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i. (Sara Laughterfield)
LIFE IS A JOKE, death is the punchline.
She bought a pack of cigarettes in a gas station that stunk because of a broken air conditioner, the cashier was reading a porn magazine and the news were on, they were talking about the weather —as if in Gotham there was more than dark clouds and rain.
The news changed —a new threat— one of the Joker's twisted games, she didn't pay attention to the words, she just stared at the news presenter. The look in her eyes had changed, she was unsteady and her hands were sightly shaking. Sara moved closer to the tv. She could see it, even though the pixelated image, she could see her fear. Her eyes were moving to one place to another, she didn't know what was going to happen —the Joker was the personification of chaos— Sara loved that.
He was an unpredictable man, so no-one ever knew what he was going to do next, no-one could ever prepare for what he was going to do. A bank, a hospital, a police station, it didn't matter, whatever he was going to do Sara would just lay back and enjoy the show. —Or at least, that what she would do in any other circumstances, but now she was not in the mood.
She called Bruce three times, he didn't answer. Sara left a message. "Hey, Bruce? It's me, Sara. I- look, something has happened and I just- I just wish you were here. Call me when you get this, please."
"Keep the change." Sara payed in cash and left the gas station, while lighting up a cigarette she stared at her surroundings —she was in Burnley, near the bridge— close enough to the Narrows to be a dangerous place once the sun set —and the sun was indeed setting.
Her car was just around the corner, but when she arrived she saw a wheel was missing and a kid with a crowbar had broken a window and was trying to steal her car radio. "That's my car, you know?"
The kid flinched, he was wearing a red hoodie with a small bird drawn on it, his clothes were old, probably thrifted. He was the same age she had been when her brother had died —when the lack of memories started.
"I'm sorry." He said trying to distract her enough to run away but she blocked the way. Sara laughed —because the kid was obviously not sorry, because she actually didn't care about the kid stealing from her— she laughed because her life sucked so much that was the only thing she could do, laugh the pain away.
"I know you're not." She looked carefully at the broken window on the back of her car, she took the crowbar from the kid's hands and swang it like a baseball bat, like her father had taught her as a child. At least she still remembered that, his wrathful eyes and the bat on his hands.
