‹ Prequel: Phobia.

Phobia

Drawing those lines helped her keep track of the days, helped her stay in the reality of each one of them. That was what Kiera told herself at least; it was an odd habit, but she owned it. It was hers to have and to do, and the last inch of pencil she held as she pressed and watched the lead mar the paper was a sign of it.

The book was close to full now, but important dates were scribbled in margins. When she couldn’t sleep she would work out the numbers, count the scrawls and make sense of it all, or at least attempt to.

There were eight years’ worth of lines since Harvey Dent had died.

There were over three thousands marks since she had betrayed her brother, since she had set in motion his downfall and his rightful entrapment in Blackgate Prison. One hundred and eighty two scribbles marked her last visit, where she winced as always at his thinness, more prominent, as age started to have its effect. Where they made small talk and she could feel his probing fingers inside her head, enjoying the mind games as he always had.

Today would have a note next to it. Today was the benefit, the day that Jim Gordon would stand and give his speech as he had promised her. He would tell the truth about Harvey Dent, what he had become in his last few days. How the man dressed as a bat had always been innocent.

Gotham would finally understand.