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Out of the Ashes (narrative)
Harley was tired. Exhausted.
Every muscle in her body ached. The bones in her hand felt like granules of sand and shattered shards of glass. It was wrapped and splinted, unable to be utilized for its purpose. Penance for her mouth. It was but a small price to pay in the larger picture. The torture had been worse, far worse and yet she had expected it. It felt like a long time that she spent in the darkness; the depths of Arkham that she knew intimately had become almost like a tomb. A chain around her neck had kept her on the floor, and her only will to move was the commanded obedience lest she be met with more violence.
And like that, like a snap of her fingers she was free. She felt empty and robotic almost as if she were moving on autopilot alone. As of her brain had shut itself down and was coasing merely on the fringes of the reality around her.
At first the sunlight had been blinding. The smells of the fresh air and the City were pleasant in comparison to the dank, moist mildew smell that clung to the brick walls of the cell under ground. Footfalls, the echos of each step toward her made her body shake. Now there were footfalls all about her and she had no fear of them. None. She was empty of feeling.
She found herself toting what little posessions at the Asylum she had out in a box. A deck of cards, some items from her desk, a hand gun, her megaphone and of course her costume. A comically-oversized mallet was strapped to her back. It hit her gently in the calf as she walked down the street with her box. It was an awkward carry considering one of her hands was broken but she managed. And no one dared bother her in the state she was in. Her blonde hair was filthy from captivity; strings of it had turned almost black with a mixture of dirt and blood. Eddie had spared her face, thank the stars, but in spite of that her expression was one of malice and revenge. The gleam in her eye was a blazing fire. Her step was sluggish but she was determined to make it to her apartment.
The blonde couldn't bring herself to stay at Arkham anymore. She wasn't quitting; Harleen Quinzel was not a quitter by any stretch of a measure but she was putting distance between herself and the place. It wasn't her place to begin with. She was an intruder without Jack to protect her. Her puddin'. She missed him so.
Finally the complex came in to view and Harley sighed. Now she could have a bath and relax without worrying about herself. And she could be rid of the screams. Oh those screams.
Every muscle in her body ached. The bones in her hand felt like granules of sand and shattered shards of glass. It was wrapped and splinted, unable to be utilized for its purpose. Penance for her mouth. It was but a small price to pay in the larger picture. The torture had been worse, far worse and yet she had expected it. It felt like a long time that she spent in the darkness; the depths of Arkham that she knew intimately had become almost like a tomb. A chain around her neck had kept her on the floor, and her only will to move was the commanded obedience lest she be met with more violence.
And like that, like a snap of her fingers she was free. She felt empty and robotic almost as if she were moving on autopilot alone. As of her brain had shut itself down and was coasing merely on the fringes of the reality around her.
At first the sunlight had been blinding. The smells of the fresh air and the City were pleasant in comparison to the dank, moist mildew smell that clung to the brick walls of the cell under ground. Footfalls, the echos of each step toward her made her body shake. Now there were footfalls all about her and she had no fear of them. None. She was empty of feeling.
She found herself toting what little posessions at the Asylum she had out in a box. A deck of cards, some items from her desk, a hand gun, her megaphone and of course her costume. A comically-oversized mallet was strapped to her back. It hit her gently in the calf as she walked down the street with her box. It was an awkward carry considering one of her hands was broken but she managed. And no one dared bother her in the state she was in. Her blonde hair was filthy from captivity; strings of it had turned almost black with a mixture of dirt and blood. Eddie had spared her face, thank the stars, but in spite of that her expression was one of malice and revenge. The gleam in her eye was a blazing fire. Her step was sluggish but she was determined to make it to her apartment.
The blonde couldn't bring herself to stay at Arkham anymore. She wasn't quitting; Harleen Quinzel was not a quitter by any stretch of a measure but she was putting distance between herself and the place. It wasn't her place to begin with. She was an intruder without Jack to protect her. Her puddin'. She missed him so.
Finally the complex came in to view and Harley sighed. Now she could have a bath and relax without worrying about herself. And she could be rid of the screams. Oh those screams.