Another fruitless trip to Jump City. After I said goodbye to Nightwing, I was sure, when I returned to Gotham, that I was either going to get blackout drunk or bang my head on the wall until I knocked myself out.

 

I wish the last thing Killer-Red could have heard, was Dante’s heart beating. Whenever I think about hurting myself, I hear Killer-Red crying in the woods.

 

It’s okay to be sad, little me, especially over someone so important.

 

I saw Alfred today, he came to the church to check on me. Convinced me to take a break and go with him to an art gallery. I’ve always liked that kinda stuff. 

 

We went when it opened, so it was pretty empty. I think he had hoped to detour my mind, which I honestly appreciated. Neither one of us expected a painting to do just the opposite.

 

When I walked in on it, it was just me and the curator and I didn’t mean to have such an intense reaction to it. 

 

But it was of an angel, life-sized and dazed, and floating over a baptistry. Surrounded by blue and green and wrapped in a shroud of yellow, a little bird perched on his finger. His likeness to Dante was a punch in the chest. And then he started reaching for me!

 

Yeah, I lost it. Not violently, but I started crying. At first, I thought maybe it was Hell, playing a trick on me. I thought maybe it was my eyes deceiving me. I had to leave and come back in, to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

 

That’s when the curator approached me and asked me, really excitedly, what about the painting brought me to tears. 

 

“Is it the illusion of his wings coming out of the frame?”

 

“What?! Shit, sorry.”

 

“There’s no need to apologize. I’m the one who startled you. My apologies. I relish finding myself present for such evocative moments here in the gallery.”

 

Alfred was with me now and giving it a good look up and down, verifying that it was as I described it, that I wasn’t seeing things that weren’t there. 

 

“That’s quite the optical illusion. Painting a bathtub rim around the subject in lieu of placing the canvas in a frame, is this a bird’s eye view? Or is he about to spill right out?”

 

As Alfred said that, the angel’s arms outstretched from the frame, I didn’t mention it because I wanted it so badly, even if I was going mad. 

 

I wanted to hug that painting, but didn’t wanna get banned from the museum for being a weirdo. Nor did I want to be dragged away to another asylum. But not acting on that impulse meant I was gonna start sobbing like a five year old, in that big open space, where my voice would reverberate throughout the whole museum!

 

Despite the whole Red Hood thing, I’m not one for performance art. Thank God Alfred took it upon himself to override my voice with his. Reading the artist’s statement to me, like reading the Three Little Pigs to a crybaby who doesn’t wanna go to bed. That’s one way to divert my meltdown.

 

“Painting of an Angel was donated to the Gotham City Art Museum by an artist who wishes to remain anonymous. The piece was accompanied by a statement from its creator.

 

‘I was inspired to paint this angel, after the massacre at Arkham Asylum. I’ll never forget how I felt when I heard that Joker had been killed. Deserved it. But I never thought too highly of Harley Quinn either. However, when I saw this glorious angel show up and slay all those damn demons, that’s when I truly felt it was finally over. I couldn’t stop watching the footage. I played it over and over again, and knew I had to paint him. I had to paint the one who took the soul of the Joker out for good! I dunno why I felt inclined to paint him floating over a baptismal, or why this idea of a surreal bird wrapping him in a shroud came to my head. Honestly, it makes me kinda sad, but it felt right and, I dunno. It was like I was looking into another dimension. That happens to me sometimes. I hope that angel comes back.’

 

You’re not the only one.”

 

I tripped over my words to the curator, “It-um, ehem, yeah. Sorry. No. It-it looks like someone I know.” I dunno why I told him that.

 

Then Alfred asked, “Pardon my boldness but is it for sale by any chance?”

 

“I could ask,” replied the curator. “The Gotham City Art Museum Board of Directors might be willing to sell it for the right price.”

 

“You could place it in the church, Master Todd,” Alfred suggested to me. “Excuse me, gentleman, I’d like to make a phone call regarding this matter.”

 

Then he stepped outside and called Bruce. I didn’t know that at the time though because the more I stared at this thing, the more emotional I got. 

 

And the curator was really into it. It was kind of voyeuristic but I didn’t mind. It was actually cathartic to have someone watching me crumble like that. He seemed to revere my grief as though it was some form of poetry and I could tell he wanted to talk about it. He said to me…

 

“Ah. Is it because he eradicated demons that looked like the Joker? That’s what most patrons have been telling me, that it brings them to tears for this reason.” 

 

“That’s the tip of the iceberg.”

 

“The police never worked out what became of him or who he was, which makes the piece more valuable. I never thought angels were real until I saw one kill a bunch of Jokers.”

 

“Yeah well, maybe this one will come back.”

 

“That would be great. The infestation is devastating the neighborhood across from the museum.”

 

“Oh?” I said, wondering if I could hunt something nearby. “How bad is it?”

 

“During the day, it’s fine but at night, it’s really bad. That’s why we changed our hours. So our patrons and staff don’t have to leave this place in the dark. I wish we still had a local Devil Hunter.”

 

He paused and looked me in the eye. I had completely forgotten that court case had been televised, until it occurred to me, that he recognized me. He knew who I really was.

 

Then he said to me, “I know it’s controversial, but I was one of many who petitioned for the Red Hood’s freedom. Did you know the angel in the painting?”

 

I couldn’t pretend the answer was no, but I didn’t want him to look me in the eye again. I almost felt naked, like something real private would be exposed if I spoke about Dante and me. I can’t really let anybody know how sacred this angel really is to me. 

 

Not because I’m ashamed, not at all. It’s because he’s too special. I didn’t wanna start bawling, I didn’t wanna lose control. He spoke genuinely.

 

“I really hope something tragic didn’t happen.”

 

I could tell he didn’t expect me to reply. He knew I couldn’t if I wanted to.

 

Here, in Gotham City, maybe me and Dante can be Devil Hunters together, the way Jump City has it’s Devil May Cry. Could we have a shop like that? Could it even be at the church? If so, I should definitely have a painting like this, hanging up inside, to welcome him back.

 

It might freak him out but I’ve already cleaned and repaired his jacket. Bruce saved it for me. I put it on a dress form behind some glass in the church, over my old uniform.

 

I want this painting. 

 

Bruce said he’s going to try and buy it for me. That would mean a lot to me. 

 

I’m still surprised he gave Ebony back to me but even Batman was willing to admit, that in a demon apocalypse, a guy like me should probably keep his weapons close. That and, I told him Ebony and Ivory belong to Dante. Obviously, they should be in my possession in case I get to see him again.

 

I was thinking about checking out that area by the museum, in a few hours after it gets dark. The people miss Red Hood? He’s here. Not all here, but he’s here.