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♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀ ╰┈➤ ❝home, is the first grave.❞
She was maple and honey, sweetly avarice.
Supple in her mind's eye, fervently ethereal she was coated in the glory of prayer. Forged by failure, her families teeming crime laces through her every unbeknown vain. Because after all, you can never outrun the very blood that pulses through your heart.
Candle light hankered and hummed, subduing the corners of Morana's apartment. She'd spent a long lonely day festooned within the fastidious embrace of Bruce Wayne. She'd lain in the bed of Gotham a cold arm snaking her waist, kissing wounds that had long healed. Morana in turn begging to listen, to hear what was dying to be ushered. Words that simply existed in his forgotten mouth.
He was simply cold and lonely, a ghost without a lover to haunt.
How she wished she could bury herself within his skin, lay just below the surface warming his ever solitary heart. She would then have no way point, no hesitation in tumulting within the dark. Morana would have finally found a place to rest.
Early hours of this morning Bruce was ushered away, she awoke seldom to a cold dark room a note left seduced beside her head, as the only marker he existed at all.
I broke my rules for you.
And so hearing the echo of hateful love she ran, guilty like she'd done a cruel heinous thing to a man she was begging to hide within. He was abhorrently mislead, insinuating something sinful had been committed, when he the devil sat kissing her damned ear while ushering the sweetest sin's.
Like evil was chuckling on her shoulder, abusing power with grief she coerced in a ritual that long was overdue.
A weathered box, full of misplaced and tethered love was the jewel of her eye.
Grabbing the worn forgetful edges the lid slipped off and lay in the poor girls hands. It was self harm, mere bliss in torturing demons playing idly in her mind's eye. Remnants of her life deduced to rough words and dog eared pages.
In a formidable reluctance, her fingers traced her own past. A lonesome girl, with tired eyes looked back through photo after photo. Trying to comfort the weeping she traced the sweet girls cheekbones, smoothed her hair and lay a kiss on her forehead. She wanted to grasp that young Morana, hold her in her arms and whisper that everything will be alright. She sat there looking into the mirror of her own soul, ushering silent prayers for someone to love her, someone to care enough that she was safe.
But then came her partner in crime, he grew to become her own reflection. Where there was one, there was the other. Never more than a metre between them. They were the family, that neither had.
Edward Nashton.
And she was his Lizzie, an abjure of religious purity.
Years of a companion, burning and relenting mischief. When they spent cold evenings, concocting and conspiring there was a warming twinge in her heart, a silent hope that maybe the world wasn't as dark as the slum that they grew from.
Rimmed conspicuous, glasses framing his face in a perpetual state of questioning. As though an interrogation always lay on the precipice of his tongue. The boy looked out upon her, neither changed nor mirrored from paper or the weathering of time.
He was a ghost that lay in her shadow, abdicating years lost and well spent. Both in a sanctum of constant mourning, a loss that kindred them, that tied a taught string between their hearts, so if they fumbled in hate could always find their way back to the warm embrace of chaos.
All while a sinister demon lay hankering in their midst. Oblivious to bored eyes, and never quite in their grasp. Their bond was one made from hate, and therefore bound to be destroyed the same way it was born.
As years beheld their frames, she and he grew maybe apart, a metre now slipping lucidity away becoming two or three. Weeks without a word, become months without a friend. You see Morana was begging to crawl her way out of life, seeking redemption in cruel companions. She was a lost soul tethered to a boy crumbling at the roots, and forever no more broken than her listless stare.
Before she knew it tears slipped over the photo, relishing them in fresh hurt. She sat bitterly rocking contempt, relenting in a past she had no control over.
Maybe if life had been different to her.
Maybe if she was granted a kinder sea.
But the world shook the poor Lisbon girl into reality, and so forced to look at the image of remorse and guilt she held the untimely weight of her true families actions. Things her mind didn't even exhaust to, but theirs did and now as ghosts ushering her forward to confess sins she hadn't even spoken aloud.
When she heard Bruce talk about his mother, she saw herself glint in his eye. An ugly, hateful mirror staring back at her and when he blinked it was a repetition of flattery. A Lisbon mother and a Lisbon father gifted her the grace of ill - tred genes.
Bottom feeders birthing a vagrant.
Martha Wayne reflecting a glint of Lisbon sat opposite her. Piping black coffee, churning in cups neither would drink, but sat perfunctorily there anyway. Just as well behaved house pets do.
You see this familiar acknowledgment not only happened in the bedroom of Bruce Wayne, but in a grey eternal like cell. Far from one's minds eye, but a sliver of discomfort just enough to shiver. A cell so barren only two plagued women knew the secret, a secret neither told or were supposed to keep. One avarice man held that need, he'd use a body capable of shattering, only if she sat like porcelain.
A comparable life sat behind both Bruce and Morana, formalities dripping of their tongues, but what either failed to take note of was their dying destiny to strike a match and burn.
One figurative comparison sat looming on the precipice of their memories.
A mother in Arkham Asylum, and a father a wall apart ruling the world.
