saved lives.
She instantly regrets being only in a baggy T-shirt and underwear again, but it's her favorite way to sleep. Her hand reaches behind her, grabbing a knife she keeps for protection and to open letters. Eliza's eyes narrow at the corner of the room near her balcony door. Only one person uses her balcony door, and, honestly, she does not want them there.
"Nygma, if that's you, then leave me alone. I don't want to see you anymore. You're no longer my patient." Her hand tightens around the knife handle, "I feel unsafe."
"Oh, my dear nurse, you've changed your hair. I don't like it," he steps from where her eyes are squinting. He smirks in his arrogant way, holding his head high, his eyes gleaming with mischief and danger.
"You may have fixed your hair bimbo blonde and humored some dumb apes in the past few weeks, but I think you forget you're mine." His voice is low and menacing, "You can't forget that easily."
"Fuck you," she hisses. She also shudders. Of course, he knew what she did and who she was with at all times. Information, knowing everything, is part of his "job." She is suddenly afraid he is the reason they have not responded to messages.
He steps forward, deeper into her apartment, and she reflexively steps back. The desk behind her warns of the lack of space and escape.
"You can't run from me. I will always find a way into your life."
She is unamused.
"I'll call the police." She doesn't even believe that threat as she observes the predatory gleam in his eyes.
The Riddler grins, his voice dripping with enjoyment.
"My dear nurse, you won't need to call the police. The incompetent oafs wouldn't be able to help you anyway."
Edward continues his stalk forward until he is right in front of her; the desk is digging into her backside. He leans in closer, his warm breath wafting on her face. "You belong to me."
Eliza shivers with fear—or anticipation? She reigns herself in. This is her life. She is in charge of it.
Edward feels a sudden cold blade kissing his neck; his carotid pulses against it.
"I don't want you anymore."
Her eyes narrow in response to his mused chuckle.
"You may say that," he smirks. "But you know it is not true. You care for me. You like me."
With a swift maneuver, he easily knocks the blade from her hand and grips the wrist that previously held it.
He speaks in that melodic way that has annoyed her over the months: "You can deny your desires all you want, but they will always be there."
She grits her teeth and narrows her eyes.
"Edward, it's been weeks since –," she stops herself from reliving their last interaction. He cocks an eyebrow in smarmy curiosity. "Since I last saw you. You lost your shot. I do have some self-respect."
A dark chuckle rumbles around her, "Oh, my dear nurse. Self-respect is for those who can resist."
He leans until his nose touches hers, "And you can't resist me. . . I really hate your hair. Did I tell you that already?"
Her breath feels heavy in her chest. It feels like she is being sucked into a tar pit, and Edward Nygma is the tar pulling her down. Her jaw aches as she clenches.
"Yes, you did, asshole. I don't care what you like. I like it. And you don't know anything about me."
"I know everything about you."
The way his voice lowered maliciously sent a shiver down her spine.
"You can't resist me. Because deep down – ", with one gloved hand clenching her wrist, he brings the other to brush fingers against her cheek, "-you crave my attention."
Suddenly feeling amoransia, Eliza turns her head away from the sensation, "I craved your attention. . . notice past tense."
"My dear nurse, past tense or not, your body and mind still desire me," he whispers next to her ear and smirks when he feels her tremble.
There's nowhere else for her to turn or pull away to.
"Edward, I deserve someone to care for me, to make me feel loved, respected, and safe."
She brings her free hand between them and pushes his chest, but he, of course, resists. Her other wrist wiggles and twists, but it's futile. Eliza could likely break the grip, but there is the question of whether she wanted to. Was there some truth to what he was saying?
"I don't feel safe around you anymore. There's nothing you can do to change my mind."
"You say that." His voice lowers to a seductive purr. "But I think you know that I am the only one who can satisfy your needs."
He laughs as he sees the anger flare in her green eyes, "You won't resist me because I am the only one who challenges and excites you."
His voice and demeanor are dripping with arrogance, the pompous jerk. Okay, she has had enough of this. She punches him in the gut with surprising strength, and he lets go of her in reflex.
"I'm leaving."
She quickly looks for her car keys and attempts to escape him. The Riddler recovers swiftly and grabs her wrist again.
"You can't leave yet. We still have much to discuss."
Eliza whips around and slaps him – hard.
"Keep your hands off me!"
The Riddler laughs maniacally, his eyes twinkling with delight, but he keeps a firm grip on her wrist. It hurts, and she is losing feeling in her fingers. Again, he pulls her tight to him by the waist as she struggles to break free. She is frustrated because she cannot find good footing to defend herself.
"Eliza, violence only fuels my desire for you. You can't escape me."
She begins to worry now. He will not let her go, and she feels trapped. Her confidence is cracking.
"Please leave me alone. I don't want you," she wriggles in his grasp, trying to find a moment to defend herself amidst feelings of anderance. Her self-defense classes fail in the face of a man she once thought she had feelings for.
Her voice cracks, and tears spring, "I deserve someone who loves me."
"You deserve someone who understands your true potential."
The Riddler's grip tightens as he watches her break in his hands. His eyes gleam with twisted satisfaction, and he tilts his head down to nuzzle her. His breath is hot on her neck. The behavior starkly contrasts the situation at hand.
"I will never leave you alone."
He grins wickedly, reveling in the power he holds over her.
Eliza cries, "Please let me go. I don't want to be with you like this! I am worthy of love."
His grip tightens around her, and she can barely breathe with the pressure on her back and chest.
"My dear nurse, love is a weakness. I don't need it." His voice is sordid and mocking, "But you do."
Eliza cracks. She's sobbing, tears pouring in response to how dire her situation is. How did she get here? Months of acquaintanceship and intimacy are broken as she comprehends her situation. He is a villain. He is crazy: obsessive-compulsive in the worst way, an antisocial personality, and a narcissistic personality. A sociopath. A murderer.
"Edward," she pleads. "You're hurting me. I was stupid to think you actually cared about me. I'm just another puzzle to you. An obsession."
He painfully squeezes her close one last time before letting her go, and she drops to the floor.
She is sobbing and broken. Her mind is reeling and reviewing the good moments they had together. They were few and far between, but they were there.
"Yes, you are just a puzzle to me."
Eliza does not know what to do. He will not leave her alone. If she tries to escape, he will chase after her. He will follow her everywhere. He has made that abundantly clear. She should have called the police half an hour ago – more like weeks, months ago. She cannot think of a single way to escape him fully. Even if she got away, he would return. He would keep returning. She is completely broken. What could he do with a broken toy?
"I can't take this. I don't want to be here anymore." What has her life become?
The Riddler crouches beside her, his eyes gleaming with a twisted delight.
"You can't leave, my dear. You belong to me," his voice is sickly sweet as he pets her hair.
Eliza is not in a good position—physically or mentally. She feels trapped, and she has never felt like this. She glances at the open balcony door. Her apartment is high up. . . Could she jump?
Edward is perceptive, of course, and follows her line of sight.
He chuckles and ruffles her now wispy blonde hair, "Don't be so hasty, my dear. We are just getting more acquainted - still in the honeymoon stage."
The Riddler is openly mocking her. Mocking her for having normal human emotions, thoughts, and desires. He mocks her capacity to love and be loved. He mocks their time together.
He stands, leaving her in a crumpled pile on the floor.
"You can't stay here forever," her head pops up, green eyes burning with hatred. The same burning intensity she once felt for him is replaced with volatile fury.
"If you leave, then I will jump off that fucking balcony."
This is not how their story was supposed to play out.
"Then I will take you with me."
The Riddler narrows his eyes in irritation before grabbing her by the arm and dragging her up from the floor. He turns to pull her toward the door, but she digs her heels in and resists. She breaks his grasp, glares at him, and takes a defensive stance.
Eliza's mind is racing. She thinks of possible ways out of this. He must have a weakness. With a determined focus, she darts her eyes around his form, looking at his stance, body, anything for a clue. She flips through her memories of them together, all the times that he has dropped on her balcony bloody and bruised. Why was he always in that condition. . .?
He is not grreat at hand-to-hand combat!
Her heart flips, and she does her best not to give a tell.
Fisticuffs is not in his repertoire. He can defend himself enough to get away, but she bets that she will be able to surprise him enough to break his guard. She is not a fighter herself, but she does know self-defense. She is confident in her abilities to break whatever hold he has on her. Eliza is now angry enough to face him head-on. He is not her friend anymore—he is an enemy. Before, she was confronted by her feelings for him. Now, she has nothing to lose except her life and will defend it to the bitter end.
She grits her teeth.
"I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm not going to any of your traps or games. I'd rather die than live another moment with you in my life. You will do as I say - and I want you to leave."
He chuckles darkly, eyes gleaming with amusement at her sudden ferocity.
"How entertaining. I have no intention of playing by your rules," he withdraws an object from the inside of his blazer. Her eyes widen as she sees a syringe and needle full of an unknown substance. She does not want to find out what it does.
Eliza narrows her eyes in defiance, "Absolutely not. "
"My dear, don't be so stubborn. This will make things easier for both of us," he takes a predatory step forward, syringe in hand.
In the short period they have been at it, Eliza has run the gamut of emotions. She is not going anywhere she does not want to. She is in control of her fate, not him.
Edward keeps stalking forward.
She thinks quickly. She is now free to move how she wants. She can overcome him. Eliza waits for the perfect moment.
This is the only chance!
Edward lunges to grab her arm, and with a sudden rush, she grips his blazer lapel and a sleeve and pulls him toward her, using his weight against him. The Riddler attempts to regain his footing, but she trips him and grabs the hand with the syringe. She puts that hand in a wrist lock and twists it behind his back. The awkward and uncomfortable angle breaks the hold of the syringe, and she takes him to the floor with the help of a foot to his back. She drops with a knee on his shoulders, grabs the syringe with the free hand, and swiftly brings the needle to his throat.
She finally has the upper hand.
In the theatre of life,
It's a primal ballet.
Where shadows duel
And dreams decay.
With each step forward,
A symphony of might.
Yet, in the silence,
It's the souls that fight.