It is late at night and you at volunteering at a clinic for a family friend. It’s one of the only times you really feel like you are helping people.
You have treated wounds from all sources of violence that surround the clinic. Stab wounds, drug misuse, burn treatments, you have seen it all.
The boy’s wound, for all intents and purposes, is simple. Wipe away the blood, disinfect the area, wrap the wound in a bandage. You have done this a million times.
It is not even a particularly shocking story he tells you. A graze from a gunshot he was too slow to avoid. You have heard the story plenty of times, and have seen far worse outcomes than this. This kid would be a completely normal patient.
He is wearing a mask.
A simple thing, really, enough to hide his face. Not enough to hide his smile.
Not enough to hide the way he stutters around his name. Or hide how he stutters around yours. Only enough to hide himself in the dark.
He isn’t in the dark.
He’s sitting on the patient’s bed, underneath the bright examination light, swinging his legs cause they can’t touch the ground and he has nothing better to do, and chatting away like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
His outfit is bright colors. Reds and greens and yellows dancing throughout what can only be described as a circus outfit. All completed with a cape to hide himself with.
Even with all that said, the outfit is dirty. Wet from the rain or maybe the ocean nearby allowing for the sawdust and dirt to stick to it. The shoes that almost certainly were not built to be run around in are caked in gunk and residue from running around filthy streets, nearly hiding the bright green it’s supposed to be.
It looks like months of built-up dirt, only barely kept at bay by the inexperienced scrubbing of a nine-year old. But you know deep down that it is only worn at night. Only at night when the city really wakes up.
You know because you see him in the light.
At breakfast tomorrow morning the boy will come sliding down the railing, preforming a maneuver professionals struggle with at the end, and walk to the table wondering about the plans for the day.
You’ll tell him about your meeting at 11, how it’ll be with businessmen you hardly know the names of trying to sell you something you don’t want or need just to grab a quick buck and their names in the headlines alongside yours.
You’ll remind him his tutor will be there at 1 to help him get caught up with the curriculum at nearby schools. You’ll also remind him to come to you if he needs anything.
He’ll look up at you with a calculating look, the same look he gives all the new gymnastic equipment every time he’s about to start practicing. He will smile. A little too mischievous. Like you just told a funny joke, or he knows something he shouldn’t. He will say of course I will. But I really should go get practicing.
You want to wonder what he is practicing for as he makes his way up the stairs. You’re afraid you already know.
Your routine is muted with images from last night. Of the bird-like acrobat who had to come to a clinic at 1 in the morning. You think about your own bird-like acrobat, who wore long sleeves to breakfast this morning.
You do not want to connect the dots.
You do not like the picture it paints.
But the dots practically overlap each other. They sit, snug up to one another like peas in a pod. And they only get closer when you read the morning newspaper as you get settled in your office.
Late last night, at about 12:45, the police apprehended a small gang down at the Gotham harbor. Another instance where the police respond to a call only to have every crook tied up in complex knots and covered in bruises in strange spots.
The only ones conscious enough to explain what happened all mumble of a haunting laugh echoing around them, and a swirl of colors before they are taken down.
One of the swore up and down he managed to shoot down the thing that attacked them, only to end up hanging upside down from the rafters.
The picture is glaringly bright to you. As bright as the family you once saw performing at the circus. As bright as a spotlight reflecting off blood.
You send a single prayer to Lady Gotham, perhaps the only god who you know listens, and beg
“Please, please protect my boy. And if the time comes, please don’t let him make the wrong choice.”
