i_crusade Amputation [narrative]
The cold sweat, the clenching of his hands, the shortness of breath - it was all different this morning. His nightmares had never left him alone; he'd grown used to them, even embraced them over time. They kept him focused. They reminded him of his vow, of his 'crusade', of his necessary isolation. They helped to sever his desire for love, for family, for everything that every other normal person wanted. The Happily Ever After. The soulmate of common American lore. Those dreams - nightmares - of his parents. They were good. They hurt. But they were good. Utilitarian.
But this.
The dream that had lanced through him in the night, held him down, forced itself over and over him, drawing out the desire he never pursued farther than a casual dinner date or occasional outrageous playboy flirtation in the public eye, and playing it viciously in the theater of his mind, the dream that had left him shaking and panting nd sweating, engendering the want he'd wanted to forget forever, the dream had been so much different than his nightly visions. Sadistic were the twists of his minds, to place him as the father of children, to place him as the loving husband of a loving wife, to place him in a countryside cottage, surrounded by idyllic beauty, and most of all, love... It was enough to hunch his shoulders from pain.
Angrily, he swung his legs down to the floor and headed down to the Batcave. Flipping on the monitors, he searched and searched for Barbara Gordan, but found only constant fights, riots, displays of affection everywhere, and everywhere, Barbara's name. Barbara's name in the new graffiti on the post office walls, Barbara's name in the sky overhead, written on banners dragged by planes, or in clouds written by planes, or on goodyear blimps... Barbara's name on the lips of the rioters, Barbara's name cried from the mouth of those crowding the church, Barbara's name on babbling prayers...
It was sheer utter madness, madness that he could attribute to Arkham's inmates, but not to the people of the City...!
And then he remembered his conversation with Barbara. Through the haze of love-twisted-lust-twisted-love, he remembered the 'gift' that Desire had promised Barbara. Shakily running a hand over his face, he groaned aloud. So this was it. And he knew that if others were being drawn to her, she could not come anywhere close to the Wayne Manor, or specifically, the Batcave. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to be with her. And he could not. A powerful dose of Desire was running through his mind, and he knew it. But he had defeated his desires time and again, in the name of protection. In the name of Batman. He could do it again. He would have to.
He opened his internet connection. He sent a message directly to Barbara Gordon.
"Do not approach. Reply if you are in need of assistance."
He had no idea how he would help her if she did need him. Because everything was telling him that he needed her. And he knew that he didn't. He knew that he needed to stay away from her. But if she needed help.... if she wanted his help... how was he to weigh the importance of her safety against the importance of the Dark Knight? He could not do it. In this moment, she meant more than his breath to him.