Clothed in our grief

Chapter twenty eight

This all reminds you so much of that time you and Mason went to Disneyland with your mom. Just one part in particular, really. It's this, sitting against the chair with the force of gravity pulling your chest all the way back. Kinda like the ride that Mason kept pulling you on, what was it, Star tours? Yeah, that sounds right. It was a star wars thing.

This feels like the moment before the screen would flash the lights that indicated zipping through hyperspace, when the ride seats would lurch all the way back and the wind would blow in from some machine in front of the room. There were 3D glasses, obviously since stuff like that isn't real (At least you think?).

The only thing missing is the sounds of excitement and the bright colors. And everything else. Literally, the only thing this scenario and the one back then have in common? Being pressed against your seat by the force of gravity. But the major difference here is, you have no seat belt. If you slide out of your seat? Crash, boom, you hit your head on the side wall of the crate. Which is now the bottom of the crate.

"Are you still awake? You've been quiet a long time." Robin says quietly, he's not yelling anymore. But his voice is loud enough to echo off of the walls of the metal crate to carry to your ears. He didn't have to be too loud.

You smack your tongue against the roof of your mouth, feeling the entire inside was dry. You winced in pain, aching wrists and a dislocated thumb. Sore head, confused and still having minor hallucinations. The air wafted into the room wiped out most of the fumes in the room, but in this closed space? They're starting to build back up again.

Tilting your head slowly to your left, lulling it softly while half opening your eyes, heavy lidded and parted lips. A single strand of hair between your eyebrows past your forehead rests on your bottom lip. Softly inhaling the air as it's hard to do at this angle, and it burns. Slightly, but it burns your lungs to breathe this stuff in. It's not too much, and now your eyes are starting to feel a stinging pain.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm awake. There was a bunch of chemicals in those oil drums. I started to hallucinate, and the fumes of the gasoline is starting to get to me." You replied, voice straining as you spoke. The air in your lungs hurt a little less when you exhaled in your words. An airy way of speaking, trying to reserve all your strength even if it's just from speaking. your chest rising and falling slowly, shoulders slumped back and your hands sliding past the arms of the chair, dangling behind your back until they finally latch onto a rod by the back of the chair.

"Great, how much do you weight?"
"What? That's not important right now!"
"To me, it is. We're going to need to get down to the bottom of this crate. If I slide from here, I'll break my ankles. It's important because I can use your weight to support me, so I can stop in the middle where the chair is at. If your weight can't support me, It'll only take the both of us down there and it's likely more than just our ankles will be broken." Robin retorted to you, a tinge of bitter annoyance in his voice that just seems all too familiar.

But he's appreciating the fact that you're remaining so calm in this situation. Or it's just the fact that maybe you're too tired from the chemicals to even be fazed by any of this, and the realization will hit you later on tomorrow. Then you'll start to really feel the fear by then, wondering if you're really safe in Gotham. the works of a survivor in Gotham that doesn't completely understand much. But Robin suspects you understand at least a little more than your average gotham Citizen.

"Whatever, just tell me what I need to do." You wonder if the look on your face is just as bitchy as the way you're talking. You really don't know why you're being so rude, sure you'd rather be literally anywhere else but here right now. But it's not really an excuse to be such a bitch about this. He's just here to help you