Bluejay: The Protégé of Black Canary

Flashback

The first time I'd ever been in a car wreck was the most horrific day of my life. I wished I could say I didn't remember it, that it was just a blur. But the events were as vivid as if it had happened just yesterday. Saturday morning, my father and I climbed into the backseat of a taxi. Dad was an electrician and needed to drop off a box of supplies at his work. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

I didn't know exactly what had caused the accident, but I remembered the yank of my seatbelt, the tilting of the vehicle, and shattering of glass. The wind was knocked from my lungs, and I felt something sharp bury itself into my shoulder as the car rolled in circles across the dirty streets of Gotham. I remember the sound of glass bits raining to the floor when we finally came to a stop.

Pedestrians were screaming. The inside of the battered taxi cab smelled of gasoline. My dad, unconscious next to me, was peppered with cuts from the glass bits, his forehead bloody from where his head had collided into the window. For that moment, I thought he was dead. I erupted in screams, ignoring the firing pain in my shoulder and wrist as I scrambled over to his seat. But no matter how much I shook him, he just wouldn't wake up.

I was hysterical by the time the paramedics arrived. They strapped me to a gurney and shone a bright light in my eyes to check if my pupils would dilate, but my dad was still unresponsive. I shrieked and thrashed and demanded to know what was wrong with him, but no one would answer me. They did their best to try and sooth me, but I wasn't hearing it. They swiftly loaded my dad and I into separate vehicles, the bright red and white lights flashing overhead.

"My dad! Is he going to be okay?" I shrieked, my eyes wide.

No one answered.

The paramedics buzzed around the cramped space of the ambulance, trying to monitor my condition on the way to the hospital. Pressure was applied to the boiling pain in my shoulder. Blood had already soaked most of my shirt. They asked me questions to keep me awake, but I couldn't form words through the pain and my hysteria. When none of the stringy haired paramedics gave me a clear diagnosis, I thought my dad was dead. It took about eight minutes to arrive at Gotham City Hospital, but it was the most horrifying eight minutes of my life.

A team of people met us at the front doors and pulled my gurney out before rushing me inside. I turned in time to see the doctors unload my father. People were yelling and shouting orders all around me, but it all became white noise.

I still can't describe how I felt when I saw him. At first, I thought he was dead. He lay there, lifeless. His face pale, covered with soot and blood. My father was the single most important person in my life, and for me to think he was gone was the most heart-wrenching feeling in the world. The pain in my head and shoulder became a dull throb compared to the weight that suddenly came crashing down on my chest. I broke into hiccupping sobs, struggling to pull air into my lungs as hot tears streamed down my face.

I thought my father was dead.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The machine I was hooked up to beeped slowly and rhythmically. I stared at the wall, a thin, scratchy blanket covering my legs. I wore a blue hospital gown and wore a plastic bracelet around my wrist. I stared at the window, watching the pale light filter in through the small window flanked with faded green curtains. On the table next to me was a vase of pink flowers from a kind receptionist. Her name was Candice, I think.

The tray of food a nurse had brought me a few hours ago remained untouched. I breathed in the sour sterilized air, the bandages around my cracked ribs making it difficult to inhale too deep. In addition to my beaten ribcage, I also received several cuts and bruises, and not to mention the piece of metal that had somehow dug itself into my shoulder when the car had rolled. All the bandaging around my torso made me feel like I was wearing a metal breastplate, or was a glass figure about to be shipped through the mail.