Yeah, that's right. 3 stories in 2 days. I'm amazing. :)

I'll say more stuff at the bottom.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the storyline. If I owned anything else, I wouldn't be writting fanfics.


After being beaten with crowbars, stabbed, shot, run over, burned, nearly killed in almost every imaginable way, you think you know the meaning of pain. But you would be dead wrong.

You'd think that after you witnessed your parents' death, watched them crumple to the ground after the bullets penetrated their warm, loving selves, that you'd seen and felt the rainbow. A dark, black, disturbing, terrible rainbow. But again, you'd be dead wrong.

You walk with slow, deliberate steps, gazing at your feet, one in front of the other. You don't want to look up at the world. Her world. You realize without really realizing that it would probably look strange for you, Bruce Wayne, to be alone on a rainy, dreary day in lower Gotham. You do, however, notice the ground become rougher, unkempt, wooden planks. Finally, you've arrived at the pier.

You don't stop your careful trudging until you smack right into the railing. You rest your forearms on the rough, sea-worn wood. You dare to look up.

What you see is slightly disappointing, like you'd said your prayers and asked for salvation for the apocalypse but it was just another Y2K. You expected to see some tangible change in the world, some hole left behind, but it seems that the world is the same. You're selfish. It should be different somehow. You would probably feel more emotion if you weren't so full of one already.

The sea is grey and at unrest. You've never really understood its draw, never "dreamt of the sea". You don't see freedom. You see a grand expanse of nothing. You don't understand why you came here, and yet, you understand exactly.

The wind picks up, and your coat billows around you. Your hand pushes a stray, prematurely graying hair back. It's a natural reaction, nothing more. No sign of life, really. You think, with sadistic humor, that there's really not much different between her and you now, just you're still in one piece. A dead, hollow, pointless piece.

You swallow back a sob as you think of her again. Dead. Dead. Dead. It haunts you. More so, that it was your fault. If you had just given it a rest, just stopped, taken off the mask, she'd be here. Maybe not here, probably with Dent, but still…here.

A seagull caws in the distance. You listen to it. You look up at them. It seems that they have no point in life. They just flutter in the breeze, riding on air currents. They eat, they have sex, they die. What a great life, you think. You wish you were one of them. It's not like the seagulls felt any pain. They were stupid animals.

You want to be one of them, or you want them to suffer with you. Because you're selfish.

You breath in and out, counting how long it takes. Seven seconds. Another seven fucking seconds that you're still breathing, and she's not. You so wish that you could follow her, but you know you can't. You want to, because you're selfish. You have to finish your journey.

You smell the salt as a wave crashes into the shore, spraying you ever so slightly. It's a pleasant feeling, but what's pleasantry to you now? You think that if she's not here to enjoy it with me, what's the point? You shift your weight to the other foot; again, it's nothing more than an involuntary movement.

And then you're gone.

You've left your physical body as a butterfly leaves its cocoon. Your head tilts back, you lungs take one deep breath, and you're free.

You are in your penthouse. It really is a lovely place, you think, with its view of downtown Gotham, it's practical design. Some of the people-watch magazines had criticized you for choosing such a simple place as a temporary home, questioning, "What does Bruce Wayne really do with all his money?" But of course, that's what you get when you're famous.

You're considering her words as she left. "If you turn yourself in, they're not gonna let us be together."

Is she right? You can't say. But you know you have to do this. For Gotham. For the people. For her. Because it's just too dangerous right now. Because of you. And then, your again wishing that you'd never done this. That you'd never become this—this monster. You want her more than anything else. You're selfish.

You notice her sent before you see her. She's wearing her signature perfume…lilac and vanilla…the one her mother used to wear when she worked at Wayne Manor. It's a scent that's ingrained in your memory. You don't turn, though; you think she's trying to be sneaky.

So you're standing facing the window, gazing at the glittering lights below, listening to the music playing in the background. It's beautiful, peaceful, serene. You feel one small hand on your right shoulder, then another on your left. She pulls herself around so that she's facing you, her clear, green eyes looking up at you.

You know that she's the only woman ever meant for you.

Her hands rest on your chest now. She hasn't broken eye contact with you. You both start swaying to the music. It's so perfect.

You sway until she buries her face in your shirt. Tears start soaking through, and yet you embrace her. Tight. Now is not the time to ask what's wrong. Now is the time to be the man she needs. The man she deserves.

You look at the stars as she sobs into her chest. You hug her tighter. You look at the moon, you look at the city lights, and then you kiss the top of her hair. And then, she looks up. Her eyes are still watery.

And then you're kissing. You're flying. She's warm, and cool at the same time, flaring and modest simultaneously. She smells so good, she feels so good, fitted to you. You move one of your hands down to the small of her back, one runs through her silky hair. One of her arms is draped around your neck while the other is light on your cheek.

Eventually, you have to break apart eventually, because you need to breathe. So you rest your forehead on hers, and you see that the passion you're feeling is mirrored in her.

So your kissing again, and then you're in your bedroom. It's too good to be true. The feel of her skin, the smell of her hair, she's all too beautiful.

You don't want her to leave, but the morning comes. She's running late for work. She has to go. You don't want her to leave. Because you're selfish. This is the last you'll see of her.

You open your eyes.

You'd never really contemplated suicide until she died, though of course, it would have been a blessing throughout your entire life. There were times…when you just cracked. You knew it was selfish, but the feeling when that knife cut through your flesh was indescribable. It felt like you were flying again. You'd have slit your throat if the need were strong enough.

You don't consider the people you would hurt. You think you're alone in suffering. But the truth is, you're not. You don't care enough to take the time, though.

People walks past, time goes on, but you, Bruce Wayne, have stopped completely. You take another breath. You step onto the railing, balancing. And then you jump.

Because you are selfish.

Alright, so this is my first Batman story. I don't know if I mentioned this in the story, but "she" is Rachel. Yeah, yeah, imagine that.

This is also my first time doing this second person's kinda cool actually. :)

I'll stop talking now, and let you review. So yeah, that means review.

Yours, Fang Cullen