RED

Two

I stare at the ceiling. If they had given me a ball, I would have played catch with gravity like those suave villains. Or I might've even read something if they let me. But no. I stare at the ceiling, strapped down and bored out of my mind. I guess they didn't want their guards to get hurt. Or me to escape.

I blow an unruly strand of white hair out of my face. My head feels light and floaty, probably something the guards gave me to keep me sedated. A smile tugs at the side of my mouth. They're scared of me.

I'm honestly surprised they haven't transferred me to a real prison yet. Maybe they think that they can fix me. Fat chance of that.

The ceiling is covered in dots, and the longer I stare at it, they morph into pictures, telling nonsensical stories. Maybe that's how constellations became a thing: some guy went mad from staring at the sky for too long. At this point, I probably am going mad. Pup-pup zooms across the ceiling, Bizarro tailing behind him, laughing. The shadow of the big bad bat lurks in the corner, vowing justice (pfft) for the city of On-my-ceiling. Colourful children leap and backflip unnecessarily off walls to impress him. Sad to say, I was one of them once. Not anymore.

And her. She's there too, swinging her axe or whatever other deadly weapons she has at hand. Her hair, like a flame, dances behind her, seemingly growing or shrinking on the occasion. And her eyes, fierce, green blazing fires of fury staring right through my excuse for a soul. My God. I still remember the first time she punched me.

Her name, oh God... her name was, is Artemis Grace. And even when she's not around, I am utterly, completely at her mercy. She could kill me from halfway across the world ( I don't doubt she could do that) and I wouldn't complain. And coming from a guy who's done the whole coffin thing, that's saying a lot. Death sucks.

Rapping on my door, a guard rudely lets himself into my room, snapping me out of my reverie. He looks tired. " Come on, mealtime, Hoodie."

"Go away, Eddie." That's not his real name. I don't care. He had to interrupt my 'meditation.' "I'm practicing self-reflection. Doc said I should do it."

The guard gives me an exasperated sigh. " My name is Louis. Just–" he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just cooperate, will ya?"

I stick my tongue out at him. He's my least favourite. He's not scared of me in the least. Maybe because I see him the most. I try my usual tactic of threats. It usually scares the other guards witless. Not Louis.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, loosening my bonds so that I can move at the bare minimum. " All bark and no bite, Hoodie."

"My name. Is not. Hoodie."

He raises an eyebrow. " Okay." Louis slides me a tray of sludge that barely passes as food. He winces, seeing my reaction. " The cooks here are the worst. Just bear with it, okay son?"

I grunt, having half a mind to spit the sludge at him for calling me son. I don't. I'm nice like that, see?

"So, Dewy, any plans for your weekend of freedom?"

He doesn't even try to correct me. "Working. So you'll be seeing more of my beautiful face for the next few days."

I stare at him. He's what you would call a slouched-sort-of-guy. Like life's beaten him up too many times for him to ever fully recover. I guess we're all a little like that. With his graying hair, he looks old enough to be my dad, and oh boy, does he act like one. Not like any dad I've ever had though.

My dad told me when I was only ten minutes old that I would be what he never was: a prince. A damned prince of Gotham. He died in jail, working as a henchman. I was a street rat, growing up with the scum of the Earth. So much for a prince.

I slide the tray back over to Louis. I slump back on the bed, ready to resume my madness of staring at the ceiling. Louis watches me for a full minute before speaking. "Y'know, my daughter's getting married in a few weeks. Nice guy, nice enough. I hadn't actually met him until he proposed. He has a good heart, and he makes her happy, but it's hard for a guy to just... let go, you know?" He shakes his head. "Why am I even telling you this, Hoodie?"

I raise an eyebrow. He's right, why is he telling me this? It occurs to me. His daughter's probably around my age. Maybe he just wants a kid again. Maybe I just want to be a kid. Never got a real childhood in the slums.

I take a breath, long and shuddery. Something in his image of me will crack, and for once, I don't care. "Louis?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really think I belong here?"

He puts a hand on my shoulder, real fatherly-like. "No, kid. Nobody belongs here. You just come here to get better. Like a hospital, y'know? Nobody belongs there. They go there to get better and leave."

"Louis?"

"Yeah, Hoodie?"

"I want out. How do I get out?"