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I wish I could say I wasn’t always misfortunate, but that would be a lie. I’ve always had a bad streak, from my cradle, probably to my grave. That’s no exaggeration either. It all started when I was literally in my crib, not even a month old. My father shot the man my mother was having an affair with, right down Atticus Street, just a block from where I slept. Then, still beside himself with rage, he crept into our 106 apartment. From what my mother told me, he grabbed a throw pillow from a nursing chair and smothered me with this. Before finally, sitting himself in the corner and blowing his brains out five feet from me.

From my understanding, he didn’t try to kill me because he hated me. I guess he just wanted to get under Mom’s skin. He didn’t succeed in his murder attempt, despite his efforts. I survived, somehow. Doctors called it a miracle, still scratching their heads on how a tiny little thing could reanimate like that. That’s the only time in my life I was lucky. From then on, it all went to shit.

My dad’s little stunt didn’t phase my mother, not even an ounce. Little did my father know, she remained just as uncaring and cruel as when he was alive. As I grew up, she cared less and less. When I was a tot, she couldn’t even bother to feed me when she went out on her one-night stands. I was five when I learned how to use the microwave, six and a half when I learned about the stove. Wish I could say I did it all on my own and that I was smart, but I had help. From the voice I had been hearing all my childhood, guiding me when there was something I needed to be guided on.

All my life I’d grow up learning things with the help of that voice. I longed for a caretaker or simply just some kind of connection. The mother I had only cared for me when she needed to put on a show for the world, and her longest conversations with me were to say how she wished I stayed dead in that hospital. When she’d first start to have her drunken rambles, it hurt. There I was, nine years old, being told I was only a burden and that surviving my father was the worst thing to happen to the woman who was supposed to love me. To say it felt like a knife just butchering away at my heart would be an understatement. With every wish of my death from my mother, it truly felt like one stab after another. One little death with each cruel word.

Things got better though. When I’d cry at night, just a child alone in a cold, cluttered room, the voice at night would talk to me. It first started happening when I was too young to understand what it was, but when I was old enough to know better, to know something was wrong with me, I didn’t care. That voice in my head was the closest thing to comfort I had.

“Pay no heed to her, dear one. I am here. You are not alone.”

I got better at numbing the pain as I grew. I would hear the same insults again and again, and eventually, they just started bouncing off of me like pebbles off of concrete. With my new thick skin, I finally stopped crying at night. Instead, I just remained numb. Unbothered by my mother's words and neglect, but yet still unhappy. The only time I felt peace was when I stared out of the window at night, listening to the voice inside. In those moments, loneliness was a challenge of the past.

The new obstacle that lingered was my fear. I became scared to step foot outside at night, because of the noises I’d hear under that dark, cloudy sky at night. If I could scratch a mark on my wall for every scream, every gunshot, every bump in the night, I’d have more scratches than walls. That shouldn’t have surprised me more than it did. This was our home, Gotham City. The city that danced with death and broken dreams, flirting with gruesome violence.

This crippling fear I had of my own native city caused me to walk as fast as I could to school, then walk back just as quickly. I never spoke up unless spoken to, and friends were never something I was brave enough to pursue. That fact never bothered me though. I was only focused on one thing throughout the day. The only thing on my mind was getting home, where vulnerability disappeared the minute my little foot would cross the 106 thresh hold. My routine, my way of life. Wake up, go to school, run home, fall asleep by the window, and repeat it all. A simple cycle of life for me.

Unfortunately for me, my familiarity was shaken, and my routine and way of life came to an end. It was three days after my twelfth birthday when my mom introduced me to the guy she thought she fell in love with. Apparently, he was kicked out of his apartment for not paying rent, my mom told me. She was letting him lay low for a while. My mom went out on her street job, and he got to stay here. He seemed so nice at first. That was before he found out about my fear. Not only was this guy a slob, but he was a sadist too. He found out about my fearful nature and would begin to make all sorts of noises in the night. Frightening me to my core in my dark room. The voice in my head would try and calm me down, but I got too hysterical to listen some nights.

His cruelest prank was when he locked me away in our cold bathroom that remained dim, damp, and molding beyond repair. I always hated it in there and would make my trips quick. That night, I didn't have any other choice. As I climbed into the tub while crying and begging for release, he told me about the legend of Bloody Mary through the door, then repeated that foul name three times. He’d then bang on the walls, scream, and do anything to freak me out. He kept saying Bloody Mary would string me up, and leave me unrecognizable. Needless to say, he succeeded in scaring me. I stayed up the whole night sobbing in the bathtub, too afraid to open my eyes. When he let me out, with my mom in the room, he started telling her about how strangely I acted last night. Leading her to believe it was all me and my strange behavior. That terrible night ended with one of my mother’s “I wish you were dead” rants.

After a month of him repeating the cycle over and over again, I tried to tell my mother. I begged her to make him just to leave me alone. All I wanted was for him to stop, to leave me to my own devices like before. To stop torturing me, inducing me with fear. I thought, maybe, because she wanted me out of the way, she would tell him to knock it off and pay attention to only her since that’s what she's always craved most in the world. She attempted to confront him, but only for her own self-interest of course. It didn’t go as planned. Her boyfriend, my tormenter, convinced her it was for my benefit, in his stupidly heavy accent.

“It’s good for em’ babe. Ya see, kids who turn out alright and on top need it. Or they go too soft. They don’t survive like you and me.”

As he spoke, he motioned his hands. Another infuriating trait of his. His slouching posture really suited his personality. So did his stained tee shirt and greasy curls. I’ve never met anyone whose putrid aroma of cigarettes and rum matched my mother’s unpleasant smell. The only difference was she attempted to cover her tracks with the cheap Jasmine perfume in the corner store.

“Sure, but I don’t understand why you spend so much time doing it to her! It’s making me think you're just some creep or something!”

My mother, so vain and full of herself, twirled her permed, bleached hair while picking up her signature glass of whiskey. I could hear her long manicured nails clink against the class. Despite our financial struggles, she always found a way to make herself appealing.

“C’mon you know me, you know the women I like. I’m just tryin’ t’do you a favor baby. You’re out there workin’ all night, I’m just tryin’ to help ya parent is all.”

“So you’re saying I’m not a good parent, huh? Is that what you’re saying, Mark?”

“No no no baby! You’re doin’ great! I’m just saying, since I’m here, I wanna help you when ya can’t be here sometimes. Ya gotta keep em sharpened ya know? Make 'em tough and ready for life.”

“That’s nice of you and all, Mark. But I can take care of it myself. Maybe I should just take a break from the streets and-”

“Nah you don’t babe. You gotta keep that money comin’ in for us.”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing Mark, you’re spending too much time with her and it’s really making me uncomfortable here!” I scoffed in my room after hearing that. The only thing making her truly uncomfortable was the fact Mark's attention was divided between me and not hers alone. She had no true concern for my safety.

“Well tell ya what hun. I’ll stop when you're not here. Maybe on your days off when your boss let’s ya free... We could, y’know- work together on her upbringing? Think about it, nothins’ more rewarding than watchin’ your kid grow and learn. It’d be like we’re co-parenting or something. I could tell you all about how it’s done, and you could give me some of your input. It’d be like we’re a family, babe.”

My blood went cold after I heard my mother’s giggle, I opened my door a crack to see what was happening. He had pulled her into a sloppy kiss, the two smiling. When the two broke away, she held his cheek, looking into his eyes like they were star-crossed lovers. She told him she’d think about it, but I could tell by her smile she was smitten. My fate was sealed.

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From then on, I became their sick date nights. Provoking my fear became their couple’s activity. He would do something to scare me to my core, and my mother would discipline me as well. I was absolutely powerless. I tried telling someone, and explaining to a teacher why I kept falling asleep in class, but many of the teachers remained careless. So many sleepless nights I spent locked in the bathroom, my bedroom, my mother’s room. The voice tried to reason with me, but I couldn’t stop crying long enough to listen. Eventually, it would get quieter, leaving me to feel more alone than I already had. One night, I pushed it out entirely, and when I did I lost my only friend.

On the last night of my free-life, my mother and her fling locked me outside the apartment. My greasy tormentor told me that if I thought the darkness inside the apartment was bad, the darkness outside would straighten me out.

I stood with my back to the front door, my heartbeat pounding inside of me, pulsing throughout my shaking body. I thought I began to see shadows in every corner, like subtle monsters dancing in the deluded street lights. The sounds of nearby traffic and police lights were like instruments of horror, crashes and gunshots were like percussion. All together, it was the most terrifying orchestra that themed Gotham City. Soon, I began to see two figures, seemingly real, fighting in the alleyways on the side of the apartment complex. I could only make out the words money, and backstab. The rest went on my deaf ears, as the sound of my heart pounding were like the bombs of war. That’s when my focus turned across the street.

I could see another person, dressed in a trench coat and a scarf, covering its features. I couldn’t see it fully, as the only illumination was a faltering lamp post this person was near. I thought I could hear faint laughter, and I saw the figure's arm, and fingers, making a beckoning motion. Peering at this ominous, admonitory individual in the distance just standing there is bad enough. Whether it was a figment of my imagination or not, knowing the individual saw me too sent chills down my spine.

At this revelation, my body hastily whipped around to face the front door. I screamed, cried, and begged, banging on the front door loudly. Desperately pleading out for them to let me in. I tried to tell my mother something was out here with me, but all I could hear was laughter inside, and the sound of glasses clinking, most likely them cheering another job well done in their eyes . The tears of my fear started streaming down my face, stinging my cheeks in the cold night. I turned around slightly, only to see the person yards away from me began walking towards me. They were so far away, yet too close for comfort. They crossed the empty road of Atticus Street, now on the other side, where the apartments were just a small walk away. I turned to the door again, desperate to get in.

How no neighbor came out to aid me is beyond me, but then again, you never get involved with screams or pleas in Gotham if you want to live.

I continued to beg, and bang on the door. My hands stung from the force I applied to the metal surface. My breath stopped when I could hear footsteps making their way up to the top floor. I gasped, and my heart stopped in panicked silence. That’s when I heard the voice, after all this time, louder than ever.

“Trust in me. I will help you.”

It was the voice again. My eyes closed hearing it, and something within me reached out. It was as if there was a tugging in my chest. All I needed to do was give in.

So I did.

From within I reached, and pulled this foreign feeling into an embrace, allowing its help.

Suddenly, I turned towards the door. I wanted to get through, I needed to get through. That’s when, somehow, I became enveloped in black smoke. It all happened so fast. Within the blink of an eye, I was inside the apartment looking into the kitchen, staring my two tormentors in the stunned eyes. My mother, shocked at what she saw, dropped her whiskey glass on the floor. The slimeball next to her set his glass on the counter just as quickly, with his jaw dropping to the floor.

"How the- How the hell did you do that? What the fuck just happened?”

I stood silently, shaking in my bones. I was still floored, unsure what had happened. It was all a blur. Was I let in? How did I get here?

“What the hell was that, Sarah?” My mom screamed at me.

“I-I really don’t know, what happened!” I stared at her, my whole body frozen. It felt like my mind and body were shutting down. i looked around myself, only to see nothing. The black smoke that was around me vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.

“You just came outta thin fuckin’ air! That door was locked tight, how did you-”

My mom cut off the sleazeball, pointing frantically at me.

“Sarah, what the hell did you do? Answer me!” My mother spoke to me in a foreign tone. She was scared of me, and showed concern. Once again, not for me, but for herself.

“She’s some kinda fucking monster, that’s what she is Delia!”

My mother’s boyfriend got out of the kitchen and walked in front of me.

“Please Mom, I just wanted in-”

I then remembered the person outside, the one coming towards me. The one who saw me.

“Th-th-there was a thing out there, it was coming for me! I just wanted to get insi-”

“Maybe outside is where ya belong, freak! Get outta my house!”

My mother’s boyfriend then grabbed me by my arm, then tried to force me out the door. I thrashed and fought, harder than I ever did before. It wasn’t just a dark room anymore. To me, after seeing that figure, it was life or death. I kicked, I scratched, I screamed, I shoved. He was strong, able to thwart my attempts. Before he could grab my arm again, I did the only thing I could think of.

I grabbed onto this arm, and I bit down. Hard.

He jumped back in pain, yelling out in anger. He looked back at me with rage, before striking me across the face. A yelp erupted from my lips as the force of his assault knocked me to the ground. Despite my ear ringing, I could hear him yell to my mother.

“Delia, help me with her goddamn it!”

“Mark just let her be, I don’t wanna touch her! She scares me!”

“Goddamn it baby! If she scares you, kick her outta the goddamn house!”

I thought maybe my mother would stand back. Just watch, and be nothing more than a bystander. My heart sank when she started to come over to his side, remaining a pawn. Between the two of them, they picked me up. I thrashed violently against them, yelling for them to stop as they struggled to take me outside and open the door. Just as my mother turned the doorknob, I heard the voice again.

“Trust in me.”

It echoed over and over in my head, ringing inside my skull, bouncing off every surface in my mind.

“Trust me. Trust me. Trust Me. TRUST ME. TRUST ME.”

Finally, the echoing stopped. And I only heard two phrases after, speaking at the same time.

“I will help you.”

“Kill.”

Before I knew it, I erupted in that same cloud of smoke from before. Suddenly, I wasn’t in their grasp anymore. I was in the hallway, in front of them. I looked down at my hands, now grotesque claws as black as night. I had become like the shadows that taunted me at night. Like the monsters I used to think were under my bed. The tide had turned in the blink of an eye. I was something to be feared now, and I could feel it too. I felt a surging, new strength course through my body, shooting through my fingertips. Power, beyond my comprehension, was now in my unknowing hands.

I snapped out of my surprise when I heard both my mother and her boyfriend scream.

“Mark what the fuck! What the hell!”

“Delia, MOVE. GO THROUGH THE DAMN DOOR!”

I saw the two push each other to be the first ones out. I listened to their feet pounding against the hollow concrete of the first-floor patios, running down the stairs to the parking lot. Power wasn’t the only thing I felt, nor was it just strength. Along with power, I felt this incredible urge. The need was aching in my bones, rising in my chest, and fuming out of my throat. Reaching my anger-fueled eyes, and clouding my mind. This rage building up in me, feeding my power. With all the pain and hurt I've experienced in my life, it grew stronger. The feeling inside told me one thing, and it screamed for it to happen.

It begged for their deaths. It needed them ripped apart.

This power came naturally to me like it had always been there. As easy as taking a breath. I erupted in a cloud of smoke, and within just a second I was in front of my tormentors, the cause of my pain. Before they could react, before I could even think, I thrust my clawed hand through the stomach of my mother’s boyfriend, hoisting him up toward the dark sky, faster than he could blink. He weighed nothing to me now. The man who could throw me into a dark room felt like a mere gallon in my hand. Within another second, I tossed him aside, flinging him off of the staircase, blood flying through the air as I rid myself of him. I listened to his body collide with the concrete, hearing the harsh thud. Once there was only stillness from him, my head swiftly and quickly turned to my mother who screamed aloud at the sight of her lover’s murder. She then looked at me in sheer terror.

I then noticed my clawed hand retracted when I reached to grab her throat. I lifted her up, watching her screams become raspy, unheard. I looked up at her, struggling against my unnatural grip. The one who wished me dead, the one who couldn’t even be bothered to feed me or provide. The one who left me at the mercy of her lover. The one who began my pain, my torture. She now begged through desperate breaths. Calling me her baby, her little girl. The rage grew bigger inside hearing this. She and I knew better. We both knew she didn’t truly mean it. This was all her last attempts at self-preservation. She, for as long as I could comprehend, only lived for herself and never gave a second thought about me.

“B-B-Baby… Please… Don’t… Hurt… Me”

I didn’t want to hear anything from her anymore. I was tired of hearing her lie.

Crack

My grip tightened, and once I felt and heard the harsh sound, her body went limp in my hand, dropping it to the ground like a dishtowel. Once I saw that my torment was finally over, I saw the shadows that encased my body dissolve, leaving me to my natural self. Then I felt the strength subside. It was just me now. The normal, weak me. I stared at my two now-deceased guardians on the street. I thought I would have felt happy, now that it was over with, but I wasn’t.

Once reality set in of what I had done, I was frightened again. I was scared, afraid of myself. Traumatized at the sight of the murders I had just committed. I fell to the ground in hysterics, sobbing uncontrollably. It all occurred so fast, in mere seconds.

Why did I do that, how did I do that? Why did I do that?

Finally, a neighbor came out hearing the commotion. They always seem to care at the wrong time, I thought. My neighbor, an elderly man who always smelled like licorice, came next to me. He saw the carnage and screamed. He then begged me to tell him what happened. Through my inconsolable crying, I kept shouting I killed them. I turned into a monster, and I murdered my mother and her boyfriend in cold blood. In his horror and confusion, he turned and ran from me after my confession.

I couldn’t blame him. I’d run from me too. My mother’s boyfriend was right. I was a monster.

A monster who had just torn apart two people.