Slade's Hideout
{Shadow}
31/12/2006
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Guess what was I doing?
Really, I'm sure you won't be able
Dodging bullets—and it's not in the metaphoric sense—but I'm sure that you are wondering how can you dodge tons of real bullets that were shot at you and why.
As usual Slade gave me a stupid excuse—he claims it's to test my speed and agility. And now I've confirmed that he's a sadist, but being the mute I am said nothing. I took the beating in silence.
Now here I am, in a room, dodging bullets, literally. If I fail—that means get shot—I get ten lashes of a whip.
A whip. Not that I haven't been whipped before, but nobody can dodge forever, no matter how fast or agile they were are. It was the ultimate catch, and it meant that no matter what I did I was always in trouble.
As you can expect, I am not in a good mood.
I didn't know how long I'd been dodging, I just knew that I had slowed down for around ten seconds to catch my breath. That was a bad idea, a really bad one.
Before I realized it, a bullet lodged itself in my arm.
I winced—not from the pain but for my soon to be shredded posterior. A groan slipped passed my lips as I pushed the pain to the back of my mind and forced myself to continue.
Time flew by as fast as the bullets I pushed my body to evade, I don't know when it was, but it was finally over.
I was bending over panting with a bleeding arm covered in burning sweat. It wasn't like I was out of shape or anything, but that sure was hard. Sarcasm, my beautiful salvation from reality.
Lost in thought I felt a gloved hand grasp my arm, he was inspecting the wound. Slade Wilson, the embodiment of pure evil. The voice in my head cackled and I grimaced.
Slade dragged me along with him to the infirmary, literally—I had lost the will to walk. He tossed me on the bed and funny enough only one thought came to mind. Am I that light?
I was sure at this point that I weighed next to nothing.
Too engrossed in my thoughts, I almost didn't feel him prodding at the wound or removing the bullet. Even the way he wrapped it up eluded me. I only managed to snap out of it when he spoke to me.
'You did better than expected.'
Was that...praise? I had been prepared for a scolding.
'But...' He continued and I felt a part of me cry out in anguish. I knew it!
'You have to carry on with your punishment.'
'Whatever.' I said in a bored tone, trying not to let my fear surface as I got off the bed and took my shirt off. A gust of wind came out of nowhere and I shivered. My tank top did nothing to keep my warm.
After I was done folding my shirt—admittedly I took longer than needed—I walked over to the wall and pressed my hands against it. By now I knew the routine. As sad as it sounded he had whipped me before.
I hear the crack of the whip behind me, and then nothing. I was aware of the cool leather on my skin but I didn't feel anything. I wasn't there anymore.
What was happening right before my eyes was much worse than what was happening in real life.
'I want to hear your screams.' The Joker cackled.
But I couldn't, I tried to tell him.
I couldn't scream. But he didn't listen to the message in my teary eyes.
Down came his whip on my fragile body, again and again. He didn't stop.
I felt things I never knew existed break within me, I was burning. This was hell.
But still I gritted my teeth, I couldn't scream. I couldn't break, he wouldn't want me to scream, he wouldn't want me to break, not now, not ever.
Like magic the burning ceased and I forced my gaze up to my tormentor. I instantly recognized the insanity written all over his grinning face.
Immediately my will was overwritten with fear. I wanted to scream. I didn't want to be here anymore.
My mouth opened but nothing came out, I was too terrified to speak.
'So you're a tough one ain't ya, but I know what'll make you scream.' He laughed, plunging a syringe into my neck.
I didn't know what it was, all I remembered were waves of pure imaginable agony.
I blinked and the images disappeared through the curtain of moisture that burned my eyes.
Unconsciously I reached for my back and when I brought my hands to my face my fingers came back bloody. Wiping away unshed tears with the back of my palm, I closed my eyes.
I had spaced out again. It was like I was out of my own body. I saw and felt everything but at the same time I didn't. If that made any sense.
I turned back to Deathstroke and waited for him to say something. I always cried when he whipped me—though they were silent tears—but his "punishment" was nothing compared to The Joker's.
An awkward silence hung in the air and neither of us spoke, so I turned into the hallway and headed for my room.
Slamming the door shut, I rushed to the bathroom. Maybe I could wash away the memories...
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I came out the shower refreshed and relatively bloodless.
I had bandaged my arm and put on a loose strapless yellow sundress that I got from the wardrobe which only contained dresses. I don't know why he only got me dresses, where he bought them from or how he knows my size. Yet I find myself not wanting to know.
Only one answer comes to mind... He was a stalker!
I sighed, of course he's been watching me, they all have. That's just the story of my life.
Walking over to the bed, I dumped all the contents from my bag on it.
My gaze rested on the book then shifted to the tons of other gadgets that I was too tired to name.
I know I'm going to be in here a while—till Slade figures out what to do to me—so I grab the notebook and flipped it open.
Where to start? I looked around for a pen and spotted one buried under the small hill of property on the bed.
About to use it I realized that it was a miniature laser pointer. Frustration overwhelmed me for a reason I could not explain and I found myself throwing it at the wall.
At last I found one, but I had never seen it before.
That left me wondering where it suddenly appeared from.
Maybe it belongs to Slade. My mind replied in an eerie voice.
Things like this had been happening lately, I just think about something and my mind replies. Or I forget things that I was sure I knew, proof that I'm finally going crazy under the pressure.
What is this, a hidden camera show? I thought to myself and got no reply. Figures.
Maybe if I write something it'll come through. I thought with a shrug, having nothing else to do in the near empty room.
I am a free, billionaire philanthropist.
I looked around, nothing, just like I thought.
What do you think this is, a cartoon? My mind sneered.
So now you decide to talk back.
I looked down at the book in my hand. 'I still haven't read?' I questioned myself.
I flipped to the first page and stared at the single word on it in confusion.
Hello, was how it began. I turned the page over and stared down at my writing.
There are a lot of things which need to stay forgotten, but what you want you can remember. Our parents died because of us, you should know that.
I frowned. Yes, I did remember.
Our best friend's parents died because of us. The memories of that day sent me in to a fit of sadness. My throat closed over and tears pricked at my eyes. I couldn't breathe. How had I forgotten?
With liquid pain flowing down my cheeks I forced myself to keep reading, page after page, memory after memory. Finally, I choked down my sobs and closed the book, hugging it to my chest as I curled up into a ball and let out the emotions I never knew I had been holding for four years.
I didn't know what hurt more, remembering all the torture I had been through, or knowing how many people I had killed in service to the Light.
I fell asleep with death home to my dreams, soft cries and silent tears. I couldn't forgive myself.
I couldn't forget them.
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