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Bruce Wayne, age eight, sat in the theatre, watching the stage ahead of him. The music rose, dramatic and fierce, and Bruce tensed, his heartbeat racing, anxiety building little by little. There were a horde of bats on stage, black and twirling on ropes, artistic and dancing, swirling, pressing in about his face. He was back in the well again, in flashes of panic, furry bodies and thrashing wings coming around him in a violent rush. Bruce wanted to scream, but he was better than that. They were surrounded by people. He looked at his mother, engaged in the oprah, and knew she wouldn't understand - nor did he want for her to know that he was afraid - so instead he turned toward his father, tugging very slightly at his sleeve.
"Can we go?" His father looked puzzled for a second, but Bruce tried harder to make him understand why it was important with just one word of urging. "<i>Please.</i>"
<i>Please understand.</i>
"Okay," his father said, in his theatre voice, and Bruce felt a rush of relief and affection. "Let's go." They began to stand, and his mother glanced over and recognized quickly that they were leaving. No fuss - not in public - leaving efficiently and without explanation. Even until they left the auditorium, Bruce could feel the beating of those wings about and inside him. His fear pressed him outside, but it was already beginning to feel silly by the time they reached the door and slipped out into the empty halls.
It didn't feel like just a silly play to Bruce, but that was all it was, after all; just actors on the stage. How could he possibly explain to his mother? He was supposed to be just like his father: strong, and brave, and capable of protecting her. He stayed quiet, hoping that she wouldn't notice, watching his feet as they came out into the alleyway, but nothing got past her.
"What's wrong, Bruce?"
His father was ready though. Like a knight in shining armor he came to Bruce's rescue. "No, no. It was me. I just needed some fresh air." He helped his mother into her coat, looking straight at Bruce as he did. "A little bit of oprah goes a long way. Right Bruce?" He winked, and Bruce's affection for him spiraled. His mother smiled too. "Come on," urged Thomas Wayne, bringing his family together. "Let's go."
When they turned, there was a man walking in the other direction toward them. Bruce didn't pay attention to his approach, but he could feel his father on edge beside him. When the stranger - and now he looked, blonde hair, skittish eyes - suddenly drew a gun: "Wallet, jewelry. Fast." --His father was ready for it. "Come on. <i>Fast</i>"
"That's fine. Take it easy." Even in the midst of his new, very real fear, Bruce felt the utmost respect for his father. But he was afraid, they all were. The tension was like a tightrope, and all it would take was one little upset for it all to come tumbling down. It was unreal, like a nightmare. Everything was happening so fast,and yet it seemed to take forever. Bruce barely breathed. How could this be happening?
"Take it easy," his father repeated, holding his attacker's gaze as he removed his wallet. "Here you go."
The worst possible thing happened. Both men were shaking, and the wallet slipped from their fingers and fell to the ground. Bruce sensed his father's fear, felt his own, saw it in the mugger's eyes. He sucked in a breath, but his father found control faster, stepped back with his hands raised, and then tried to comfort and console the desperate man. "It's fine," he said, his voice soft, authoritative, calm. "It's fine."
The stranger crouched to recover the wallet.
"Now just take it and go," his father said, and Bruce almost felt the relief of the scenario ending. The man would leave. He'd go, and this terrifying ordeal would be over, and he'd never ever, ever ask to leave the oprah early again, he promised.
"I said jewelry!"
The gun turned. The angle of the muzzle passed him as it moved for his mother, and his father moved with it, like he was tied to it by a piece of string. The muzzle flared, and the deafening sound of the gunshot rang out. His father fell against his mother, then tumbled to the ground. His mother screamed, screamed his name, following his father toward the ground in horror.
The mugger grabbed for his mother's string of pearls. Strangely it was the last sound and sight that made any kind of sense--the pearls snapping, falling to the ground. His mother's scream was cut off by the gunshot, but Bruce barely heard it. He only knew that his mother, and the pearls, and the shell from the gun, all hit the ground at the same time, and he snapped upright, turning toward the man, fully expecting the next bullet to be for him.
He felt afraid, and alone. The man looked at him only for a moment, and then he was running, and Bruce took his chance to look on the horrors that had been done to him. He turned, looking down at his parents, desperately hopeful. But there was no hope here. Not in this alleyway, not in this city. No hope to be found. No smile on his mother's pale face, lying on the ground in a pool of pearls, still and quiet. There was so little blood. Her heart wasn't beating.
His father, though, was still alive. His shirt was soaked with blood, and it pooled underneath him, spread like winding fingers around the cobblestones. His father looked up at him, and he was dying--both of them knew it. Emotion finally made it through the horror, and Bruce felt it swell in him, a kind of fear and misery that he'd never felt before, that surely nobody could ever survive feeling. His father took his hand.
"It's okay," Thomas said, softly, and Bruce could only sniff. He didn't even have time for tears. "Don't be afraid."
But he was. He was so, so afraid, because as he watched, kneeling on the wet ground beside his parents' bodies, he was left absolutely alone. The light died in his father's eyes, and he fell still, and Bruce let himself cry into the silence of the Gotham night, in shock, a chasm opened up inside of him.
"Can we go?" His father looked puzzled for a second, but Bruce tried harder to make him understand why it was important with just one word of urging. "<i>Please.</i>"
<i>Please understand.</i>
"Okay," his father said, in his theatre voice, and Bruce felt a rush of relief and affection. "Let's go." They began to stand, and his mother glanced over and recognized quickly that they were leaving. No fuss - not in public - leaving efficiently and without explanation. Even until they left the auditorium, Bruce could feel the beating of those wings about and inside him. His fear pressed him outside, but it was already beginning to feel silly by the time they reached the door and slipped out into the empty halls.
It didn't feel like just a silly play to Bruce, but that was all it was, after all; just actors on the stage. How could he possibly explain to his mother? He was supposed to be just like his father: strong, and brave, and capable of protecting her. He stayed quiet, hoping that she wouldn't notice, watching his feet as they came out into the alleyway, but nothing got past her.
"What's wrong, Bruce?"
His father was ready though. Like a knight in shining armor he came to Bruce's rescue. "No, no. It was me. I just needed some fresh air." He helped his mother into her coat, looking straight at Bruce as he did. "A little bit of oprah goes a long way. Right Bruce?" He winked, and Bruce's affection for him spiraled. His mother smiled too. "Come on," urged Thomas Wayne, bringing his family together. "Let's go."
When they turned, there was a man walking in the other direction toward them. Bruce didn't pay attention to his approach, but he could feel his father on edge beside him. When the stranger - and now he looked, blonde hair, skittish eyes - suddenly drew a gun: "Wallet, jewelry. Fast." --His father was ready for it. "Come on. <i>Fast</i>"
"That's fine. Take it easy." Even in the midst of his new, very real fear, Bruce felt the utmost respect for his father. But he was afraid, they all were. The tension was like a tightrope, and all it would take was one little upset for it all to come tumbling down. It was unreal, like a nightmare. Everything was happening so fast,and yet it seemed to take forever. Bruce barely breathed. How could this be happening?
"Take it easy," his father repeated, holding his attacker's gaze as he removed his wallet. "Here you go."
The worst possible thing happened. Both men were shaking, and the wallet slipped from their fingers and fell to the ground. Bruce sensed his father's fear, felt his own, saw it in the mugger's eyes. He sucked in a breath, but his father found control faster, stepped back with his hands raised, and then tried to comfort and console the desperate man. "It's fine," he said, his voice soft, authoritative, calm. "It's fine."
The stranger crouched to recover the wallet.
"Now just take it and go," his father said, and Bruce almost felt the relief of the scenario ending. The man would leave. He'd go, and this terrifying ordeal would be over, and he'd never ever, ever ask to leave the oprah early again, he promised.
"I said jewelry!"
The gun turned. The angle of the muzzle passed him as it moved for his mother, and his father moved with it, like he was tied to it by a piece of string. The muzzle flared, and the deafening sound of the gunshot rang out. His father fell against his mother, then tumbled to the ground. His mother screamed, screamed his name, following his father toward the ground in horror.
The mugger grabbed for his mother's string of pearls. Strangely it was the last sound and sight that made any kind of sense--the pearls snapping, falling to the ground. His mother's scream was cut off by the gunshot, but Bruce barely heard it. He only knew that his mother, and the pearls, and the shell from the gun, all hit the ground at the same time, and he snapped upright, turning toward the man, fully expecting the next bullet to be for him.
He felt afraid, and alone. The man looked at him only for a moment, and then he was running, and Bruce took his chance to look on the horrors that had been done to him. He turned, looking down at his parents, desperately hopeful. But there was no hope here. Not in this alleyway, not in this city. No hope to be found. No smile on his mother's pale face, lying on the ground in a pool of pearls, still and quiet. There was so little blood. Her heart wasn't beating.
His father, though, was still alive. His shirt was soaked with blood, and it pooled underneath him, spread like winding fingers around the cobblestones. His father looked up at him, and he was dying--both of them knew it. Emotion finally made it through the horror, and Bruce felt it swell in him, a kind of fear and misery that he'd never felt before, that surely nobody could ever survive feeling. His father took his hand.
"It's okay," Thomas said, softly, and Bruce could only sniff. He didn't even have time for tears. "Don't be afraid."
But he was. He was so, so afraid, because as he watched, kneeling on the wet ground beside his parents' bodies, he was left absolutely alone. The light died in his father's eyes, and he fell still, and Bruce let himself cry into the silence of the Gotham night, in shock, a chasm opened up inside of him.
