Ghostwriter

Chapter 11

Jason grew up on the streets. His dead-beat dad died in jail during a life sentence, and his mother overdosed. Some weeks he got by fine. Others he didn't.

Some weeks, when the rain pattered on the top of his head and the storm ran tears through his hair down onto his cheeks because he couldn't find shelter, some weeks when the cold bit his skin too hard because he didn't have a coat, some weeks when his stomach shouted like an angry priest because he couldn't scrape together enough food, Jason would think he was going to die.

He'd collect his thoughts, figuring out how and why and when it all went wrong. How he could have picked that lock to get into the abandoned apartment, why he hadn't stolen the coat off the skinny kid that slept in an alleyway close to Main, and when he could've snatched that bagel out of that suit's hand and ran for it.

Then he'd think back farther to his parents. A hot feeling would come up about his father, so he would shove it away. When he thought of his mother, something akin to the lingering warmth of a put-out fire kindled in his chest. He would think about how he would cook for her, and his mouth would water at the prospect of eggs and toast. He would think about finding her in the bathroom, eyes rolled into the back of her head, needles up her arm. The fire would turn cold and the ashes would flit in the wind, grey and gone.
     

Jason tried to be the son she needed. He really did, but in the end, it wasn't enough. Nothing he did curbed her addiction. Her own son wasn't enough for her to turn around.
     

Then, Jason would rub his arm and mutter something that would make a sailor blush, and he would trudge forward, because sometimes that's the only way to go. Other times, however, he would want to just sit down and shiver.
     

During those other times, Jason would remind himself of his soulmate. Because if he could survive long enough for them to meet, things would be ok, even if they weren't. She would love him, whatever that meant. She wouldn't turn her back on him. He remembered the comforting guarantee that somewhere, somehow, someone would love him with all their soul. That's just what a soulmate does. With this hope in mind, he would walk forward.
     

Eventually, during one such time, he walked right into the Batmobile and preceded to try and steal its tires, but that's history.
     

Jason mulls over Piggly's bread isle in civies, placing one foot in front of the other. He dyed his white streak black earlier, so the chances of Antigone Jackson recognizing him are slim. Jason shoves his hands into the pockets of a black leather jacket and watches Antigone from afar as she bags a woman's Oreo cookies.
     

His soulmate wears a plastic smile. The blue bags under her eyes tell him that something kept her awake last night. Her deep brown hair, straight and frizzed, pools back into a big bun at the base of her neck. Under the pink apron, she wears the uniform white polo that covers her scar.
       

It's his fault, really. He died, and that was his fault. He rushed ahead into a fight that he couldn't win without any backup. Her mark scarred over, and she lost her soulmate. That didn't mean he lost his, however. When Jason came back from the dead, rising out of a Lazarus pit like something from a zombie movie, his mark remained stamped on his shoulder like a promise.
       

Why hadn't he thought about it earlier? Jason had always thought that when he resurrected, the mark of his soulmate's skin resurrected too. Not that he's put much thought into the subject, he never concerned himself with his soulmate too much anymore. He's always figured he'd cross that bridge when he got there.
        

Well, he's here, and the bridge is burnt down, courtesy of Joker. Jason wonders what it would take to rebuild that bridge, because deep down inside him, that hopeful little kid stumbling through the streets still exists.