Everything hurts.
Not just my body, although that pain is as inescapable
as the rest--the cracked bones, the blackened eye, the
pulped flesh-- (I remember the guards' clubs coming
down, and there's a flash of anger before I lose it in
the pain and darkness.) They actually gave me drugs
for a while--I remember whimpering at the feel of the
needle sliding into my flesh, and everything beginning
to blur. I suppose I should be grateful, but I've had
enough of drugs. And it's so hard to think already...
But the drugs have worn off, now, and they haven't
given me any more. I think the cold-voiced Warden
might have had something to do with that--wouldn't
want to undo his work, now would he? (Anger again,
bitter and hot, but it fades. There's nothing I can
do about it--and really, who's to say I didn't have it
coming? Not me.) So now it all hurts again. I try to
concentrate on the aches, the physical pains.
Because the rest hurts so much more...
I try not to sob. They taped my cracked rib, but
breathing too deep still makes stabs of agony run
through me. Part of me thinks I deserve that, but I
still can't bring myself to invite it.
*Coward,* whispers a voice in my head. *Do you think
your parents didn't suffer worse than this?*
Stopitstopitstopit--
It doesn't stop, of course. It hasn't stopped
since--since--I'm not even sure. The memories just
keep running, a videotape on instant replay. Even when
I was drugged, I could feel them, just below the
surface.
I don't remember killing my parents. No matter how
hard I try, I can't remember that. Part of me is
desperately grateful, but I can't stop myself from
trying, all the same. How can I understand if I don't
remember?
Wally would say that I don't remember because I didn't
do it. I want to believe that. But...
I remember the blood; that's always first. I stood
there in the living room, looking at the rug that's
been there since before I was born, and wondering what
was spilled on it, dark and sticky and spreading. Mrs.
Conroy would never have allowed anything to get so
stained--
And then I saw them, sprawled on the floor in
positions no live bodies could ever take, glass driven
into them in dozens of places, and I knew. My mother
and father were dead, there on the living room floor.
...living room. Almost funny, if I felt like laughing
ever again...
The room was a disaster. Everything I could see was
toppled, shattered, torn--the place looked like it had
been hit by a tornado...
...or by a sonic assault. I could've done it,
everything I saw. I know just the notes it would have
needed, the precise tones I would have played to drive
through glass and wood and flesh...
But there was no sound, then, which only made it
worse. Sound is life, music and heartbeats and
voices. Silence belongs to the grave. My nightmares
are always silent...
I tried to speak, or maybe just scream--I think I had
some dim notion that if I broke that awful hush, it
would all stop, and I would wake up. But my voice
wouldn't work.
Instead I looked down...and saw that I was drenched in
red. Covered in my parents' blood...
How could it not have been me?
My hands are shaking. This isn't right, isn't real,
isn't *possible*. I love my parents. We disagree
(*disagreed*, whispers that voice in my head) on a lot
of things, but they've always been there for me, even
back when I was a supervillain and the rational thing
to do about me would have been to change all the locks
and call out the dogs. But they loved me anyway.
They *trusted* me--
Maybe it's not my rib at all. Maybe that sharp ache
in the middle of my chest is really my heart...
Oh, god, please. Let this be a dream. Let my parents
be okay; let me walk into that house and smell Mom's
perfume and hear Dad laugh as he asks if I've
overthrown the government today.
Let me not have to live knowing that somehow I'm
responsible for the death of the people I love most in
the world.
It's at least the millionth time I've begged the fates
to change things, and for the millionth time, it
doesn't work. My parents are dead, and I'm lost in a
darkness I don't understand.
Wally tried to pull me out, but I couldn't let him,
couldn't touch him. His hands are clean. And mine are
dripping red...
Sorry, Wally. But you can't save me. Not from this.
Maybe he knows that, now. I haven't seen him since I
got here. I thought...
But yeah, maybe he's figured it out, what everybody
else knows--that the Pied Piper is bad news.
The cops know--echo-perfect fragments of their
contemptuous voices flicker through my head. James
knows; that's why he left. (And I'm glad that he did,
before--before. A corner of my brain keeps seeing him
on that carpet...) My parents never would admit
it...and look where it got them. Even the bad guys
know; Boomerang's friend--I don't even know his
name--didn't try to kill *me*, oh no. Instead he shot
me up with his wannabe-Joker drug--and *that* memory
is enough to make broken bones seem almost pleasant.
Everything...twisted; it was like feeling my head turn
into one of those wavy funhouse mirrors. Inside I
cried and I screamed and I tried so hard to stop, and
all that happened outside was that I laughed and
laughed... And I tried to kill Wally--
I'm shaking again. I could have done it. Wally and
Linda both, standing right there--they were worrying
about the others, they never thought to guard against
me--if they'd been a little less lucky...
I'd've killed my friends like I killed my parents, and
laughed doing it, because somebody felt like screwing
with my head.
So when the mirror finally gave way and let me
through, the real me, and I saw Wally bleeding on the
floor with Boomerang standing over him...yes, I wanted
to kill the guy. I *would* have killed him, I'm
pretty sure, and while I'd like to say it was in
defense of Wally's life, or because of the drug--I
know better. Finally I had somebody I could blame,
somebody I could take it all out on, everything I'd
done and almost done, everything I'd had to stand and
watch--it's scary, how good it felt. My hands were on
his neck and I squeezed harder and harder, crying and
ranting; I barely heard Wally asking me to stop over
Boomerang's gasps--
After that first shock of impact, I wasn't even
surprised that he hit me. It seemed in place with the
rest of the day--and I know perfectly well that he
pulled his punch, though it didn't feel like it at the
time. But worse than that--much worse--was hearing
him try to excuse me, to say it wasn't my fault.
Because then I had to tell him otherwise. That I'd
tried to commit murder right in front of him, that I
wasn't innocent of--anything. I kept my head down the
whole time; I didn't want to see the look on his face.
So I can't exactly blame him if he doesn't feel like
spending time on me. I should be thrilled, really,
that he's finally gotten it through his head.
But all I can do is lean my head against the wall, and
cry as if I've lost my last friend...