Predator. Prey.

Blur.

Hours felt like small infinities when I was tangled in his pitch black sheets, rolling and laughing and giggling and kissing and screaming his name until he reduced me to a pile of molten ash and sizzling butterflies. The days blurred together, colorful and unpredictable and dangerous and reckless, and I was only truly lucid when I was near him, moving my body with his eyes trained on my waist, or sitting in his Lamborghini with his toned arm hanging outside the window. I lived to see him look at me with passion radiating from his blue orbs, whether it was passionate anger, desire, rage, or power. His presence never failed to overcome my senses in every possible way, and when he was touching me, nothing else mattered but letting him know I knew I was his. And that I'd always be his.

Forever.

'Mine,'

'Mine.'

'Mine.'

He was constantly testing me, searching for my limit; desperately looking to see how far would I go to see him smile. He spent weeks alone with me in his office, exploring an endless chest full of weapons and sinister devices, and he'd teach me with an impatient glimmer in his eyes on how to use every single one. He'd demonstrate on me, incessantly trying to get me to show a hint of fear or distrust form on my face as he'd push me to my limit, and every time, I emanated nothing but love and complete and utter obsession.

He'd bring me along to his meetings with local mobsters and drug dealers, always snaking an arm around my waist, constantly whispering into my ears the things he would do to me when we got home. He'd sit down to talk, and I'd lean up against him, looking at nothing but his electric green hair and glowing white skin. And I was always looking for an excuse to touch him, to giggle, to laugh, to do anything for him to glance at me. When the meetings would go bad, I wouldn't even think twice as we both leaped into action, weapons of choice in hand, as I did whatever I had to do to keep him safe. Guns, baseball bats, hammers, knives: I used anything to protect him, while trying to play down why I had such amazing fighting skills and stamina when he would comment on them.

I made the decision to never tell him about my injections. It was better this way. He needed to believe he would always have the upper hand with me, that he was always more powerful and in control. So whenever I was hit in the face or had to run a few blocks, I made sure to play up the theatrics with heavy breathing and pained expressions. We were unstoppable together: limitlessly fearless, and because of this, Gotham grew to fear us.

But it wasn't until the sun went down and I was inside my golden cage that I was truly my happiest.

I always put on a show for him, growing more confident in myself every day as I learned new techniques. I found what he loved, what drove him crazy, and what made him lose himself in lust, and I would always giggle when I saw his gaping mouth and dark eyes fixated on my illuminated skin. Eventually, the tension would grow to too much, and he'd whisk me away, laughing as we drunkedly stumbled and made our way to the golden back door, kissing and smiling all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Our bedroom.

In the mornings, my eyes would eagerly open, and I'd reach out for his touch, only to find emptiness and cold air meet my skin. On rare occasions, however, I'd wake up to see him sleeping beside me, his face looking so young and innocent as sleep held him captive in its grasp.

It was those moments that made me feel most sane.

Life was nothing but a colorful daze, pinks and blues and greens and white swirling together, separated by flashes of violence and sex and unpredictable drives through the city and golden cages and black staircases.

He was everything I ever wanted, and he had liberated me from a life of stagnant milestones: no longer was there any pressure to act a certain way or look like society's version of normal.

We weren't normal. But we were fucking perfect.

And the weeks went by in this blurry, scenic wave of color, until I woke one morning to hear a familiar piercing set of screams in the office across the hall cut daggers through my ears.