"How many times have you ever looked at a person and wished you could get rid of them? How many times do you wished you could just drop them off of the tallest building in the city and watch them plummet to their death? How many times must you think these thoughts before you actually act on them? How many times have you acted?"
"I…I….don't know."
"I bet you think about it every day, at least once, maybe more. Who knows?"
"I think we're getting a bit off topic here, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce Wayne smiled at the man sitting across from him. "I don't think so, Doctor Hugo. You want to know why I'm like this. You want to know my deepest secrets, my deepest feelings, my deepest everything. So I'm telling you. You may not like it. It may make you uncomfortable. It may disgust you, but it's your job to sit here and listen to me. "
For six years, Bruce had struggled with the aftermath of his parent's deaths at the hands of a mugger. For six years, he had struggled with the fact that he had lost control and killed the man as his parents lay dying less than 10 yards from him. He had been sent to this man, this Doctor Hugo Strange, for evaluation once a month ever since. Bruce hated him; the man seemed crazy, more unstable than Bruce was.
"Well, Bruce, I think we're done for today. I feel some hostility starting to come from you and it makes me uncomfortable. So good day, Mr. Wayne, and I'll see you next month on the 17th, okay?"
"Whatever you say, Doctor. It's not like I have a choice anyways."
Bruce watched the doctor walk out of his parents' study and turned to look out the window to make sure the man got inside his car and left. He did. Only when the tail lights faded from view did Bruce get up and walk out. He went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and sat down at the kitchen counter. He thought for a while before pressing a button on the counter. He heard a few rings from a phone before someone picked up.
"Hello?"
"Alfred, I'd like to go into the city for a while. Are you busy with anything at the moment?"
"No, Bruce, I am not." Alfred was Bruce's guardian. The state had appointed Alfred as a legal guardian to take care of Bruce just after his parents were murdered.
"Good. Meet me in the second level garage. I think we'll be driving the Triumph today."
The car Bruce spoke of was a 1979 Triumph Spitfire. His dad had bought it and had it restored two years before he died. He used to take Bruce out and around Gotham City in it when he was a kid. Bruce had grown attached to the car and still loved to ride around in it. Only difference was Alfred was driving, not Thomas.
They were driving down 156th Street towards South Gotham Mall when a rock hit the windshield, putting a large crack in it.
"Alfred. Pull over." Bruce calmly ordered him.
With a hesitant sigh, Alfred pulled over and parked the car in front of Berkley's Flower Shop. Bruce got out, told Alfred to stay with the car, and walked out into the middle of the street and picked up the rock. He got back on the sidewalk and walked towards where he thought the rock came from. Bruce had walked about 30 yards when he saw a boy coming towards him. Another boy came out an alley to the left. Two more boys came from behind Bruce.
"Who threw the rock?" Bruce asked, barely hiding his anger and clenching the rock tightly in his fist.
"I did. It's a piece of shit car. Who cares if it has a crack in the windshield?" The tallest boy among the four said. He had curly brown hair and freckles plastered across his face.
"I care. It's my car. My windshield now has to be replaced."
One of the other boys laughed. "And we care why? It's not like you don't have the money to fix it."
"You idiot, it's not about the money. It's the fact that the four of you busted my windshield. And I expect payment to replace it." This got all the boys laughing.
"Us? Pay you? Are you crazy? We ain't paying for shit." With that, the leader pushed Bruce.
Bruce stumbles back and falls to the ground. He gets back up and lets the rock fly. It hits the leader in the forehead, making him take a few steps back. Bruce takes the chance and picks the rock back up. This time, he leaves it in his fist and springs toward the boy. Bruce feels his fist connect with the left side of the boy's jaw. The boy falls to the sidewalk and Bruce immediately jumps on top of him and begins to punch him repeatedly in the face. The other three boys then join in to defend their leader from further harm.
By the time, the paramedics and police get there, Bruce is covered head to toe in blood, and most of it is his own. He's holding an ice pack to his head and trying not to flinch as the paramedics wrap his cut arm in gauze. He looks over and sees the leader of the boys being lifted into an ambulance. The other boys are talking to police officers.
"Bruce is it?"
Bruce glances up and sees an EMT looking down at him and replies, "Yes, ma'am."
"Well, you have two choices. You can either ride with us to the hospital or ride with that man, Alfred; I believe he said his name was."
Bruce got up without saying a word and walked over to Alfred.
"Meet me at the hospital. I'm riding with the paramedics. I don't want blood in the car."
Alfred simply nods and gets in the car. Bruce walks back to the EMT who helps him get in the back of an ambulance. He feels every bump in the road on the way to the hospital. When he gets there, he learns that he has a minor concussion, two fractured ribs, a broken index finger, and a deep gash about 5 inches long on his left arm that is going to require 7 stitches. One of the boys must have been carrying a knife, the doctor tells him. Bruce is discharged the next day.
Doctor Strange's car is sitting in the Wayne Manor driveway when Alfred and Bruce pull up. Bruce sighs and mutters to himself. Doctor Strange gets out of his car as Alfred is pulling up behind him. Bruce gets out and walks by the doctor.
"Ah. Bruce, you're here, finally," Hugo says as he follows Bruce into the manor. "The State sent me by to make sure you're not having a relapse into the violent tendencies you showed when your parents were murdered. So let's talk, shall we? Where is it today, your father's study, the kitchen, or your room?"
Bruce just sits down at the kitchen counter in response.
"Ah, the kitchen I see. White décor with grey marble accents. Stainless steel appliances. Cold. Emotionless. Just like you at the moment. An appropriate setting. So, Bruce, let's get to it, shall we?"