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Painted Target || @oswald-cobblepot

It was a relatively quiet night in Gotham City. Four drunks, one on each of the four deck chairs at the bar across the street, in a blur of September rain, cat-called at her in alcohol-induced merriment. After three hours of walking in her sandals through murky puddles, she'd only shaken her head, refusing to sit down even though her feet were blistered and sore. The season's end in the vast, crowded city of Gotham was muggy and tiring, and the air breathed like cotton wool. Through it all those drunks sat on patios, stood on street corners, played sad acoustic renditions of popular radio hits in the hopes of gaining a handful of change. There was no end to them, with their yellowing teeth and occasionally wandering hands.

Homelessness was a very squalid tragedy. Death by starvation was slow; death by liver failure, perhaps less slow, but far more painful. Harley Quinn, underdressed for the rainy weather and without an umbrella, hoped never to become one of those people. Most of the time, she had a home to go back to. It wasn't always warm, and it wasn't always welcoming, but it was a roof over her head and a man that loved her.

Two bruised wrists. Her cheek green and purple with the beginning stages of a hematoma. And a hand-shaped bruise just against her throat where he'd finally grabbed her, lifted her - thrown her, forcefully, out of the apartment, and down the stairs. She had no money on her, no change of clothes; just a warning that she wasn't to return until she could learn not to give him lip.

She deserved it. She was ungrateful for the love he showed her, and now she pondered that, ruminating the thought and tracing over the bruises with her fingers before her feet demanded that she take a seat on the curb. Her pigtails dripped and drooped heavily with the weight of water, and she felt her body begin to wrack with quiet, restrained sobs.

#oswaldcobblepot #painted target #I hope this is okay!