Adult-FanFiction.org : Comics

Learned Helplessness	By : Nos4a2no9 Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 1936 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Learned Helplessness
- 1
Learned Helplessness

The hallway smelled of stale urine and the sickly-sweet stench of marijuana. A threadbare orange carpet strained to cover the length of the hall. It was peeling back in places to reveal the battered plywood underlay, and its garish color betrayed generations of stains sunk deep into the layers of cheap nylon. Selina killed time trying to group the discolorations on the carpet into two categories: those left by human bodily fluids, and the kind of drippings that came off peoples' shoes from the grimy Gotham streets outside. A large, greasy black stain had formed directly in front of apartment 21A. She had given up trying to figure out what had caused it.

No one entered or left the tiny apartments clustered into railroad-style flats along the deserted hall. What dim light managed to escape the low-wattage overhead bulbs was further neutralized by distorted metal grating covering each light fixture. Despite the security measure most of the bulbs had either been smashed or stolen, the protective wire grating bent easily to one side or ripped off all together. Water dripped from somewhere in the shadows behind her, and the smell of mold competed with the stench of urine and pot. Selina sighed, scuffing the toe of her boot along the carpet and creating yet another rent in the abused fabric.

Stan was a half-hour late when he finally showed. Weaving down the hall, the rail-thin man kept a hand against the wall for extra support, his ill-fitting brown suit making him appear at home in the dreary, faded hallway. She half-hoped he wouldn't notice her, half-hoped that whatever he was on would keep him from seeing her hovering in the shadows. Selina forced herself to speak and her soft greeting came out in a high, reedy voice.

"Stan?"

At the sound of his name, the man looked up, cold silver eyes seeking hers in the darkness. He wasn't drunk or stoned, at least not to the point she'd hoped. The only possible explanation for his unsteady progress up the hall made her eyes narrow.

"You okay?"

He grunted, slumped against the threshold of his apartment door and wordlessly extended a fat ring of keys. Selina took them, trying three times before she finally slid the right key into the deadbolt and pushed the door open. Stan stumbled inside, all but feeling his way in. Selina stuffed her hands in her pockets, palming the keys. At least she'd be able to come back later to get her stuff, if it came to that.

"Was it Ricky?"

Stan seemed determined not to notice her, sinking down into the saggy confines of battered old couch. It was the apartment's lone piece of furniture besides the soiled mattress in the bedroom, and like the mattress the couch had been rescued from curbside garbage collection.

"Why you here?" Stan finally bit out, wheezing a little with the effort. At that, Selina closed her eyes. No point in telling him anything now. She'd noticed the ashen color of his skin and the way he'd kept his elbow pressed to his side during his long, stumbling passage up the hall. Stab wound, she guessed. Maybe gunshot. Not fatal, but Stan's tight mouth and unfocused eyes convinced her that the wound was definitely painful.

She left him on the couch to grab a towel from the bathroom, holding her breath at the stench of what was floating in the toilet bowl. The kitchenette, with its puce-colored countertop and lime-green refrigerator, wasn't likely to yield any useful first aid supplies. Unwashed dishes lined the sink and the oven door hung open and broken like a lolling tongue. The cupboards revealed only a few canned staples and sticky insect tape. Despairing, Selina lit a burner on the stovetop and filled a battered metal teakettle. She could only hope Stan wouldn't need surgery. How would they pay for it?

As she waited for the water to heat Selina returned to Stan and knelt beside him, peeling away his jacket despite his mumbled protests. "Was it Ricky?" she asked again, her tone more authoritative. Stan flashed a glare, his good eye as icy and cold as ever. He had always looked through her, like maybe he knew she really was as empty as she felt.

"No, wasn't Ricky," he finally admitted, sitting forward and shrugging out of his jacket. The coppery smell of blood wafted off his body along with the scents of sweat, cheap cologne, and that old-man smell she always associated with cigar smoke and Brille cream. Not that Stan was old - he was only forty-six, younger than a lot of her regular clients. Still, she averted her eyes at the sight of his wasted upper body, the white, paper-thin skin of his sagging flesh wrinkling on his arms and neck just above the sleeveless tank top he always underneath his trench coat despite the chill of the Gotham winter. The discolored yellow undershirt was stained with blood. It looked like his attacker had punctured the left kidney, the blood gushing a dark, rich red. Selina averted her eyes, listening instead to the way Stan's breath rattled in his chest as he spoke.

"You got a sewing kit?"

Selina half-met his eyes, hands shaking a little at the thought of what he was asking her to do. That cold silver gaze caught the tremor, of course – even with the pain, Stan didn't miss a trick.

"You think we's rolling in it?" he wheezed. "Think we could afford some clinic job? Or maybe you thought I’d do it myself, you playin' nurse while I sew myself back together?"

She jerked her head and blinked hard, grabbing his suit jacket and rifling through the pockets until she found the dented whiskey flask he kept in the inside breast pocket. Selina unscrewed the cap, offering the flask to Stan.

"You do me good," Stan warned. "Prove you worth something, prove you more than just some stupid, skinny white-trash cunt with small tits."

Silently, Selina watched Stan take a long pull before she doused the towel with the alcohol, applying the wet material directly to the stab wound. He yelped in pain and she felt a flash of satisfaction before he hauled back and slapped her so hard Selina’s head snapped back, her teeth making a sharp clicking sound in her mouth as her upper jaw connected with the lower. Instantly blood began to pool in her mouth. She'd bitten her tongue and the sweet metallic taste of it made her want to retch.

Stan sucked in air through his teeth, prodding her in the ribs when the kettle began to boil. Robotically she rose and found her Salvation Army purse with the broken handle. Selina upended the oversized bag, digging through the tools of her profession: a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash, lubricant, wetnaps, Kleenex, deodorant, a small bottle of antiseptic spray, breath mints, condoms in their foil wrappers and her small stash of emergency contraceptives. At the bottom of the pile she located a dollar-store sewing kit that came in handy for quick repairs. She used the water from the kettle to soak some black thread and sterilized the needle with her lighter.

"What the hell is taking so long?" Stan asked, using the tone of voice he knew frightened her the most.

"You want an infection to go with that stab wound?" Selina replied, her voice sounding more confident than she felt. She kept trying to thread the needle with trembling fingers. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the throbbing of her heartbeat in her raw tongue and against the cheekbone where he'd hit her. "You can do this," she whispered to herself. "Just don't think about the blood."

Finally she pushed the thread through the eyelet and played out what she hoped would be enough slack before tying off the end. She carried the still-steaming kettle, scissors and extra thread into the living room, resuming her place on the floor. Stan stretched out on the couch, offering her his left side. She tried not to notice the uneven mole that sprouted from his pasty, hairless chest. The mole rode just above his discolored brown nipple and the circular broken-bottle scar he'd gotten in a bar fight three years before she was even born.

"Hold still," she warned, hoping the needle would go in straight and that he wouldn't slap her again. Stan's body jerked and she couldn't help but flinch. He did not hit her, merely growled something about her lousy sewing abilities through his teeth before laying back down and allowing Selina to complete her work.

It seemed to take hours for Selina to finish working the needle through his flesh. She tried to keep her stitches small and even, sewing the wound with more care than she used on her few precious garments. When it was over she leaned back on her heels, studying her work as she clipped the thread and tied it off. "Done," she announced, almost proud of herself. She hadn't even felt sick at the sight of all that blood as it coursed down Stan's side to disappear into the dark brown couch cushions. It had stained her fingers and Selina rose to scrub her hands, noting with some relief that Stan had passed out from the whiskey and the pain.

She repacked her purse and spread some old newspapers down on the hard living room floor, protecting herself from the old carpeting. She suspected the place had fleas and the thought of it made her ankles itch. Using her coat as a pillow, Selina lay down, listening to Stan's raspy breathing. If he lived through the night she'd make sure he went to the free clinic in the morning. He was right; she was a lousy nurse.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The first pale fingers of dawn extended through the apartment's dirty window, which offered the prospect of a bare sliver of industrial-gray sky and faceless brick buildings crowding into the small alleyway below. If she held her head just right Selina could fill her entire field of vision with that pale, colorless sky, the noises of Gotham fading to a far-away buzz.

She hadn't slept much. It was just a little after 5am and it had taken most of the night to sew Stan up. By the time the first blush of rosy dawn crept into all that gray nothingness, it felt pointless to allow herself to drift back to sleep. She hadn't accomplished what she'd set out to do, hadn't even begun.

Selina pulled herself into a sitting position, finger-combing her long, oily black hair into some semblance of order and tying it back with a bare elastic band. She used the bathroom and rinsed with the mouthwash in her bag, eyes watering at the way the Listerine made the cut on her tongue burn. The face staring back at her in the mirror looked white and hollow-eyed, old mascara caked around her lids and turning her eyelashes into thick clumps of black kohl. She had the thin, pinched look of a speed freak, even though Selina had never touched the stuff. How long had it been since she'd seen herself like this, in daylight, without all that makeup Stan made her use?

Selina exited the bathroom on shaky legs, checking on Stan. He was still asleep, snoring in that wheezy, irregular way she used to think was cute. Back when they'd first started fucking, she'd thought a lot about Stan was cute. Reassuring, anyway. He didn't hit her, at least not initially, and he'd offered her protection from the street gangs and the more violent pimps. Only when she'd started hooking for him had Stan shown her how evil he really was.

In the half-light of early morning, Selina considered his craggy, pinched-looking face. The old, ugly scar, a souvenir from some past knife fight, ran the length of the left side of his face. The same knife that had left that cruel mark had gotten his eye, or at least the part of it that mattered. Stan's left eye never worked right, always shuddery or unfocused, sometimes whirling around in his head like an errant cueball, other times vibrating in place like a bed running on quarters in a cheap motel. His cold silver gaze was even more terrifying because of that blind, milky-white eye. It seemed as unpredictable as Stan himself in one of his violent rages. Some of the girls on the stroll thought that the eye gave him some kind of special power, a sort of sixth-sense that allowed him to see when they took an unauthorized break or tried to keep part of their earnings. Selina knew better. Stan wasn't a psychic, just a psycho who liked hitting women.

As if sensing her consideration of his face Stan opened his eyes and clutched at her, squeezing her upper arm in a vise-like grip. He glared at her, and she could feel a sky-high fever burning through his hand.

"Stan," she said, her voice clear and even as a church bell. "Let go. I've got to get you some medicine. You need anti-biotics, maybe a tetanus shot."

"Las’ I checked," Stan murmured, his customary lisp adding an extra layer of unspoken menace to his voice, "you was a stupid whore, not a doctor. How you know what I need?"

Selina shrugged off his hand, picking up his bloodstained suit jacket and brushing it out as best she could. Stan leaned back into the couch and watched her closely. Even so, he missed it when she worked a few hundred out of his jacket pocket, sliding the bills into the waistband of her jeans with the practiced skill she'd back at Mama Fortuna's grade school for young pickpockets. Stan didn't know she could do that, and she certainly never planned to tell him. Anything special about her, like the gymnastics and her gift with electronics, he'd only use to make money.

"If you don't want me to get the medicine, I should go to work," Selina told him, tidying the apartment so she wouldn't fall under the scrutiny of those cold silver-and-milk eyes. "I got a date in an hour."

"Regular?" he rasped. Selina nodded. "Good," he replied. "You make him happy."

She turned to go, stopping when he put his hand on her elbow. "What you come here for, anyway?"

Selina blinked, calculating her chances. If she told him now, what would he say? He might be in a good mood, grateful to her for her help. Maybe the pain would cause him to be more generous than usual. Selina wet her lips and spoke quickly.

"Holly's knocked up. I need some money to make sure it gets taken care of. I'll take her to the free clinic on Sprang and 190th – they do it real cheap, and it's legal, safer than those butchers down in the Bowery."

"Thought Holly only did car jobs," Stan said, too quiet. His breathing was loud in the small apartment. "And even if she doesn't, you always telling her to use rubbers even if the johns complain."

Selina shrugged. "Accidents happen," she told Stan, looking him directly in the eye. If he suspected...

Stan seemed to chew on it, eyes narrowed. "When it happen?"

The apartment, icy at dawn, seemed unbearably overheated. Selina swallowed hard. "Eight weeks." Mentally she recalculated, hoping she hadn't blown it.

He seemed to relax then, satisfied that it wasn’t his own. Selina knew exactly what happened when Stan managed to knock up one of his working girls. He seemed to take it as a personal insult and punished the girl accordingly. The unborn child was buried in an overflowing garbage can or an accommodating dumpster. The girl usually didn’t survive what it took to cut the child out of her.

The tension drained from her body at Stan's quick nod. "Whatever. You pay for it, and she's back on the stroll in two days."

Relief bubbled up in her chest and Selina turned to go. At the sound of Stan's voice she stopped once more, wondering if she would ever get away from this place, from the stench of the blood and his rasping, clawing voice.

"That all you come for, baby?"

He smirked at her, chilly gaze calculating in the way he looked at her body. So there would be a price for helping Holly. Heart sinking, Selina played dumb.

"Stan, I got a date-"

"I'm your man," Stan cut her off sharply. "Forget it, you end up in Kane Sound. They find pieces of you from the tunnels to the Cape. Now," he struggled to sit up, pressing a free hand against the new stitches, his other working on his belt. "You show me you ain't as stupid as you look."

Selina cast a longing look back at the door. She'd almost made it. That had to count for something. It would be over quick, anyway – those stitches wouldn't allow for anything else. Or she hoped so, at least. Stan had been having trouble lately. When he couldn't make it he'd use his belt instead, laying out big welts on her back, hips, buttocks. A date had asked her about it last week. She'd told him she'd fallen.

Stan was waiting, impatience building. Finally, she stripped off her dirty Ramones T-shirt and the filthy jeans, hating the smell of her own body as much as she hated the stench of his. She'd been working straight through the last week, trying to earn enough money for Holly. The shower in their coldwater flat in Crime Alley was broken, water coming out in a brown gush. No food, no clean water for bathing...if there was a better definition of hell Selina had yet to come across it. Stan appraised her body, one eye too clear and all-seeing, the other blind and milky-white. Those eyes drifted over her pale white skin and lingered on the big purple bruises still healing from the last time.

Selina knelt before him and tried to think of something else.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Learned Helplessness