They Call Me Gotham

I keep seeing them in my dreams and sometimes when I am awake. I see a man dressed in black, with tiny triangular slits for eyes, a clown who has green hair and yellowing rotting teeth and I must survive from what it is they plan to do to me today.

The Bat creature likes to anchor himself to my gargoyles and traverse the night sky, gliding above my buildings; stalking his next prey. The criminals all seem to think he is some sort of devil, but this is not Hell’s Kitchen. I am not New York.

Sometimes, the Bat brings a Robin with him to further his cause. I remember the corpse of the last Robin, beaten to death and left to die by the green haired one with rotting teeth.

I empathise with the Bat. I understand his anger and his need to seek out justice.  But at what cost?

The presence of these individuals- the man who looks like a crocodile, the short man who walks like a penguin, the woman with the abilities to control my plants and the Cat; these individuals come out into the glare of orange street lamps, while the Bat lurks in the shadows.

I miss the days when this was nothing but jungle. But then they had to develop didn’t they?  This is not a city. This is a proving ground. I am the one who is left after the dust settles on yet another confrontation.

The winner goes back to his cave with the computer consoles and the worldwide GPS, to plan out who is going to attack me next. He is a guardian, acting as a shield, protecting me from my own self. Yet on some days, even this man tires himself. He has spent so long chasing death masquerading as criminals, that I believe it’s just a matter of time before they defeat him and he lies in my grounds.

I am forgotten. I am alone. I am bleeding.

They call me Gotham. I am under siege. Help the Bat.  Help me.

Based on an article that my friend Runa Chatterjee wrote on Gotham City

The Bilge Master