E.N
He fixes his collar in the mirror on the fourth day of the fourth month. Perhaps, maybe, although, Pocohauntas. He's in a war with his nerves, but his nerves are Romulus and he is Remus. He will not win this fight.
Today is not void. Things are going to change for him in this city. He is going to thrive today. He is going to show the city that he is not the once weak man he was. He is reborn.
His tie chokes him, but he welcomes it. Maybe the right grip on his neck will keep his mind focused. A thick bead of sweat dribbles down his temple, leaving a trail of concern behind. He breathes in deep through his nose and out slowly through his mouth. The nerves start to subside.
He hasn't been this nervous for a long time. But then, nothing has been as important as how he executes tonight's plan.
The weird infactuation people have with with funerals is a practice he has never understood. Everyone gathers around a dead body and shared stories about the soul that once embodied the corpse. Then the body spends eternity as fertiliser inside its wooden prison. He has attended very few funerals, and at each he felt no emotional compromise. The only tears shed were those for obligation and social standard. He hadn't been attached.
He was attached to someone once.
Another bead of sweat drips from under his hat. He watches it roll down his cheek and fill the smile lines along the way. He hasn't smiled in a long time. He who sweats as though the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders.
The old him appears in the mirror. There's no time for that man- tonight he will be Romulus.
O.C
He jolts out of bed with a wild look in his eye. Was that real life? Is he now awake or still dreaming? How does he know what's real? Perhaps nothing is real. Perhaps everything is an illusion created to keep us sane through our long, dull lives. Perhaps those classed 'insane' are living in a dim reality without the illusion.
He was declared insane once. Criminally insane. A stamp on a piece of paper used to prove his instability. He served his time in Arkham, taking their sugar pills and swallowing their abuse. Even though he knew their treatments were a fabrication created to keep a facade in front of the Gotham population, he still expected to come out different. The change they made was superficial and, in the end, didn't stick around. The only long term change was that he knew he wasn't going to be a bottom feeder anymore.
He looks at the clock- it's time to go. He has a date with fate tonight.
Worry is not new to him, but there was once someone who would help him tame him fears and anxieties like it were an angry bear- and sometimes it was. Sometimes all he could do was scream and cry until his throat was as raw as the wounds Arkham left behind.
Misery has a new best friend.
