Team Anarchy - Round 3 - (fic) Just One Bad Day
Team Anarchy - Round 3 - (fic) Just One Bad Day
Title: Just One Bad Day
Author: Medorikoi
Prompt: Bad luck…
Disclaimer: I own a substantial amount of debt and not a lot else.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of child abuse/rape
Summary: Once a long time ago he had told the Bat that it all came down to one bad day. One day separated man from god, god from devil. One bad day separated the Joker and the Batman from the rest of humanity…But maybe he had been wrong.
Once a long time ago he had told the Bat that it all came down to one bad day. One day separated man from god, god from devil.
One bad day separated the Joker and the Batman from the rest of humanity.
But maybe he had been wrong.
What if they had been born less brilliant? What if they had a different past, a different mind? When that one bad day came would they have crumbled? Would they have been crushed beneath the weight of the great black mass of humanities cruelty?
What if it was one bad day that set off a fuse waiting to be lit? What if it was one bad day after a life of perfectly cultivated bad luck?
One bad day to fall or fly, to take a life known, a life suffered, and survive to become something twisted, or die as you had lived. In obscurity.
The Bat and the Clown chose to fly.
It had been bad luck to be born a beautiful child with green eyes and golden curls. Bad luck to stand out with beauty, bad luck to never have the ability to fade into the irrepressible grey.
It was bad luck to be born with innate intelligence. To look at the world around you when you still have to peer up to look out a window, have to strain to reach a faucet, and see reality in the place of hope and Santa Claus.
It was bad luck to see mother and see her faults instead of her blinding smile.
It was bad luck to understand the dark look in daddy’s eyes in the night.
It was bad luck to be brought into this world by two people who could not even care for themselves, two people who did not fight every day to live as they should but fought not to die with their faces in the dirt. Luck that the name mother meant screaming and tears, meant a word that he knew by age three- hypochondria- and another he would learn by age four in sterile hospital rooms and stolen library books. Munchausen by proxy.
Bad luck to be born with heroin coursing through his veins, that it still ran through daddy’s. It was bad luck to belong to a man with more than one vice. Luck that made him look at the happy drunks stumbling in the stinking alleyways and wish and dream as another child would dream of candy and rocket ships.
Bad luck that daddy did not lose enough of his motor skills when he was drunk and high to manage an escape.
Bad luck to be beautiful with golden curls and vibrant eyes.
Bad luck to be a good actor. To have the ability to make sure no one ever knew. Bad luck to have the same delicate skin tone as mommy, to know how to use her cover up to hide the bruises.
Bad luck that daddy kept his guns loaded. That he cleaned them in the living room. That he aimed at him, followed his broken trek across the room with his young body fixed firmly in his sights when rage built in his lanky druggy frame. Bad luck that he watched, that he knew the mechanics of the rifle in the closet, the glock in the bedside table.
Bad luck that he knew how to flip a switch blade, beautiful and gleaming, without injury- without the careless scars that riddled daddy’s hands.
Bad luck when daddy was in a rage and mommy said “No”.
Bad luck to be beautiful.
Bad luck to possess a photographic memory, to still hear the words in his sleep.
‘And you are beautiful…’
Bad luck that he was too drunk, too high…to finish. Bad luck that it was his fault.
Bad luck that mommy chose then to scream.
To fall then in imagined disease.
Bad luck daddy chose now to hear her.
Bad luck that drunken aim with a glock at point blank range is not a deterrent.
Bad luck to be unable to run- to have pants twist around ankles and that falling meant a loud crash. To be loud enough that not crying and not screaming meant nothing.
Bad luck to be beautiful with too full lips too red and swollen.
Too bad that the ground rushed up to him again and he was turned to see the moldering ceiling and him.
Bad luck to look like mother. That this time when daddy pushed in he tore mommy’s smile off his face.
Bad luck that mommy did not have the smile anymore either.
Bad luck that daddy ran before the cops could come, that no one called the cops and for hours all he could do was wonder where mommy’s smile went and be thankful she was not screaming…even though she looked like she wanted to. Bad luck that he was dragged along on the escape out of habit or necessity or sick desire. That when daddy finally stopped moving with a syringe stuck deep in his scorched vein…that when daddy had finally gone cold…he was alone in a strange city- dark and tormented. A city daddy said was full of villains and evil, not a city for them…but daddy did not say much of anything anymore. Luck that it was a city that nurtured the darkness in his breast, that loved ruined beauty and smiling scars that belonged only to him.
Bad luck that when people smiled it was foreign, strange and false. Bad luck that his only home was the sanctity of an abandoned toy factory. Ironic and destroyed. As broken as him.
Bad luck that the gunshot drew him to the window, that when the bodies fell - red like mommy- cold like daddy- that the little boy who they left behind did not scream. Did not cry. Bad luck to look at him and feel home. To find the broken soul that fit with his own.
Sometimes when you see a person you know without thought, without words or reason that you are the same. Too bad he did not pass him in a street- another missed opportunity- bad luck he saw his death and in the same instant his rebirth.
Bad luck to be broken and fragmented - a bitter sharp edge of a person on fractured and rotted foundation, bad luck to watch the little boy with the golden past- with love and humanity break. Bad luck to watch the creation of the other half of your soul.
Bad luck to know that your own touch is poison. To love so much and so completely that fear overrides the need to touch and talk.
Bad luck to be a child once brilliant, once beautiful. Bad luck that the boy- Bruce his mother had cried- is in the street light.
To know that he could exist only in the darkness and walking into the light meant the screams of his mother coming back to haunt him through the mouths of strangers.
Bad luck that beauty belonged to him. That it belonged to daddy and his shaking hands. That he had taken it, claimed it in the dark and left him scars.
Bad luck that when fear was almost crushed and his hand reached out of the darkness towards the light, towards Bruce, daddy’s voice came out of the shadows.
‘Beautiful’
Bad luck to love too much to make him scream. To see the horror.
Bad luck that Brucie was beautiful- that he had a chance at a life in the light even when he knew in his heart Bruce was as doomed as he. Bad luck to love too much to take that away, to bring him into the new beauty of the dark.
Bad luck that the teenager growing in false light decided to leave their city, to study and see the world. To find the light he could not find himself.
Bad luck to stand at the gate of a private jet and see hope for the first time in over ten years. To see somewhere far beyond the walls of his adopted city.
Bad luck that the boy he loved had come back a Bat.
Bad luck that the only way to reach past the years and through a mask was to paint the scars, to blow up the night and wait for him to come.
Bad luck that the first time he laid eyes on Bruce in years he wanted to touch and kiss and Bats wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.
So maybe it was genetics, a mind, a body, a past, a string of bad luck and then a match to the fuse- one bad day.
But what if luck changed? What if he could have one good day in all his years?
What if one day the Bat reached out to him and he said ‘yes’?
What if everyday after that they met and spoke and laughed?
What if one good day Batman saw him.
Good luck that they would look into each other’s eyes and feel the click of their broken souls falling finally onto place.
Good luck to find light in the darkness
Once a long time ago he had told the Bat it all came down to one bad day.
Someday soon he would tell him it all came down to one good day.
Title: Just One Bad Day
Author: Medorikoi
Prompt: Bad luck…
Disclaimer: I own a substantial amount of debt and not a lot else.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of child abuse/rape
Summary: Once a long time ago he had told the Bat that it all came down to one bad day. One day separated man from god, god from devil. One bad day separated the Joker and the Batman from the rest of humanity…But maybe he had been wrong.
Once a long time ago he had told the Bat that it all came down to one bad day. One day separated man from god, god from devil.
One bad day separated the Joker and the Batman from the rest of humanity.
But maybe he had been wrong.
What if they had been born less brilliant? What if they had a different past, a different mind? When that one bad day came would they have crumbled? Would they have been crushed beneath the weight of the great black mass of humanities cruelty?
What if it was one bad day that set off a fuse waiting to be lit? What if it was one bad day after a life of perfectly cultivated bad luck?
One bad day to fall or fly, to take a life known, a life suffered, and survive to become something twisted, or die as you had lived. In obscurity.
The Bat and the Clown chose to fly.
It had been bad luck to be born a beautiful child with green eyes and golden curls. Bad luck to stand out with beauty, bad luck to never have the ability to fade into the irrepressible grey.
It was bad luck to be born with innate intelligence. To look at the world around you when you still have to peer up to look out a window, have to strain to reach a faucet, and see reality in the place of hope and Santa Claus.
It was bad luck to see mother and see her faults instead of her blinding smile.
It was bad luck to understand the dark look in daddy’s eyes in the night.
It was bad luck to be brought into this world by two people who could not even care for themselves, two people who did not fight every day to live as they should but fought not to die with their faces in the dirt. Luck that the name mother meant screaming and tears, meant a word that he knew by age three- hypochondria- and another he would learn by age four in sterile hospital rooms and stolen library books. Munchausen by proxy.
Bad luck to be born with heroin coursing through his veins, that it still ran through daddy’s. It was bad luck to belong to a man with more than one vice. Luck that made him look at the happy drunks stumbling in the stinking alleyways and wish and dream as another child would dream of candy and rocket ships.
Bad luck that daddy did not lose enough of his motor skills when he was drunk and high to manage an escape.
Bad luck to be beautiful with golden curls and vibrant eyes.
Bad luck to be a good actor. To have the ability to make sure no one ever knew. Bad luck to have the same delicate skin tone as mommy, to know how to use her cover up to hide the bruises.
Bad luck that daddy kept his guns loaded. That he cleaned them in the living room. That he aimed at him, followed his broken trek across the room with his young body fixed firmly in his sights when rage built in his lanky druggy frame. Bad luck that he watched, that he knew the mechanics of the rifle in the closet, the glock in the bedside table.
Bad luck that he knew how to flip a switch blade, beautiful and gleaming, without injury- without the careless scars that riddled daddy’s hands.
Bad luck when daddy was in a rage and mommy said “No”.
Bad luck to be beautiful.
Bad luck to possess a photographic memory, to still hear the words in his sleep.
‘And you are beautiful…’
Bad luck that he was too drunk, too high…to finish. Bad luck that it was his fault.
Bad luck that mommy chose then to scream.
To fall then in imagined disease.
Bad luck daddy chose now to hear her.
Bad luck that drunken aim with a glock at point blank range is not a deterrent.
Bad luck to be unable to run- to have pants twist around ankles and that falling meant a loud crash. To be loud enough that not crying and not screaming meant nothing.
Bad luck to be beautiful with too full lips too red and swollen.
Too bad that the ground rushed up to him again and he was turned to see the moldering ceiling and him.
Bad luck to look like mother. That this time when daddy pushed in he tore mommy’s smile off his face.
Bad luck that mommy did not have the smile anymore either.
Bad luck that daddy ran before the cops could come, that no one called the cops and for hours all he could do was wonder where mommy’s smile went and be thankful she was not screaming…even though she looked like she wanted to. Bad luck that he was dragged along on the escape out of habit or necessity or sick desire. That when daddy finally stopped moving with a syringe stuck deep in his scorched vein…that when daddy had finally gone cold…he was alone in a strange city- dark and tormented. A city daddy said was full of villains and evil, not a city for them…but daddy did not say much of anything anymore. Luck that it was a city that nurtured the darkness in his breast, that loved ruined beauty and smiling scars that belonged only to him.
Bad luck that when people smiled it was foreign, strange and false. Bad luck that his only home was the sanctity of an abandoned toy factory. Ironic and destroyed. As broken as him.
Bad luck that the gunshot drew him to the window, that when the bodies fell - red like mommy- cold like daddy- that the little boy who they left behind did not scream. Did not cry. Bad luck to look at him and feel home. To find the broken soul that fit with his own.
Sometimes when you see a person you know without thought, without words or reason that you are the same. Too bad he did not pass him in a street- another missed opportunity- bad luck he saw his death and in the same instant his rebirth.
Bad luck to be broken and fragmented - a bitter sharp edge of a person on fractured and rotted foundation, bad luck to watch the little boy with the golden past- with love and humanity break. Bad luck to watch the creation of the other half of your soul.
Bad luck to know that your own touch is poison. To love so much and so completely that fear overrides the need to touch and talk.
Bad luck to be a child once brilliant, once beautiful. Bad luck that the boy- Bruce his mother had cried- is in the street light.
To know that he could exist only in the darkness and walking into the light meant the screams of his mother coming back to haunt him through the mouths of strangers.
Bad luck that beauty belonged to him. That it belonged to daddy and his shaking hands. That he had taken it, claimed it in the dark and left him scars.
Bad luck that when fear was almost crushed and his hand reached out of the darkness towards the light, towards Bruce, daddy’s voice came out of the shadows.
‘Beautiful’
Bad luck to love too much to make him scream. To see the horror.
Bad luck that Brucie was beautiful- that he had a chance at a life in the light even when he knew in his heart Bruce was as doomed as he. Bad luck to love too much to take that away, to bring him into the new beauty of the dark.
Bad luck that the teenager growing in false light decided to leave their city, to study and see the world. To find the light he could not find himself.
Bad luck to stand at the gate of a private jet and see hope for the first time in over ten years. To see somewhere far beyond the walls of his adopted city.
Bad luck that the boy he loved had come back a Bat.
Bad luck that the only way to reach past the years and through a mask was to paint the scars, to blow up the night and wait for him to come.
Bad luck that the first time he laid eyes on Bruce in years he wanted to touch and kiss and Bats wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.
So maybe it was genetics, a mind, a body, a past, a string of bad luck and then a match to the fuse- one bad day.
But what if luck changed? What if he could have one good day in all his years?
What if one day the Bat reached out to him and he said ‘yes’?
What if everyday after that they met and spoke and laughed?
What if one good day Batman saw him.
Good luck that they would look into each other’s eyes and feel the click of their broken souls falling finally onto place.
Good luck to find light in the darkness
Once a long time ago he had told the Bat it all came down to one bad day.
Someday soon he would tell him it all came down to one good day.