Young Writers Society

WAYNE MANOR

Bruce, wearing an unironed full-sleeve white shirt and tailored brown pants, examines the damaged door-frame as he enters the banqueting room. He hasn’t been to this part of the manor in a long time. Truly, he hasn’t had a need to be Bruce Wayne for over a year — this day is no different, but today he lacks the want to be Batman.

An antique chandelier hangs from the woodworked ceiling. Bruce stops to look at it, made out of brass and wrought chrome with branching empty glass covers, it’s a work of art. But it looks dead, in fact, the whole room does.

This place needs more light.

Waves of dust leap out into the air as he jerks the drapes open. Creamy light of the spring afternoon caresses his face, he reaches out with a hand to its warmth. The bruises in his knuckle and the cuts in his palm grasp his attention.

“One pain is cured by another,” he whispers, involuntarily pulling his arm back to his side. Some of the old injuries have been bothering him lately, a pain that radiates from his neck to elbow, a likely consequence of overuse of the grappling hook. But the worst are the haunting psychological damages, they are also the ones that take his attention away from the bodily hurts.

He walks back to the dining table, it sits right beneath the chandelier — its hanging deadness somewhat reduced now by the reflecting light. Bruce holds the top rail of the single chair on one end, hesitating to pull it. All the other chairs in front of him are…

Empty.

Bruce sinks into a flashback, a memory from only a year ago…

***

It was a rare occasion — the complete Batfamily dinner. Richard had returned to Gotham after a long hiatus. Barbara was so happy to see him.

He hadn’t left on the best of terms with her, or with me, yet I did not sense a trace of contempt. He seemed to have found an identity he could be in peace with — calling himself Nightwing, he had in his arsenal a strength which I still know to be my greatest fear… falling — and I was proud.

Barbara and Richard picked up from where they left things at, one could not have deduced they had once sworn to go their own ways. Barbara understood that Richard had to leave in order to cope with his identity crisis, just as Richard understood that Barbara couldn’t leave her responsibilities in Gotham behind — she had still been finding her footing as an operator, and she had a little brother who was cursed to have to grow up without a mother.

Selina and Bruce had just married, they were ecstatic about the reunion. Richard hadn’t officially met Selina, although he had encountered Catwoman previously. It went pleasantly. And Alfred…

I wanted to help but Alfred had the kitchen to himself — his cucumber sandwiches, Selena acted as though she loved them but everyone in the table knew she was far from having found the taste for it. I miss her… I miss them all.

Selina, Alfred, Richard and Barbara slowly fade away from the chairs — to Bruce, they now resemble tombstones, he couldn't bear to sit in any one of them — the chandelier dims and the hearth’s flames dissipate. Bruce realizes the sun has almost set and his head buzzes.

"How long have I been standing here?"

***

The master bedroom, Bruce hasn’t been here in a long time — everything looks polished and organized, Alfred must have made the bed one last time before leaving. The thought makes Bruce anxious. He lies down on the floor instead with his hands overlapping beneath his head, just by the bed — moonlight occupies most of his face. The full moon, Bruce thinks, contrasts the emptiness that surrounds his existence at the moment. No amount of the light will ever be able to wash away the shadow he has cast upon himself.

Thy fool moon be in vain.

Eyes closed, Bruce inhales as deeply as he can and sighs. His brain wants to shut down but his mind cannot help racing. “Alfred was right,” he mutters. The toll has indeed become too heavy to bear. He needs help, all sorts of it.

The night is upon Gotham, its vile alleys remain unprotected. It’s time to put on the cowl, Bruce knows it — he needs to do it. But why? Out of a sense of responsibility, since he can? Or is it because of the guilt he will carry on with him knowing he could have prevented a crime and potentially saved a life, if he had chosen to prioritize the greater good, instead of self-loathing, hiding in his manor? That would normally be a powerful motivator, but its effect diminishes if all the guilt Bruce already carries is considered.

“Not tonight,” he whispers with every ounce of energy that is left in him.

***

“Mother, are we going home?” asks young Bruce as the family walks out of the Monarch Theatre.

“Yes, honey,” says Martha Wayne, slightly tousling his hair.

“Good,” Bruce replies, ever the moody child. Then the hand tousling his hair disappears. Time moves oddly, too fast and then too slow, disorienting Bruce. A loud burst — he covers his ears.“Mother?”  

The burst is followed by the sound of pearls cracking on the street, and then someone's scream. Is it his own? Burst, breaking of pearls, scream, repeat. 

There is blood, a lot of it, a pool of it… no, there are two pools, connected by his feet. Bruce faints and leans loose on his right but someone catches him…

“Careful, son!” says Thomas Wayne.

“Bruce!” Martha panics.

Bruce’s eyes remain closed, his heart pounds on. Thomas checks his pulse, his breathing, and his eyes. “It’s alright, Martha,” Thomas lies. “We just need to get him home.”

Some pedestrians on the sidewalk — one of them is dressed well, she must have attended the same play as the Waynes, the others not so much, two of them have scars on their cheeks — stop. It’s impossible not to recognize the richest trio in Gotham. Thomas glares at the scarred men — his eyes reflect resolution, like those of a man without fear — and they scurry away, shoving the well-dressed woman slightly in the act — almost crashing onto each other as well — but she manages to keep her balance.

Martha recognizes the woman. “Mrs. Kapelput?”

Mrs. Kapelput waves the concern away and instead asks, “Is Brucie okay? I noticed that you three exited rather early. So I—”

Bruce jerks back into consciousness and hyperventilates. “Something is wrong… no, all of it!”

“Oh poor Brucie,” Mrs. Kapelput gasps, covering her mouth.

“I think he had a hallucination,” Thomas whispers turning to Martha, his arms wrapped around Bruce.

“We need to take him to a hospital. There is one just down the—” says Martha.

“Not at this time of the night.”

“We are taking Bruce to the hospital.”

“Martha,” Thomas says with an angered undertone, “it’s the county hospital for the general public. We are not going there at this hour. Let’s just go home and I will have a—”

“Thomas!” Martha objects, without any effort to keep her voice down.

Thomas looks at Mrs. Kapelput — she instinctively avoids eye-contact — and another onlooking passer-by. Bruce feels his father's arms tremble with rage. Thomas says, “Fine,” in a manner of cursing.

Mrs. Kapelput wishes them safety and goes back inside the theatre as the three Waynes, at Martha’s insistence that it would be a short-cut to the hospital avenue, enter a dark alleyway. The middle of the alley remains smoky and pitch black as the imposing structure of the Monarch Theatre blocks the moon, but through the fog they see an oil lamp shining on the other end. They walk towards it — the lamp gives them strength in the form of a belief: as long as they reach the lamp, everything will be alright. Martha and Thomas don’t talk in the meanwhile. The tension between them affects Bruce as he walks between them, holding back tears, as he has learned to do in these situations — he knows something terrible is going to happen very soon, because it has happened before, or so he feels, it doesn’t make sense to him.

A figure seems to be occupying the other end of the alley and it begins to grow in size. No… it's not growing, it’s approaching the Waynes. The temporal disturbance returns to Bruce, everything happens in a haste, everything looks hazy. A gunshot. A scream. The shot. The pearls. His own scream.

This is not happening.

Bruce has fainted again — he almost crumbles down but is handled by both his mother and his father. The figure is now in front of the Waynes. It pulls a revolver out of his back.

“Please, our son is unwell,” Martha pleads. “Help us instead and we can reward you!”

“I don’t—” The figure stutters and speaks with an accent. “I don’t care, lady! No trust in your lot.”

“Do you know who you are addressing, boy?” Thomas speaks out, leaving Bruce in Martha’s arms. His eyes are invisible in the dark of the alley but his authoritative voice packs a punch all the same. The figure mumbles nervously.

“I don’t… I don’t care!” The figure replies. “Stay back and just give me what you—”

“You are not getting the message, are you?” Thomas stands tall and takes two steps toward the figure.

“Thomas, don’t,” Martha says. Thomas does not heed.

“I’m Thomas Wayne.”

“Stop!” The figure pleads and instinctively takes some steps back himself. The hand that holds the revolver begins to tremble, the index finger throbs on the trigger, but not pulling it all the way yet.

“You,” says Thomas, fuming, “don’t point a gun at the Waynes. I would ask you to write that lesson down but pardon me if I don’t take you for a literate alley-dweller.” Thomas lunges at the figure.

Bruce jerks back to consciousness again.

This is not happening.

Gunshot.

“Thomas!” Martha screams.

Another gunshot. Blood and mush splatters all over Bruce’s face — Martha’s arms still holding onto him.

Bruce looks up at the figure who is staring at his revolver, trembling heavily and contemplating what he has done. Then he looks back at Bruce. Even in the dark, Bruce can feel the eye-contact. The figure drops his gun and runs away. Maybe he said something before dropping the gun, but Bruce couldn’t process it. He is unable to process any of it.

The oil lamp is still shining in the distance, cutting through some of the fog and the massive shadow imposed by Monarch Theatre — a false beacon.

***

Bruce sits up bending his knees and wrapping his arms around them. Moonlight has almost deserted the bedroom, so some hours must have passed. Bruce is sweating — he has these nightmares almost every night, but that doesn’t make it any easier to recover from them. But this one was more vivid, his mind reconstructed details he didn’t know he remembered, like the manner in which his father reacted outside the theatre or the fact that the murderer had uttered something before fleeing the scene. Bruce’s focus fluctuates to something else — a smell.

Smoke. Cigarettes?

His senses switch to peak alertness: the eyes scan the room in a quick flash, as he jumps back onto his feet, crouching forward — the nightmare now a distant worry. His ears pick up on irregular wood squeaks.

Footsteps. They are still here.

He crouch-walks past the bedroom door — his feet impact the floor like feathers, yet he must have alerted the intruder as the footsteps have perished — and into the dark hallway. He continues to stroll, only stopping in front of a cigarette butt that’s still burning — the rug it has been sitting on doesn't have a trace of burn. Bruce picks it up. The burning end radiates just enough light for him to examine the cigarette piece.

Hmm. Surprisingly heavy. The texture like this... Cross-spangled and red. Unburnt straws coming out of the fuming end. I have come across something like this only once before.

“You can come out now,” says Bruce, with relief. “Constantine.”