The Price of Living in Chaos

The greatest thing about bubble baths, particularly when you're not a little kid, is the fact that it's just you and your thoughts. When you’re little, tranquility is the devil. Silence, stillness- please, most kids can’t keep still or quiet for more than three minutes- at best. But everything changes when you grow up so it’s not surprising that, that changes too.

I could have laid in my bath for a century, and it wouldn't have been long enough. For me, the clearness of mind that comes with a bath is like heaven. And of course, one can get carried away while in heaven. I was running late.

In a blur of robotic motion, I got ready for the day. What does one wear when meeting with a police commissioner? Professional? Business casual? I kept those in mind -as I do everything else in life- as

I selected my outfit, an eggshell, white cashmere sweater with black skinny jeans, simple red flats and my much loved black leather Coco Chanel bag. It was a present that Bruce bought me for my last birthday.

From a strictly outward appearance, I looked well-put together- hell, I would even say confident. But, inside, that wasn't the case. I feel like a crumpled up piece of paper, one that was haplessly smoothed out and reused. I didn't feel pristine, but I couldn't let that show. Weakness is the enemy and it’s always been.

With a brisk pace and a don’t-get-in-my-way glare set on my face, I was making up for lost time. Walking is the most efficient and usually fastest way of travel in Gotham. The roads and highways were almost always flooded with traffic.

My appointment was in thirty minutes and I could see the police station. It was a half old, half new building. The older half is the original half, aged marble and steel as the main building blocks. It definitely had neoclassical design influences, with the five main marble columns and an intimidating set of marble and cement steps as proof. Though, the pretty facade is just for show, all of the real police work goes on in the newer part of the station.

If I had to describe the police station, I would say it’s like a bee hive or maybe an anthill. Constant motion and flustering action. As I entered into the station, my senses were overwhelmed. There was so much going on my brain couldn't handle it. People darting here and there, phones ringing, papers being printed and over anything else, the smell of coffee perfumed the air. I was out of my comfort zone. Well, pretty much everything along the lines of, “social interaction” is out of comfort zone. I could feel a slight headache blossom in my temples.

The inside of the police station reminds me of Grand Central Station in New York City. High ceilings with ornate gold crown molding and –you guessed it- marble floors. Needing to check in, I strolled over to what I assumed was the front desk. Meeting behind Plexiglas was a middle aged lady who couldn't have had a more uninterested expression on her face. She put Joker’s expression when we met to shame.

“Hello.” I began.

Cocking an eyebrow and seating up ever-so slightly at my presence she countered, “Yes?” She sighed.

What’s her problem? Not liking her attitude I reply back in a slightly harsh, pure-business tone, “Hi, I’m Charlotte Kingston and I have an appointment to see Commissioner Gordon at 8 am.”

“I’m going to have to see some ID.” She droned out.

Really? For the past three days my face has been plastered to every newscast in Gotham and she can’t verify who I am by just simply looking at me? Damn formalities.

Huffing in frustration and retrieving my driver’s license, she verifies I am who I am and she signs me in.

“Stay here,” She orders. “I’m calling someone to pick you up and walk you to Gordon’s office.”
Giving a small nod in agreement I turn my back to her and continue to watch the people and scene around me.

Since I’m a withdrawn person naturally, people-watching is an enduring pastime of mine. It brings back memories of when I was a young child, and I was force to go some of my parents’ fancy parties. They called it parties; I always saw it as them kissing different peoples’ asses in order to be in good standing.

I was a child of silence and habit- as they called it- I seldom talked and all I did was read books, or play by myself. I didn't have anybody else to play with- I was an only child and Nanny Maria didn't play dolls right, so I stopped letting her play with me. So when I did have to go to the parties, all I did was sit on a chair- usually by the food table for easy access for snacks- and read whatever book that caught my interest that day.

It wasn't long till I heard yet another monotone voice call my name, “Char-lotte Kings-ton?” Turning around to meet the voice who called my name -with a heavy southern accent- I can only say, I was hopelessly underwhelmed. This officer looked like a beanpole, in every sense of the word, tall,gangly, and his head seemed too small for his body. Was I being overcritical?

“That’s me.” I said walking in his general direction, my shoes making small click-clack noises against the floor.

“Right this way, Ma’am.” He motioned me to follow and I did, staying a comfortable few feet behind him.

A few left turns, down a couple hallways and through a work are that had a bunch of cubicles with police officers sitting in them, and I was met with Commissioner’s Gordon’s office.

“Knock b’fore you enter.” The escort officer said before he turned on his heel and left.

Letting out a shaky breath, I knocked three quick times and waited for my response.

“Come in,” The voice of Commissioner Gordon called out. Entering and closing the door behind me, I saw the Commissioner, and I must say he looked quite different from what I've seen on the television. His age definitely showed. Tired yet warm eyes were the first thing I noticed, and then secondly came the graying hair. His office was dark it only had two small desk lights illuminating the space; it was much different than the florescent lights from the outside. The office was longer then it was wide, and filing cabinets almost wrapping around the space. Some weren't close, and others seem like they were going to pop open as some papers were hanging out.

“Hello Commissioner Gordon, it’s good to finally meet you when I don’t have blood covered on me.” I say extending my hand to him. He chuckled a little bit, and then shook my hand back. Just up and down two times. After this, I’ll have to use my hand sanitizer. It’s not that I think he’s dirty, it’s just my conscious won’t allow me not to.

“Good morning, Ms. Kingston. Please take a seat.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. It was a chair of olive green that looked like it was from the seventies. Very art deco.

“So, this will be a recorded statement, so all you have to do is answer as truthfully as you can. Got it?”

“Yes.” I answered simply. Gordon then continued to pull out a simple voice recorder from one of his desk drawers. He was just about to turn it on when, he stopped and looked at me.

“Please stay quiet while do the formalities. You know the who-what-where type of thing.” I gave a quick nod to show that I understood. God, this is boring, we didn't even start yet and I was bored.

“The following is a final statement about the Massacre that happened on Friday, March 20th 2014 given by Charlotte Eva Kingston preformed in the Gotham City Police Department at 8:11 am Tuesday, March 24th 2014.” So those were the formalities he was talking about…

“Firstly, please tell me everything you did on Friday- sparing no details.”

~~~~~~~

God, three hours later and I’m finally done. Gordon asked me everything involving the massacre in relation to me, and me in general. I’ll give GCPD one thing- they were extremely thorough. If I could rate them on Yelp I would give them five out of five stars.

My feet were shuffling languidly along the streets of Gotham on my way home, and I knew precisely what I was going to do next- sleep. I felt worn out after the meeting especially since I had to recount that night in such vivid detail. It’s a good thing I don’t think I have PTSD. Gordon said that since I was the only survivor, he’ll have policemen patrol more often by my house in case The Joker would want to harm me- he did after all say he would be seeing me soon.

That worried me- but not as much as the fact that I couldn't find my hand sanitizer, and I refuse to use public bathrooms. I could almost feel the germs on my hands moving about. God, I need to stop thinking like that, or I’m going to get myself worked up and have an episode. I haven’t had one of those in a while…

About half an hour later, I was at my apartment building. It was a big maroon brick building-relatively new compared to the other buildings around it. It wasn’t very tall, just five stories high, but it was huge, laterally it took up about a fourth of a city block. I lived at the very top story in my own unit. Most people rent or lease their apartment- I bought mine for the small price of one million dollars. Much like my own style, I decorated my apartment in a modern-day chic look. Crisp lines, clean edges, a cool toned palette, and my general distaste for clutter made my apartment reflect me to a tee.

Though most of the time I see myself as sane as the next person, I’m known in my apartment building as being the “psycho.” People avoid me, and don’t look at me- at least when I’m not looking them. I think I got the nickname when I was having an episode a few months back.

The short elevator ride was pleasant- no one was on there. Just me and stupid, repetitive elevator music- at least this one had a jazzy beat to it.

I immediately noticed something was wrong when I was walking toward the door to my apartment. The door was ever so slightly ajar I could see the light from my apartment leaving through the crack, and it was absolutely quiet on my floor. Usually there was the hum of television, or the sound of people talking but I heard nothing. The only thing I did hear was the sound of my heart beating in my ears.

Okay, this is bad. Or is it? Shit, what if it’s Joker? Should I turn and run for help? Should I see what it is first? Would people even believe me, if it was something bad? I am, after all, crazy Charlotte Kingston. Screw it, what’s the worst that could happen? Taking a giant breath through the nostrils and closing my hands into fists, I walk towards my house.

Acting like nothing was wrong I opened my door, and slipped off my shoes. I’m a pretty self-aware, hyper-vigilant person-I blame my general me-ness for that one- so it wasn't a shock that when I heard a soft creak coming from the flooring that I quick turned around. I met with the person who, quite honestly, I wasn't surprised to see. The Joker. He looked exactly like the night I saw met him. We were separated by about twenty-five feet, and yet, it felt like I was right next to him. That’s how much presence he had. I stared at him like a deer in headlights. That whole fight or flight was bonkers. You either fight, flight, or stay complete still and silent. After a few seconds of just staring at each other, I found my voice.

“I’m not s-surprised to see you, you know?” I wanted to sound confident like I was in my head, but my voice betrayed me and it came out meek, and my statement sounded more like a question.

Tilting his head sideways much like a dog would, he let a cackle that pierced right through me. I jumped at the sound. “Your body and frightened face would say otherwise, sweetie.” His voice was calm and nasally and at the same time, absolutely insane.

Trying to melt the stiffness in my limbs, I took a hesitant step towards him. “Care to tell me what happened to my neighbors?” I inquired at least this time my voice didn't deceive me.

“They’re dead.” He said shrugging.

“Well, that’s a lackluster answer.” I said flippantly, not thinking about my response. He smirked at my answer. Well, at least he didn’t kill me.

“That-tah may be true. But that’s not why I’m here, and you… you know that, don’t you Charlotte?”
He started walking in the direction of me. Not a straight line though, he went into my living room space of the apartment. He looked lazily at my stuff, it wasn’t of interest to him- I was. I tracked his every move with my eyes.

“Of course, I’m not stupid. And, I know from the news that you’re not a liar.” When he was about ten feet away from him, I started tiptoeing away from him. We were circling each other; he was the cat, I was the mouse.

He idly looked at me, raising an eyebrow in the process. “And you-ah believe the news? Hmm?”
I chuckled ever-so slightly.

“Obviously not, have you heard what the local news have been saying about me? Especially in relation to you.” I couldn't hide the mild disgust in my voice when I said the second part.

“I have, Blondie. I hear everything in this city. I am the eyes and ears-ah of this urban cesspool. And you know what the ears are telling me?”

I shook my head in response; I could feel my eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What was he getting at?

He stopped moving, and so did I. We were opposite each other; I was where he stood originally and vice versa. “They’re telling me, that you’re coming with me.”

“Wait, what?” It was then that he took out and flipped open a knife from one on his pockets. Shit. In a blur of motion from both The Joker and I, I tried to run away. Heading towards the door to my apartment, probably wasn't a good idea, a swift kick to the back of my knee from him, and I fell onto the floor.

Smacking my head so hard that I had stars in my vision, my head swirled. Trying my best to get up just made me fall down again.

“Come here!” He growled raucously, pulling my foot towards him. Kicking haphazardly, I felt a connection between my foot and his jaw. “You really shouldn't have done that.” My scalp erupted in pain when Joker started dragging me by my hair towards the living room. In an instant, he grabbed the back of my neck and slammed my forehead into my glass coffee table. Searing, sharp, blinding white pain erupted into my head, so much pain that I couldn't even voice it into screams. I could feel the hot blood running down my head and from my nose; it was matted into my hair and on my white sweater. I couldn't, or I couldn't allow myself, to move.

Joker exploded into laughter, it was so loud that it made my head hurt even worse. He crouched down towards me, till chuckling, he pulled out a rag of sorts from his pocket. Gripping my hair, he covered my mouth and nose with this towel forced to breathe it in, it almost immediately made fringes of blackness cloud my vision. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was Joker’s face staring down at me, and him saying, “And. Here. We. Go. Nighty night, Charlotte.”