Tonight, You're Gonna Break Your One Rule

I don't know when I wake up, but I know it's an unwelcome sight as I open my eyes to a stained ceiling. I barely want to roll over and survey the shithole I'd collapsed in, I barely wanted to do anything, except go back to sleep.

I stare up at the ceiling for a while longer, and I swear the patches of damp and dark change and swell before me, though I'm sure it's just my eyes. Clenching them shut, I roll onto my side and gingerly open them again, knowing that my shelter for the foreseeable future wouldn't be five star, thanks to the meagre amount of money I'd handed over for it.

Well, I wasn't wrong. I roll off the sofa into a stand, groaning softly through my teeth as I do so, clinging to the sofa as my legs fail beneath me. Cursing quietly, I wait for my bones to regain their use as I look around from under my hair. Directly opposite me lay the door I'd burst through, my holdall at the foot of a small table, hosting a phone and a thick sheet of dust.

A window sat to my left, small and dirty, grime and God knows what else gathering around the wooden frame. I walk forward slowly, tentatively and a little painfully in the sunlight, going to open the window but finding it jammed shut, probably never been opened. Dropping my hand back to my side I circle around to the back of the sofa, to the dresser behind it, the dust thick across its surface. I hiss softly and somewhere in the back of my mind I feel I've been shortchanged, but I haven't got the energy to fight anymore, and barely stick my head around the bathroom door. The bath was lined with mildew, things were growing around the sink, and I didn't dare cast a glance at the toilet.

Without my Jack beside me everything felt much more grim, and lifeless. Yet I couldn't go back, I shake my head violently and slam the bathroom door behind me, I couldn't go back. I couldn't hurt him, not really. I could scar him and write my name in his skin and throw a punch or two. But I couldn't live with the fact I could seriously hurt him, even kill him. If I could kill my mother, my own flesh and blood, then surely, somewhere inside my frantic mind, I could easily turn the gun on my love?

I couldn't put him in harms way. I just had to get away.

I rest my forehead on the bathroom door, my left hand unconsciously feeling for the hilt of my knife in my right sleeve. I searched for a second, longing for the soft hiss of metal against my fingertips, maybe nick the skin of my arm, graze my fingertips and draw blood, but I found no knife.

Realization hit me once more, so much so I stumbled away from the door and clenched my fist into the sleeve of my shirt. I had no weapon, no knife and no defence. Without my knife I felt so depraved, it had been my one channel, my one outlet of emotion. Apart from ripping my Jacks shirt from his shoulders, running my hands along his bullet-scarred flesh and kissing him until I couldn't feel anymore. But, I clench my eyes shut, I didn't want to think of him. I had to grit my teeth and simply forget about him. I couldn't hurt Jack.

Without my knife I felt useless, and I growl in the back of my throat, ripping the sleeve of my shirt right off, as if the fabric was somehow responsible for the absence of my blade. I throw the scrap of pale blue material onto the floor, kick it away with a flick of my ankle, and turn away from the bathroom, raking a hand through my hair.

I cast a despairing glance across the kitchen, and sigh softly. With mould scattering the countertops, and a nasty smell emitting from the cupboard beneath the sink, I don't linger, and turn away.

I had a feeling I wouldn't be too hungry over the next few months anyway, and that was fine by me. I didn’t have the money, energy, nor self-respect to eat properly. I noted, with a small 'hmph' noise, that there was no bedroom, and cast a glance at the sofa that was to be my bed for the foreseeable future. I curl my lips in disdain and cross over to it, perching myself on the edge and raking my hands through my hair.

I couldn't bare being alone with my thoughts anymore, so storm to the door, snatching my cap off the arm of the sofa as I do, and shut it behind me, quickly taking the stairs and pulling my scarf up around my mouth, jamming the hat low on my head.

I walk quickly down the street, keeping my head bowed, chewing my already tattered lips to shreds, shoving my hands low in my androgynous pockets. I spot a neon sign, an off-license, and push open the door, quickly slipping through. The bell above the threshold tinkled to signal my entrance, and I hissed, my jerk reaction was to reach into my coat pocket for my gun. Which is exactly what I did, though I had no pocket, no coat and no gun. I drop my hands to my side and heave a sigh of despair as I cross to the liquor.

I felt so alone and bare, all my comforts were back underneath an industrial building, with purple walls and goon masks. I missed ebony, ivory and crimson, I missed four poster beds, I missed Joe's snorting laugh and, most of all, I missed the sight, sound, smell, taste and touch of my clown. My senses weren't open to such a barrage of insults and mockery. I was used to musky aftershave, purple and green, a grating laugh, bitter lipstick and scarred skin, not urine, greys and blacks, blaring car horns, polluted air and cold metal.

I pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels, though simply the sight of his name in the monochrome sends a stinging burn through the palm of my hand, and I place it back quickly. I didn't even know what I was looking for, whiskey was my Jack's drink, wine was always our treat, vodka stung my throat, and none of the exotic colours nor names appealed to me.

I decide, with a short nod, on a cheap bottle of gin, the entirely appropriate drink of sorry, and pick it up with a shaky hand. My natural instinct tells me to run – I was above the law, a clown, an agent of chaos. But my feet stay steadfast on the tiled floor. I was a clown no more. I was an outlaw, a nameless, shapeless shadow, nothing more.

I turn towards the cashier, head perpetually bowed, and dig in my pocket for money. It felt totally unnatural, paying for something for the first time in nearly a year. God, had it been that long since Gambol was murdered and my life began again?

I cast a wary look over the late night patrons, terrified one would recognise me, scream and call the cops. I clench my jaw against the anxiety, knowing full well that if I acted suspicious, people would become suspicious.

I scurry out of the shop without a word, my gin in the iconic brown paper bag, and I'm back in my apartment before I can even realise. I felt empty, on auto pilot, as if my body was carrying on without my brain, without my heart. I banish all thoughts of him once more, and sat heavily on the sofa, pulling off the lid to my drink and downing a few measures.

I look at the gin curiously for a second, half wondering why I was sat here drinking a widows drink from a paper bag. I frown slightly, the stuff was nasty, not the clear and refreshing gin I had so long ago, in an iced glass with tonic, sat in the pool room of Gambol's townhouse. This gin was nasty, a sharp, burning sensation as it slid down my throat, an almost cloudy appearance beneath the glass I clutched with white knuckles. The gin, I thought in my addled state as I downed another few measures and swirled the remaining alcohol around a little, was a little like a metaphor for the deep shit I was in at the moment. Gin before, in the townhouse, in the hideout, with my clown and my friends, was clear and refined, the best of the best, much like I felt, much like my life was. Now, however, the gin was in a chipped bottle, a brown paper bag, and had the nasty sting of reality to it. As I look around my dismal apartment in the setting dusk, I heave a sigh, yeah, the nasty sting of reality.

I sit there for a long time, not really thinking. I keep my mind on the bottle of gin as I slowly devour it's contents, simply to keep myself away from the painful wanderings, and the subject my mind would undoubtedly settle on. Maybe a few tears streak down my cheeks, and I close my eyes, wary of the darkness that enveloped me, wondering if the inside of my eyelids would burn with memories.

I didn't know how long I had slept for, how long I'd truly been away from the hideout, how long it had been since I ran from that marble room, but I knew in my heart and my head it felt like an eternity since I'd heard that laugh.

I look at the gin with a small disdain, it was indeed the drink of sorrow, as I felt that same despair claw through me. I close my eyes again, letting the bottle drop to my side. Then, against my cheek, I felt the soft whisper of a breeze, I smelt his aftershave, then a small kiss against my temple. The gin bottle slips from my hand, maybe smashes around my feet, but I don't hear it at all. I look wildly around, my hair whipping me in the face, but I see nothing, no trace of my clown, and decide, with a hiss, that it was my damned imagination.

I close my eyes and sink back in the sofa, curling onto my side and bringing my knees up to my chest. All I wanted to do was sleep, was to escape my memory and the noises of Gotham outside my dirty window. I longed for release.

But there it came again, the soft whisper of a breeze, but then a soothing touch, a leather glove on the side of my neck, twirling fingers through the ends of my hair. I whimper quietly, cursing my imagination. I fell silent as I felt those soft, sweet lips on mine, and tear my eyes open, but he's not there, no matter how electric my lips felt. I look around again, and whimper, a tear or two sliding down my cheek.

I knew it was not him, he was not here and it was my imagination, but somehow, I couldn't tell myself that. His lips were a comfort, his hand on my cheek was a comfort, a release from my despair.

I close my eyes once more and bury my head in the arm of the sofa. Then comes a whisper, inside my head, but carried on that non-existant breeze. I told myself it was him, it was easier than denying his voice was in my head. I told myself he was here, just because it made things a tiny bit better. His fingertips brush away my tears – 'Don't cry, Precious..'

I whimper and relish in his touch, I had missed him, and I knew it was simply my brain playing tricks, a hallucination. But if I believed enough, my hallucination would offer me some comfort. It was like those explorers lost for years, they develop a voice of a loved one, their voice of reason and consolation. I feel his lips against my forehead and bite my lip, letting out a soft, hissed sigh. I felt awful inside, for leaving him, as if someone had drove my own knife, hilt deep in my abdomen, and was churning my insides around and around. How could I have left him?

I scoff, slightly, I knew the answer. I could not hurt him. I clench my eyes shut and banish my thoughts, and at last my clown muttered the words that let me go, and I smile slightly.

'Just sleep, my Cally, my love, just sleep'