Phobia

At least I didn’t turn out as badly as Jonathon.

That’s a joke, barely a joke; that has bounced between us for as long as I can remember, although when he says it now, the table and chains around his wrists separating us, it's tinged with just a hint of animosity. Not hatred, and there's no anger now, it's been five years since he seemed openly cross at me. He has every right to me, but time is a healer they say, and he's had thousands of day to consider that his little sister put him in prison.

I am that person one who can sink low enough to turn in her own flesh and blood, her only living relative and the one who raised her. Jonathon was all of that to me, my hero, my nightmare and everything in between. He was also a monster. There is no other way to say it. A monster who tried to drive half of the city to madness, a man who tried to lure out and kill the Batman. He wanted unrest, to destroy civility.

The girl who ran into a police station, begging for someone to listen to her, who could tell them where the scarecrow’s next handover was arranged was long gone. There had been no relief, hearing my statement read out in court, watching the jury find him guilty of one crime after another. I was told time and time again I had done the right thing, promised a life away from it all, a fresh chance.

I hadn't taken it, choosing to rot alongside my family. He would stay in Blackgate for the rest of his life. I would remain in Gotham, see him every eight weeks. Waste myself and find no escape. I deserved it. Harvey Dent brought a flat outright, a place of me to wait for the price on my head to drop off. I became an informant, why the hell not? I wasn't going anywhere, and they would never truly scrape the filth from the city. I helped where I could, not formally, but enough.

Trying to atone for not coming to them earlier.

Letting Jonathon down hadn't been an easy decision. Whatever he did he was my brother and I loved him, sometimes so deep I had to dive down to find it but I did. He loved me too, in his own way. A way that lead to me getting addicted to his first round of drug making, back when it made you happy, enhanced the pleasure inhibitors in your brain in a way nothing else could. He loved me in a way that saw his rage at my addiction roar, that made him consider what he was making, what he was doing.

Sometimes he blamed me for the fear serum. Said that finding me with the elastic around my elbow and needle still jammed half in my vein was the turning point. His little drug trade stopped, and his efforts remained firmly in psychology, his degree gave way to a doctorate, endless nights of no sleep as he poured over books and scribbled page after page. Jonathon had always been too smart for his own good, and once we were alone he'd been babysitting a five-year-old while attending early college courses at Gotham State.

Outside help was minimal, Jonathon had been completely against me being put in care, fought against it tooth and nail. He was sixteen, not even an adult but so persuasive. Twice weekly social care visits were a staple until I was eight and they decided he had been doing a good job. We had handouts, support from charities designated for orphans and wellwishers. It had been enough to scrape us by when combined with our parent's savings.

When I was fifteen Jonathon got his job at the asylum. Low level, an assistant whilst he finished school. By the time I was nineteen he was the top dog. His PHD secured, experience gained. It was unheard of for someone so young, barely pushing into his early thirties but he had done it. He was his own man, and to the patients, he was a God.

His experiments had been in flow for years by this point. Psychology an itch, an obsession, how much could the human brain take? What limits could be reached, where was the breaking point?

He found his answers and more. I watched, kept quiet as he said. Did whatever he wanted, because I owed him for over a decade of being my everything. Fear was in equal measure, he'd as much enjoyed toying with me as he did his patients. His attention turned away and I was off the hook.

Home had been practically normal, I was taking classes I had no interest in at college to appease him. We lived in a nice apartment, he had a nice girlfriend. We could act so normal as if me getting drunk and Jonathon not liking my latest boyfriend was the biggest drama in our life. It was all so false, so fake and plastic.

I set it aflame, opened my mouth and ruined it all.

I told Jim Gordon how to find my brother, the most wanted man in Gotham. Gordon sent Batman.

Jonathon went to Blackgate, and he’d been there since.


It was the eighth year of the event and my first time attending. Perhaps attending was a strong word, and I push a brass coloured curl behind one ear. The wig is starting to ache a little, pins digging into my scalp. It's enough to change me though, I've always thought I'm quite standard looking, eyes my only defining features. Pop a wig on though, high quality and expensive enough, and I can be anyone.

Tonight I am a waitress. A fake ID and reference was all it took. Security was a lot lapser around here than it used to be. Bruce Wayne was in hiding, he poured money into fancy events like this and didn't attend.

He had died the same night Batman had.

I am not here to earn an honest buck, it's quite the opposite. I am here to watch Jim Gordon do what he has been promising me he will for the last three years. The speech I scanned over days ago is resting in his pocket and it won't be long until the Mayor does his little opening and invites Commissioner Gordon on to the stage. Jim is finally going to tell Gotham about Harvey. That the Harvey Dent who had died for them, been murdered by the crazed vigilante Batman was a lie. Laws had been grounded around his death, what he stood for. Half of the men in Blackgate Prison were there because of the 'Dent Act'. Gordon's words would destroy that.

He had laboured over it, changed his mind with the tides. Guilty men may be set free, lives ruined because he wanted to tell the truth. A city saved on a lie. A city saved based on a lie about the man who tried to kill his family, had held a pistol to my own head and screamed about my betrayal. Harvey Dent had destroyed Jim's marriage, forced Bruce Wayne to lock himself away. Was admitting what Harvey had become worth the undoing?

A hand slides around my waist and I catch myself, force a smile over pink lips and offer the man some seaweed. His suit probably costs as much as a months rent, the jewels in his wives ears are real, her smile and lips are not. As he eats, mouth open, he places an empty glass on to my tray, calls me sweetheart and tugs his wife away towards some politician.

I do not let myself frown, totter in heels already pinching my toes and take the near-empty tray back to the kitchen, swapping it for another. This time I manoeuvre my way towards Jim, smile at jokes coming my way, glide around Miranda Tate and watch her head towards the house. Most of the people here were fatcats, rich and proud of it. I knew of Miranda Tate, read some article on her. She'd pumped millions into some renewable energy attempt, only for Bruce Wayne to pull out and vanish from the public eye.

She sweeps into the house, darting around two more servers. One of them, the taller of the women dressed in simple black that highlights her figure, her brown hair high and lips cherry red, look upwards and locks eyes with me.

Selina.

I stop myself before I start in that direction. Whatever Selina is here for cannot affect me. It meant there was something in that house that had caught her magpie eye, something she can sell off to try and get the sharks off her back. Selina was not as good as keeping herself invisible as I was. Pity stabbed, I wonder what Bruce Wayne would lose tonight. He may gain more though, some grim satisfaction when the world finally discovered he had been good, that Batman had been a hero, not the villain he was painted as.

I had felt sorry for Mr. Wayne from the moment I had worked it out. Jonathon had almost looked proud of me, although he claimed he had sussed it sooner. Who else had the time, motive and money to be Batman? Bruce Wayne was the world famous orphan, he had every right to hate criminals, that, and the fact just as he reappeared after years missing so did Batman seemed so glaringly obvious it irritated me that Jim hadn't worked it out. He claimed it didn't matter who Batman was to him, he had been a figure, of hope and intrigue. Now he would finally be innocent.

Before I catch him he's called upwards and I linger back, place down the silver and clap lightly as others do. My heart is catching in my throat. The victory is tiny, will make so little difference to my day-to-day life. It does not change what happened, this does not bring Jonathon or the last eight years of my life back.

But it is something.

He choked, the lines around his eyes deepened and his shoulders slumped. He folded the paper back into squares and shoved it back in his pocket. I felt a burning disappointment, so strong that even looking at him felt painful. I left mid-speech, stalking back to the kitchen heavily and snatching my bag from the cupboard, leaving my apron balled up on the antique counter.

I guess Bruce Wayne would stay in hiding.

Even for a professional liar the lies surrounding this city made me sick.