E.N
He walks down the empty pavement. Is it empty because of the dull weather, or because he is here? Could be both, could be neither. Could be one or the other. People don't like to think of the unknown, and that's what he is. A story, a myth, a legend. He had a name once, but the man behind that name no longer exists. He is a new man now. He is reborn.
Does reincarnation exist? He knows that logically it can't, but what if it does? What if something changed, what if science evolved? The only one true way to know if to die. To die and be resurrected or to rot in the ground. Who started the idea of reincarnation? How did they know they had been reincarnated? Did they remember fragments of their past life? They probably just wanted their five minutes of fame. They just wanted a taste of power.
Power. Fame. Both of these words can send a sane man mad. The idea of all of their needs and desires at their fingertips can make anyone do anything. No one values anything over fame and power. Maybe love.
Love- noun 1 great liking or affection.
He's felt that about someone. 3 someone's. The first two were important and significant to his character, but the last gave him strength. The last helped him to reach his true potential- truly understand who he was.
Thinking about that makes his heart hurt and his fingertips fuzzy. Love is a razor blade, life is shaving cream. Our hearts are the gashes and chunks taken out when you're not paying attention. He doesn't want to love again.
If evolution exists, he hopes they come back as flightless birds.
O.C
He clutches at his leg. An accident a long time ago still effects his every movement. The pain burns through his body like a hot Australian fire. He breathes in deep through his nose and out slowly through his mouth. The pain begins to subside.
He used to think about the pain a lot when he was younger, but there's no time for it now. No time for standing still. There is only pushing forward and outward, fighting against the rain.
It's always raining in Gotham. If it's not raining, it's pouring. If it's not pouring, a storm is brewing. The weather is always overcast, as if mother Nature knows the evil resides here. So much chaos and crazy, and only one man fighting against it.
Against the rain.
No, not he who breathes a shaky breathe through the wildfire in his leg. He's apart of the crazy, the chaos, the confusion. He is an element on the stove, a character in the game, a bird in the flock.
Or something like that.
He is on the Gotham Pier. Although not in the centre, the pier seems to be the heart of Gotham City. Maybe not the heart. Maybe the focal point. Maybe the midpoint. Maybe the hub. Maybe the core. He can't think through the pain. He's said maybe too many times.
He never had to think so much when he was around. The other he. The who he trusted, who he loved, who left him here to die. His suit looked nice against the dull, dank, dark Gotham sky that day.
He looks up. There's not a drop of rain to be seen. It's time to brew at storm.
