And this snap was hidden in Alfred’s rolltop.

This foray into the past is fucking with my mind. I think I remember when I used to give a shit.

I was looking for my painkillers, by the way. Bastard keeps hiding them.

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I just found this in a box of my mum’s old papers.


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God, I need some sleeping pills. Can’t catch two winks together. You’d think it’d be no problem to nod off after saving a drowning grandmother at a Sunday school picnic, but alas! I was not destined to sleep, nor to dream.

Woe is my fucking life.

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My head feels funny. I need some fucking drugs for it. I could ring up the Scarecrow for some. Screw the DA. Even Batman needs to unwind after a long day. I’ll do it. I’ll take some Me Time.

Except I can’t take Me Time, if I’m to take Alfred at his word. Alfred says Gotham’s children are all running round with Batman masks on, and that every time I shoot up, a kiddie turns pickpocket and thus begins to spiral downward, ever downward, in an endless cycle of crime and violence.


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