by Susan Lee
She finally stopped running, mostly because she couldn't breathe. She was soaked to the skin, her shoes ruined, her clothes weighing her down. She had lost her bag at some point, she wasn't even sure where. Good thing she had tucked her keys into her jacket pocket as she had a habit of doing.
She looked around her. She was in an industrial park, empty and hollow at this time of night.
The streetlights glared down on the asphalt like something out of a Frank Miller graphic novel - stark and hard and razor sharp. Her haunted eyes traveled from spot to spot, noticing the shadows lurking behind the light.
The alleys were deep and indecipherable, the doorways keeping secrets they refused to share. A car or two dotted the landscape, but they were lonely and empty, waiting patiently for their owners, who were doing dark things in dark places.
Her feet shuffled of their own accord, seeming to have a plan she didn't know about. They led her to the mouth of an alley, gaping and murky. She stood there, studying the abyss, wondering what to do about it. Walk, her not terribly sane brain said. Just walk.
And she did. She walked into the darkness, which felt as thick as fog. One step, then another, then another. She walked away from the spotty light, from the eyes of the buildings around her. She walked into the ink, feeling it swallow her up, feeling it embrace her.
She opened her arms and she gave in to whatever the darkness wanted. It didn't matter anymore. She had tried and had failed spectacularly. Let the emptiness have her. Let whatever lived there have its way.
The tread of a foot interrupted her thoughts. She turned toward the sound, close to the sliver of light left at the opening of the alleyway.
There was nothing there but the sound of another footstep. Friend or foe, she couldn't tell by the sound. It was deliberate. It was purposeful. It was heavy. She didn't run. She didn't hide. She knew that whatever was coming, she deserved.
He'll save us, the voices whispered. He did last time. He will again. He'll save us.
She had to believe, otherwise it wouldn't be true. She had to believe it, otherwise he wouldn't come to save her. She had to believe it, otherwise she had to face the truth. She had to believe it, otherwise she was crazy.
She believed it even as the footsteps sped up and the darkness swallowed her whole.
• • • • • • • • • • •
Mickey let the hot shower sear her skin. She didn't move under the punishment of the water. She stood still and let the burning hot water wash away the cold and the rain and the mud.
She wished it would sink into her brain and wash away the memory of the night. She wished it would sink into her brain and wash it clean. She wished it would sink into her soul and just wash her away.
She finally adjusted the temperature to something less intense, forcing herself to wash the grunge from her face and arms. She watched as trails of grit swirled on the shower floor and made little whirlpools before getting sucked down the drain.
She actually tucked her big toe into the drain for a moment, then decided she was too big to go down the drain with the dirt.
She wrapped herself in a towel and collapsed on the bed. She knew she should feel something. Embarrassment. Fear. Anger. Shame. Pick one from column A and two from column B.
Embarrassment over dinner with Rick. Fear that she had almost gotten attacked again. Shame that a security guard found her face down in the alley, sobbing and knee deep in garbage.
Anger that she wasn't saved. And maybe a little fear that she knew she was spiraling down again and that she didn't know how to stop it.
Instead, she stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks and speckles as she had done so many soulless nights before. Her body weighed a thousand tons. Her psyche weighed more. So much weight, so much pressure. So much that she was numb.
She stayed there, not moving, wrapped in slowly drying towels until the sun threatened to peek through her blinds. Only her eyes moved to the light, trying to identify it through the haze that had formed around her. Sun. Light. Morning. Sunday morning. After Saturday night. Nowhere to go. No one to be. Just Sunday.
She closed her eyes and stayed there until the morning light of Monday drifted in.
• • • • • • • • • • •
His eyes followed her as she moved through the office, Mickey noticed when she got to work on Monday. She didn't want to know what those eyes said so she refused to meet them. There might be too much reflected in there.
There was nothing she could do to fix what had happened, so she just ignored those eyes. She didn't notice how confused they were and how there was still a bit of concern in them. But she wouldn't allow herself to see.
Another set of eyes followed her as well, ones that she avoided even more. Patty had called many times the day before, eventually threatening to kick down the door.
Mickey had texted back finally, mainly to save her door. It stopped the calls but it didn't stop Patty's concern.
So Mickey shut her office door, closed the blinds, refusing to let anyone in. She had thought about calling in sick, just staying on the bed, but figured that would cause more concern than if she actually showed up. She made an excuse about being under the weather to those who dared enter her domain.
She worked. She answered emails. She returned phone calls from clients. She sneaked out to the bathroom. She didn't eat because she wasn't hungry.
Okay, in reality, she hid. She hid until the noises in the office ceased and the sound of the cleaning crew began. She had no idea what time it was, she only knew that she could finally leave safely.
Except she couldn't. Patty was still at her desk, her feet up, waiting. Mickey stood outside her office, finally meeting Patty's gaze with her own dead eyes. She saw the panic rise in Patty's brown sweet eyes as her feet swung to the ground. In a nanosecond, her best friend was at her side, worry creasing her forehead.
"Mick, what the hell is going on?" Patty demanded, taking Mickey by the arm and leading her out the front door. "I'm worried sick about you."
Mickey pulled her arm away from Patty, meeting her concern with flat emotion.
"You don't have to worry about me."
"Rick said you were kind of strange at dinner," Patty continued, refusing to leave Mickey's side as they walked. "He said you ran out on him and he wasn't sure what to do, so he called me."
Mickey waited to hear that Rick had told Patty everything. But apparently he didn't tell her the Batman part. She thought maybe that was a good thing. She wasn't sure what Patty would do if she knew the truth.
"He doesn't have to worry about me either," Mickey responded robotically. "I'm fine."
Patty stood in front of her friend, refusing to move. "Cut the bullshit, Mickey. I know when you're not fine. You are miles from fine."
Mickey studied her friend as though she had never seen her before. She saw the curly hair, the sweet face, the ready smile just waiting to come out. She also saw flaws she never allowed herself to see before. Maybe her friend could lose a few pounds. Maybe she could get a better haircut. New glasses. Dress better.
Stop it, her sane brain tried to yell. She's been a great friend and you know she's a great person. Stop looking for an excuse to push her away.
I don't need a reason, the louder part of her brain answered. She's already gone.
With that, Mickey pushed past Patty, refusing to hear or acknowledge her protestations. She moved to her car, got in and pulled away, leaving a devastated Patty behind.
FIVE
The days began to blend together as Mickey removed herself more and more from those around her. Her apathy knew no bounds.
She dove into her art, creating more and more of the dark world that was stemming from a place she didn't want to acknowledge. Instead, she called it a muse and embraced it. She called it physical therapy, since she had stopped going, deciding she had healed enough, despite the hiccups and challenges using her arm, and pushed her arm to its limits.
She worked. She ate. S
he slept. She created. Rinse, repeat.
She had stopped seeing Jerry. She knew he'd notice the depth of her blackness with one look so she simply stopped. He had called, trying to reschedule, trying to see what was going on. She was good at putting up a front, using the excuse that she was just too busy at work to make time right now. She assured him that she would return when she could. She knew she was lying. Maybe he did a little bit, too.
Rick had stopped trying to talk to her. He only spoke in work terms when he did speak to her. Once in a while, she caught something from him, as though he was about to say something but thought better of it.
A piece of her wanted to reach out to him in those moments, try to reconnect with him, but the other part of her brain had taken over and she had lost the ability to connect.
She had figured out a way to fake her way through Patty. She talked to her just enough to assuage her fears, but not enough to really let her back in all the way. Patty was stubborn and sneaky, so Mickey was very careful around her. She didn't want her friend to get back inside the protective shell she had built. She kept her at reasonable arm's length, holding out against Patty's constant pressure.
A few times, she almost buckled because, to be honest, she missed being able to talk to her friend and confide in her like she always had. But that didn't stop her.
At first, Mickey denied she was doing anything crazy. She was simply going out by herself at night, exploring the city she knew so well. She needed inspiration for her new style so she was drawn to the dark and mysterious. That's how she justified it to herself and how she would justify it to anyone else, if she would let anyone else in.
She didn't want to admit that she was lurking in dark corners, just waiting for her Batman to rescue her. After all, if it wasn't Rick - and she was almost ready to accept that maybe it wasn't him, maybe - then he was still out there somewhere.
She thought she caught glimpses of her hero under streetlights and out of the corner of her eye. He was there. She just needed to do something to bring him out. Do something so he could rescue her again.
And who knew where things would go from there? Every Batman needed their Vicky Vale or Selina Kyle or whichever chick belonged in whichever mythology one followed. She could be whoever he wanted her to be. The feminist in her died a little bit as she accepted this role.
Mickey saw it as strength, her decision to be in danger. She couldn't look at it too closely or she might see it for what it really was - deterioration.
• • • • • • • • • • •
Eventually, Mickey's nocturnal leanings led to a meeting with Larry. Her boss had been very understanding and tolerant of her needs. He saw she was in trouble again but, at first, she was functioning well so his felt his options were limited. He knew Patty was her best friend and he was hoping that she was taking care of Mickey.
But as time went on, client complaints became more and more regular as the usually reliable Mickey began to show up later and later, sometimes looking like she had been to a Fight Club, with inexplicable injuries, unkempt and with no remorse. When he had tried to talk to her, he got the Fight Club feeling again - don't talk about it, don't say anything, and Mickey did that perfectly.
Mickey wasn’t surprised to see an email from Larry, pretty much demanding she appear in his office immediately. She had seen his sideways looks the past few days. She chose to ignore those looks, knowing in her soul that she was in trouble.
When she walked into his office, Larry had to work hard to put on his best poker face as Mickey sat across from him. She looked fragile, broken, hollow. He noted that she was rail thin and haggard. He had a speech all planned but that went away as soon as she appeared.
"What's up, Larry?" Mickey asked, already knowing the answer. She knew she had avoided one (or two or twelve) too many client deadlines and phone calls. She knew she was in trouble. She knew she should care.
"You look like shit," Larry said without hesitation. "What the hell is going on?"
Mickey shrugged because she didn't know what else to do.
"Mickey," he began, putting on his best fatherly voice, "you know I've done everything I can to help you out after your last... bout. I know what my daughter went through and I thought you deserved some slack. And I was glad you came back as strong as you did. You were really on top of your game."
"Were," Mickey echoed back to him. "Cut the bullshit, Lar."
This startled him. She had always been polite and professional with him, even in her worst times. The woman who sat across from him at that moment was not someone he recognized.
"You know why you're here," Larry commented coldly, figuring if she was going to be this way, there was nothing he could do.
"You're gonna fire my ass."
"I'm really hoping not to, Mick. If you're in trouble, if you need help, you know I'll do everything I can to make things easier for you."
Yes, Mickey's inner sane voice whispered, I know you will and I want you to and I should tell you everything and let you help. But the darker voices took over, drowning out any reason that was left.
"Maybe I don't need your help." Mickey stood up on shaking legs. She knew this was a mistake but she couldn't stop herself.
Larry stood with her, trying to figure out how to stop her. "You have some vacation time coming. Why don't you take some time, figure things out, get some help? We'll be here when you're ready to come back."
She evaluated his offer through the twisted lens of her current state of mind. Bastard, she thought. He was making it so difficult. Why won't he just fire us? (Hmmm, a second thought came in behind that one, when did it become us?) We don't need his help.
"And if I don't come back?" she asked, meaning so many more things than what it seemed.
Larry thought for a moment. She waited, not entirely sure what he would say.
"Take six weeks. I can cover you for that. After that, it's up to you. I want you to come back. I really do." He had moved around his desk to stand beside her. He gently reached out to put his hand on her arm, all he dared to do. He knew she would break if he did any more than that.
Just that simple gesture caused a torrent of reactions inside of Mickey and he watched them all flash past her hazel eyes. In the end, though, her eyes returned to that blank, vacant stare he had begun to know too well.
Mickey didn't say anything. She just walked out of his office, returned to her office and shut the door.
She looked around at the small space. There wasn't much in there, though she had added a few personal touches. Some comic book art. A few pieces of her own work.
She leaned down to the computer where a couple of photos of her and Patty were stuck to the monitor. Happier days. Happier Mickey.
When she left her office a few minutes later, she only had her messenger bag and her car keys. Everything else was in the trash can. She shut her door and walked out of that life.
• • • • • • • • • • •
The flickering fluorescent light in the coffee shop held Mickey's attention as she downed her fourth cup of coffee, waiting for the sun to go down all the way. On. Off. On. Beat. Beat. Off. On. Off. Beat. Beat. Beat. On. She thought the pattern was repetitive in some way, she just had to figure out how.
"You're gonna be up all night, sweetie," the middle-aged waitress laughed as she poured cup number five... or maybe it was number six.
Mickey had lost count. Her attention went from the undulating light to the multiple food stains on Vicki's apron. Vicki. Her name tag was missing an "i" so it actually read "V cki". How would you pronounce that?, Mickey wondered briefly as she added sugar to the caffeine. "You want some pie or somethin'?"
Mickey finally looked at V cki's face. Mid-thirties, she thought, but a hard mid-thirties. What had happened in her twenties to add those crow's feet to V cki's eyes, the shots of grey in her raven hair, which had maybe been beautiful once? What had brought that sadness that lived behind that waitress smile she was required to wear?
The song "Desperado" flitted briefly through Mickey's brain as she assessed the woman in front of her. Who was her Desperado, Mickey wondered.
"You okay?" V cki asked, bringing Mickey's attention back to her coffee.
"Fine," Mickey snapped. She didn't want to talk. She just wanted the night to come. These days, she lived for when the night came.
"You've been comin' in here a lot lately, I noticed." Mickey cringed as V cki leaned on the counter, meaning to talk to her more. Seriously? Do I look chatty?, she thought. "You live around here?"
"Nope," Mickey muttered, hoping to drive this woman away. But it didn't work. Probably because the place was empty and there was nothing to distract V cki from probing.
But the waitress suddenly got serious, even putting the coffee pot down on the counter.
"I know someone in trouble when I see them," she said softly, almost casually. "Seen it in the mirror too many times to say. I see that look in your eyes. None of my business, 'course, but I see it." Her own blue eyes filled with memories too hard to look at and she brushed them away. "You got someone who can help?"
Mickey couldn't help herself. "Nope," she responded, a piece of sadness sneaking in there. "I won't let them."
V cki studied her carefully. Mickey couldn't read what was going on in those eyes. Then the waitress just shook her head. "We all make our own choices," she said cryptically. "And we live with those choices."
With that, V cki took her coffee pot and vanished into the back of the diner.
Choices. Mickey thought about that word - choices. Had she made these choices or had they been made for her? She wasn't so sure. She wanted to make a different choice in that moment, but she wasn't sure what the other options were.
She almost wished that V cki would come back and talk to her some more, maybe help her see what other choices were on the table. But just then, a truckload of hungry construction workers stormed the place, taking all of V cki's attention. Unreasonably angered by this, Mickey threw some money on the counter, sans tip, and stomped out into the night.
