Flytrap | WATTYS 2022 SHORTLIST

0 | Black Dahlia

Wisps of smoke hung in the air despite the last cigarette being stubbed out hours ago. The thick, overwhelming stench would make anyone choke if they were to step inside, but not James.

Like most things in life, he had grown accustomed to it. Enjoyed it even. It was a horrible odor, yes. But it was one that reminded him of much happier times, times when smoking was the worst of his problems. Perhaps his worst problem.

If only Barbara could see him now. How disappointed she would be in him.

An aching pain shot through his chest at even just the thought of her name. With a groan, he adjusted his weight at a more comfortable angle. He knew this pain all too well by now. It started in his abdomen right where the scars were before rippling out to the rest of his body.

Scars. That's all he had now, all that remained. But they had been deep enough that no matter how much time passed, they would never completely fade.

But as James came to learn, some wounds never completely healed either.

So he did what he could to numb them. At first, he threw himself into his work. When that wasn't enough, he tried something stronger. Whether that be alcohol, cigarettes, or some of Barbara's leftover painkillers, he drowned out his sorrows until his mind was nothing more than a haze of incoherent thoughts and blurred memories.

It never worked.

His heart was broken beyond repair. And nothing could fix it besides maybe death.

Funny how he thought more about death now than he did when his life was actually in danger back as a detective.

He often imagined how he would do it. Pills would be the least painful, but would probably take the longest. A gunshot to the head would be the quickest, but also the messiest. Maybe he could just drive off the bridge and into the Gotham River. If the impact didn't kill him instantly, then the shock of the icy waters would.

But like the coward he was, he could never go through with. So he settled with his imagination, conjuring up more and more graphic deaths for himself. Anything to ease this aching heart of his.

Sometimes, he wondered if his punishment wasn't a gruesome death but an empty life. Hell wasn't burning in some eternal inferno, but rather stuck alone in the dark with no friends, no family, and no one you cared about.

A flash of blue eclipsed his face as the Gotham City News logo filled the screen in front. Was it time for the evening news already?

"Good evening, I'm Vicki Vale." The red-headed reporter smiled at the camera. She was no longer the young, pretty reporter James last saw her as, which was at the wedding shower. Time had left its mark on her in the form of crow's feet and thinning hair.

As if he had any right to talk. It wasn't like time had been kind to him either.

His attention suddenly shifted to the top right corner where a missing person's poster flashed on-screen. It was a poster he hadn't seen in years, not since the last of them were finally torn down by local delinquents or washed away by the harsh, unforgiving elements.

Of course, it was a poster he would never forget even if he wanted to. And oh, how he wanted to. He had been the one who created it, the one who had picked the image. It was one of the last photos he had of his daughter, taken at the shower. Bruce had been kind enough to give it to him after Barbara went missing, telling him he needed it more.

The reason it must be on TV filled him with dread. So this was it. Although he knew what was coming, hearing it along with the rest of Gotham would hit differently.