OK but like you don’t understand, food is such a common memory, after losing my mom, I don’t doubt I would have the same reaction if someone made something that tasted the same as her’s. This hit me harder than it should.
Okay, but this is so f*cked up and nothing about this is okay 😭😭😭😭
Ed wakes up too early for no reason in particular. There are no guards making a racket on the other side of a locked door. No nightmare of desperate hands choking the life from a beautiful girl. Just the light from the window, warming his blankets and eyelids and beckoning him to get up and come downstairs for coffee.
He spends too long looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, at the lack of bruises beneath his eyes and at the smile he can’t school his mouth into abandoning. At how full and healthy and alive he looks, detailed and well cared for, like an artist bled love and attention onto a canvas until it became everything it was always meant to be.
He can’t be grateful enough to Oswald, he thinks over breakfast. He listens to Gotham’s beloved mayor rant about something from the morning paper, some article Ed will read and evaluate later, and feels warm and affectionate watching the annoying way Oswald brutalizes his soft boiled egg.
🔥 There is beauty in destruction🔥 