Message from a Bad Kitty (Batman: Arkham City)
I wore the suit so I wouldn’t have to wear my own skin, the way you might avoid the outfit in the back of your closet because the way it makes your ass look, and the boys, they love looking at my ass in the suit. Of course they all stare, but in the suit they’re not staring at me, they’re staring at her. The Cat. There is safety from the howls and taunts when these ears are under the cowl, beneath the strap of the goggles. The words don’t sting as much, the sounds can’t claw their way in. Not like I claw my way into their faces, the flabby jowls, their puffed chests. And the symphony of all that blood flowing, like small red strips of musical notation, drowns out the cat calls, the hail of “bitch,” the icy cold stare of the rapist in every man. In the suit I can silence the staring.
The heels were for confidence, for the way they accentuate my calves, my legs, all the way up to these hips like rabid bulls – seriously, they’ll squeeze the life out of you, honey, so behave. My sisters tell me to tone it down, to think of the message I’m sending, that maybe I’m asking for it, but that, remember, it’s never my fault. My body is my own, my own shell of discomfort and unease. But I am trying to be comfortable. I am reaching for ease. I tell my sisters I am sending a message. It’s a bloody valentine, etched with the perfidious tip of my middle-finger talon, a warning to every man who stalks the murky streets, the alleyway shadows, who utters any phrase not punctuated by compassion or praise for the mothers, daughters, and sisters of the world. The Cat is coming for you. She will descend like a dark angel into your life, and she will swallow you in her gloom, and you will feel your skewed sense of manhood shrivel – and rise no more.
