Crossroads

One hand on her stomach, the other balancing a cigarette between her fingers. Her mouth parted slightly, white smoke curling out of her pale lips and sallow cheeks.

She hated cigarettes. Hated them. But her fingers were twitching and her foot shaking to some unknown tune, and the dry taste of nicotine and tobacco seemed to be the only thing that pacified it. She shifted uncomfortably on the broken grey mattress; although the cigarette was doing its work, there was something about her that felt off.

She wasn't comfortable, and she didn't know why.

Maybe it was the weather. The window had planks nailed crookedly across it, and yet icy air still managed to creep its way into the room, courtesy of this beautiful town.

The reason she was here, lying on this mattress staring blankly at the ceiling was simple - she wanted to think of nothing. It wasn't working. Questions were constantly flittering through her head, no matter how much she suffocated her mind with cancerous smoke.

What time was it? How the fuck are you supposed to know.

Why is it so fucking cold? It's Gotham, honey.

Where is he? You don't care.

At that last question she sat up abruptly, before hissing when her cigarette shook and hot ash spilled onto her thigh. The sharp burst of pain was enough for her to stumble off the mattress.

"Fuck." She cursed under her breath. Brushing off the white ash impatiently, she scowled at her ratty shorts as if it was their fault. As soon as the pain subsided, however, she was reminded what had triggered it.

Perching on the edge of the bed, she brought the blackened cigarette to her lips, sucking in a shuddering breath before resting her elbows in her knees and her chin in her hands.

Think of nothing.