She stares out the window as rain taps against the glass. The garden looks sad, leaves forlorn and weighed down by hours of relentless precipitation underneath the gloomy grey sky. All light, all life, seems to have been sucked out of the image before her, an effect paralleled in the unlit room in which she sits.

The hours drift on and on and yet she makes no attempt to move, has no desire to move. The force which once drove her to do, to think, feel and see, it no longer exists, it has been sucked out of her by the grey, stormy clouds which hang inside her mind, weighing her thoughts down. They drift down into a realm where she wishes they wouldn't go, but she no longer cares enough to stop them from falling there.

Her breath moves like clockwork – in, out, in out. It’s no longer a sign of life or vitality, but merely one of continued existence, of simply just carrying on. Her eyes blink periodically, but every time they open they come to focus on the same dogged plant which sits before her in her front garden.

It’s funny how the weather can mirror a mood. On days when it’s stormy outside, things often seem chaotic or surreal. On sunny days, moods seem lifted, spirits high and hopes soaring. On crisp winter mornings things seem calm and peaceful; content. But the rain, the rain brings with it a mirroring of its tears on millions of faces, it brings sorrow and tiredness and dejection in its wake.

During this particular rainfall on this particular day, none was more profound than that of this girl, staring out of her living room window into her front garden.

The gate is opened. She watches with hollow eyes as the postman walks slowly to the door and presses his finger to the doorbell. She hears the bell ring but the sound doesn't register.

She continues to stare blankly out the window, blinking and breathing.

The bell rings again. This time she starts and her eyes move towards the door. Her mind is sluggish, weighed down by the rain soaked thoughts that have been running through it for days. She slowly, agonisingly realises her doorbell is ringing. Her doorbell. She has to answer it. The thought makes her chest ache. Her limbs feel like they’re made of cement, immovable objects, weighing her down and rooting her to the chair in which she sits.

But she moves, slowly, steadily. She gets up and walks towards the door.

Door opened.

“Hello”.

Parcel handed over.

Signed for (what’s my signature? What’s my name?).

“Thank you” (whispered)

“Goodbye”

Door closed.

She thinks it’s strange, the parcel. She hasn't ordered anything in the last few weeks and it’s not her birthday or Christmas (not yet, surely?).

She moves back to the chair, her cement limbs trying to halt her at every step. She places the parcel in her lap and turns it over in her hands. It’s quite large, but big enough to fit on her lap, and flimsy – it feels like fabric (clothing?) of some kind.

Looking back, if she could have stopped right now, remembered what it was and burnt it before she could prize it open and pull out its insides, she would have. Oh, she would have. She would rather never have seen what this parcel has to offer.

She slowly peels the tape from the opening, inch by inch, before folding it out and reaching a hand inside. It feels soft but stretchy, like elastic, and as she moves her hand she can feel some squishy, weird shaped lumps sewn into the material. She pulls it out of its packaging.

As soon as she sees it, her mind speeds up. It’s racing, 1000 thoughts a second as her heart pounds and she remembers, oh she remembers. She lets go of the material as if it’s hot and burning against her flesh. She shoves it from her lap and it makes no sound but a soft whoosh as it falls to the floor.

She hears someone crying, someone wailing and sobbing and almost yelling through the tears, but it isn't until her vision blurs and her top is soaked that she realises it’s her.

*

“Come on, it will be hilarious!” he exclaims excitedly, his mouth beaming and his eyes glistening. She rolls her eyes, just like she always does.

“Why do I have to be Robin?” she asks, feigning irritation.

“Because you are the Robin to my Batman: my under appreciated best friend without whom I couldn't do anything.”

She smiles at his words and sighs.

“Fine, we can be Batman and Robin, but you’re paying for the damn costumes.”

*

Before she realises what’s happened, she lying on the floor, clutching on to the material and the Robin costume like a baby clings to a blanket. Her sobbing his been reduced to shudders and hiccups and shaky breaths, she’s done enough sobbing now for a lifetime. The pain still sears through her every cell, an agony so intense she didn't think it could ever be felt.

She can’t remember where she was when this all started, when it all ended. The whole world went black, she couldn't process it any more. When she finally came to, it was grey and lifeless, a mere shadow of what it was before. Nothing felt the same, not even her own skin, not even the act of breathing.

She pulls the fabric up towards her face and bites it, screaming loudly once as a muffled cry spreads out around her.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be grey and lifeless and heavy, it was supposed to be bright and colourful and hopeful. It was supposed to be exciting, boundless, wonderful, eternal. But it has morphed, evolved into a frightful, horrible, repulsive void.

And she’s staring right down the barrel of it.

She pulls the fabric in a bundle towards her chest, curls up her legs and closes her eyes. Her breathing is harsh and the rain is still tapping against the glass.

They were supposed to be Batman and Robin.

They were supposed to be.