2019.

Jerry and Joe slinked away as Gracie and the Crimson Wraith stood face-to-mask in the strange fog that had arrived just ahead of the costumed crimefighter’s appearance.

“Don’t,” the Crimson Wraith repeated, keeping his red-gauntleted hand raised to her.

Gracie didn’t — didn’t move, didn’t blink, for a moment she didn’t breathe, and she didn’t let go of the broken bottleneck with its vicious edge.

The words came hard through her clenched jaw. “Don’t what?”

“You can put that down. You don’t have to use it.”

“Wait… Are you…” She looked at Zack, that useless, abusive piece of shit, motionless on the ground. “…trying to protect him?”

“The fight is over,” the Crimson Wraith said. “You can let it be over.”

Gracie exploded. “There is a seriously fucked-up girl back there! Her eyes… Her face… I don’t know if she’s going to be okay!” Tears came now. “And are you really trying to protect the motherfucker who did that to her? Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of hero, defending the defenseless or some shit?”

“He can’t defend himself, but it’s not him I’m trying to protect. It’s you.”

“Me?” Gracie couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’ve never killed before. Whatever else you’ve experienced doesn’t change what taking this man’s life would cost you.”

She pointed the jagged glass toward the Crimson Wraith. “Maybe I’m okay with that. Maybe it doesn’t matter how it affects me. Maybe the only thing that matters is stopping him from ever doing anything like this ever again!”

“Maybe,” said the Crimson Wraith. “But if you kill that man, I will have to bring you to justice. And I believe you might do more good for that girl from this side of iron bars.”

The bottle vibrated in her trembling hand as the rage drained from her. Gracie felt her knees softening to gel and her stomach cramp. She wanted to scream, but all that escaped was a hollow, defeated groan. She lowered her weapon. 

“Who are you?” she said. “What do you want?”

“I want you to let me take this man to the police, and I want you to take your friend to the hospital. She needs help.”

Gracie nodded. “Okay.”

The Crimson Wraith scooped up Zack’s body. A groan came from the unconscious asshole. “I’ve contacted an ambulance for you. Make sure you’ve got her identification. Be ready to stay the night there.”  Then he turned toward the door. Gracie hoped the Crimson Wraith would bang Zack’s head against the doorframe as he left. He didn’t.

With the Crimson Wraith’s exit, the fog began to clear, and Jerry and Joe started whimpering. Gracie stepped through the puddles of milk, cereal, and blood to drop the bottle in the kitchen trash can. Then she did as the Crimson Wraith had asked her, collecting Kristen’s purse, phone, and a change of clothes.

The EMTs didn’t take long to arrive. Gracie stood in the hallway as they examined Kristen and asked questions for which Gracie had no answer. How long had she been unconscious? What had been used to hit her? Were there any drugs or alcohol in her system? After a minute of them attempting to rouse her, Kristen lurched awake and puked all over her bed before lapsing into sobs. Then they got her on the stretcher.

Riding with her in the back of the ambulance, Gracie held Kristen’s hand. Through some of Kristen’s sobs, she could make out words like “hurts…” and “sorry…” and “baby…” That was what Kristen called Zack.

When they arrived at the St. Gabriel Medical Center, Gracie filled out the admitting paperwork and went to sit in the waiting room with assurances that Kristen’s wounds were “not that bad.” What would a doctor say about the wound she’d given Zack?

The late-night miserables of St. Gabriel’s waiting room slouched in various states of discomfort as the corner TV played a syndicated sitcom where no one ever had any real problems, which the laugh track made sure to let you know every twenty seconds. No way could Gracie stand to kill time with that going on. She needed air.

Out the front door she went, past the marble statue of St. Gabriel, over the footbridge leading to the parking deck, where she stopped halfway and turned to look out over the city streets. 

Titan City rumbled all around her, its thrum pierced by the occasional shriek of air brakes or car horns. In the distance, the animated Kronos-Kola billboard pulsed like a heartbeat, bathing late-night pedestrians in its glow. And above it all, the golden spire of the Snyder-Finn Building shimmered against the dark of a cloudless night. Cool breezes caressed her face, and Gracie breathed it all in.

She didn’t have to crack open her psychology text to know she had some serious “displacement” going on. The scene in the apartment came way too close to what she saw growing up. Her parents’ fights would build up from nothing — maybe a Salisbury steak still cold at the center — and escalate into the stratosphere, fueled by how much they’d both been drinking.

Gracie would flee the dinner table and fill her room with music to drown their noise, but it never kept her from hearing the terrible words they used against each other. Or the screaming. Or the sound of blows.

Only once had she dared to step out and scream, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

Her father had turned toward her with inhuman rage in his eyes, hand raised to remind Gracie who put food on their table, but her mother threw herself between them. 

The gas station wine had smelled sickly sweet on her breath as she said, “Just go to sleep, sweetie. Just go the fuck to sleep.”

How had Gracie found herself once more with the same people and the same problems? Was that why she liked Kristen when they first met? Had something about her felt familiar, a hint of the chaos she ran away from at fifteen? What the hell was she going to do next? And what was the deal with the Crimson Wraith?