𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐈𝐆𝐒 ☞ 𝐁. 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

four.

..⃗.  [hearing damage] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ

╰┈➤ ❝ [how come each time my hands hurt me, they become more mine?] ❞
╰┈➤ richard siken

THE SMOKE BILLOWED FROM HER LIPS, EVAPORATING IN THIN AIR. The nicotine that filled her lungs gave her little relief. Crickets echoed throughout the yard below her. Her elbows leaned against the stone railing of her balcony. It'd been over two weeks since her argument with Phoebe and her... encounter with the caped crusader of Gotham. Moments still played on repeat in her mind. The way the men had grabbed her, the way that one's blood had dripped from his open wound from her heel. If she thought too hard on it, she could still feel his skin cutting under her heel. It sent a shiver up her spine. Or maybe that was the cool air of the night. A light misting was in the air, covering her face and coating her hair with tiny raindrops.

She took a deep breath, watching the fog drip out like her smoke. Her frown was deep and almost angry. The past two weeks had been more isolating than she had expected. Her parents were in and out, and when they were in, it usually filled the house with angry shouting and broken plates. Most times, she preferred the silence. Other times, it was suffocating. Letting her eyes fall shut, she felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. After her one board meeting, her mother still hadn't spoken to her. She'd successfully severed that cord and she was rather grateful for that. Maybe it wasn't all bad. Maybe they'd finally let her go back and finish her degree, just to get her out of the house.

A rustling above her caught her attention. Glancing up, it was difficult to make anything out against the dark sky. Her eyebrows furrowed as she placed her cigarette between her lips and pushed herself away from the railing. With a deep sigh, she rubbed her eyes. Must've been some birds, she thought to herself. She returned to leaning against her railing, inhaling the nicotine from her cigarette. It did little to relax her, but it was beginning to become a habit. Not a habit she was proud of, but a habit nonetheless.

A quick rustle was followed by a loud thud next to her. "Oh, fuck!" She shouted, spinning around and slamming her back against the railing. Her wide eyes stared down at a pile of black cloth. With a shaky breath, she took a minuscule step towards the black mass. Her sock-clad feet nudged it, jumping back at the solidity of it. "What the fuck?" She whispered to herself, her cigarette forgotten on the railing. Taking another step forward, she knelt down in front of the mass and reached out. Her fingers pinched at the fabric, pulling it back. Her eyes practically bulged out as she stared down at the Batman, unconscious on her balcony. "Uh... hello?" She nudged him with her hand. He remained deathly still. "Oh, fuck. Are you dead? Please don't be dead. Christ. Fuck." She hissed out her words as she walked around him, crouching in front of him. There was a large crack along the front of his mask.