iron gray

It’s an opaque word, concrete. You describe it as iron gray, the most durable kind of solid — a substance worthy of building the upper limit. 

But I’ve always pictured it as a wilting rose, a pressed flower with a destined dead end. The point being: darling, at least you can see through a glass ceiling.

“Ah,” said Christopher. “Do you look at all like your grandfather aside from that? The demonic one, I mean.” “You cannot simply ask whether people look like their demon grandfather!” Thomas wailed.
— 

Nothing but Shadows

concept that I shall never write

Damian sees them.

He pretends not to, at first. After all, who really wants to see people roaming your house during breakfast? He had thought it was a side-effect of, well, death. That or hallucinations, which, while pathetic, were not irredeemable.

He had pretended not to until he took one large mouthful of eggs one morning, and the stern-looking lady with iron gray curls tsked at him and whacked his back with her fan. The fork dropped from his mouth, and the eggs splattered. The fluffy yellow bits flew over the table, into Father’s water goblet.

Father raised his eyebrows, as if to say ‘Really?’

Damian did not respond. His eyes were glued on the little boy in a threadbare nightgown. The child’s laughter whistled through his gap teeth.

Bruce did not look up from the morning paper. “Close your mouth, son.”

Damian snapped his shut, leftover eggs tasting like ash. Father did not look perturbed.

“Father,” Damian questioned archly, hiding the tickle in his throat. “Would you mind telling me what you see over there?”

Bruce sighed, setting down the morning paper. “I see the china cabinet,” he said, blue eyes surveying the cabinet. “And if you say one more time about its 'dismal state of perpetual ugliness, much like Drake,’ you shall be eating on paper plates.”

Damian nodded, only half paying attention to his father’s words. The boy kept on laughing, tripping on his nightgown in his glee.

Father could not see them, Damian supposed.

Which is all very well for a special occurrence. And yes, he had felt the crack of the fan. And yes, he had heard the laughter. But Damian was a man of science. A man of logic. It was not until he had discovered the grand hall of portraits that he had understood.

He wasn’t just seeing illusionary people.

He was seeing ghosts.

And he was related to them.

So you're telling me that in 2016 I'm gonna get to see the Marvel Universe split in two in a heated battle, the X-Men take on the god-like mutant Apocalypse, The Merc with the Mouth hack off body parts in a film with a deserved R-rating, the Sorcerer Supreme come into his own, Harley Quinn, Deadshot, and friends fuck shit up, a new incarnation of the Clown Prince of Crime portrayed by an Oscar-winning actor, Wonder Woman in a live-action movie for the first time, and Batman show down with Superman 'Dark Knight Returns' style.... OH. MY. GOD.
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