The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break...
Caller ID is a wonderful thing. It lets her ignore everyone. That is, until she finally lost her temper two nights ago and tore the cord from the wall so hard it pulled a large chunk of drywall with it. She has ignored her comms. She hasn't patrolled in over a week. In the relative safety of her apartment, she has found her days punctuated by periods of consciousness and unconsciousness rather than by the hours, assisted in those brief times she can sleep by drinking until she cannot keep her eyes open any longer.
Helena doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want their lectures, or their sympathy, or their attempts to understand. All she cares about, can think about, is that Emma is dead, and the hollow platitude of 'mercy killing' does nothing to justify or even begin to alleviate the agony the decision has caused her.
She has killed before, in the past; when Gotham was a No Man's Land of chaos and overrun with irreverence for human life. Killed men who raped, who beat, who murdered. Their demises were retribution; ugly, scarred, and defined by rage and hate.
Emma had none of these things. She was just a child, harboring so much potential, burdened with parents who cared nothing for her present or her future. Helena had become a teacher for children like her, acutely aware herself of just how much importance one good mentor could have on a young and impressionable life. A life now lost forever.
Helena sits now upon the floor in her living room, another opened bottle of wine at her side while she once more leafs through her student's work. All the items she took from the girl's locker, spread out before her upon the coffee table like some kind of impromptu, informal shrine.
It's been a long time since she prayed, or had any faith in God. She's certain, now more than ever, that nobody's listening. She does not want forgiveness, and she will not seek it. There is no deity in this universe who can offer her absolution.
Helena doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want their lectures, or their sympathy, or their attempts to understand. All she cares about, can think about, is that Emma is dead, and the hollow platitude of 'mercy killing' does nothing to justify or even begin to alleviate the agony the decision has caused her.
She has killed before, in the past; when Gotham was a No Man's Land of chaos and overrun with irreverence for human life. Killed men who raped, who beat, who murdered. Their demises were retribution; ugly, scarred, and defined by rage and hate.
Emma had none of these things. She was just a child, harboring so much potential, burdened with parents who cared nothing for her present or her future. Helena had become a teacher for children like her, acutely aware herself of just how much importance one good mentor could have on a young and impressionable life. A life now lost forever.
Helena sits now upon the floor in her living room, another opened bottle of wine at her side while she once more leafs through her student's work. All the items she took from the girl's locker, spread out before her upon the coffee table like some kind of impromptu, informal shrine.
It's been a long time since she prayed, or had any faith in God. She's certain, now more than ever, that nobody's listening. She does not want forgiveness, and she will not seek it. There is no deity in this universe who can offer her absolution.