Review please. Flames will be used to roast marshmallows
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He woke, exhausted and layered in a cold sweat. He did not gasp or jolt up, he remained still as he calculated his physical and mental condition as well as observed his surroundings. Haggard, exhausted and in a cold sweat seemed to be the way he woke up now a days.
He was in his bedroom that much he knew but he did not know how he got there. The familiar smell of washed bedding, medicine and pine enveloped him, caused by his butler Alfred.
Bruce's dark eyes flicked to the side of his bed, accompanied by the man, Alfred had been watching over him that night he was now dutifully asleep sitting upright in the chair, a book forgotten on his lap. Alfred merely looked like he had just closed his eyes people would of thought that but not Bruce, he had grew up with Alfred as a surrogate father and he could tell the slow even breathing of his friend.
Alfred his anchor out of his madness, his one friend, his ever lasting piece of strength and support. Bruce dared to smile a little, a true smile not one of his cocky playboy ones for the cameras as he watched fondly as the old man slept.
His gaze flickered to the twisted suit of the man, familiar to his comfort as a child. Familiar in the sense to the one he clung to for support and comfort, much like he did now but without the physical sense. He wished for the man to wake and give him comfort but he had not the heart to wake him. To hear those words why do we fall? the words his father used to say or just realization one person had not given up on him. Those words and motions the man preformed were like an arm around his shoulder, the anchor out of madness and darkness in the many times he nearly slipped into the monster inside, before he became the criminals he fought against.
Bruce shuffled in his bed as he sat up rolling his great aching muscles, feeling the scars groan and twist. His skin was slick with a cold sweat that layered his body making it shine in the dark, his temperature was a little high but it did not stop him from shivering either from the cold or from fear he did not know. He saw no sign of his Armour but that was just like Alfred, he hated anything out of place, the only reason Bruce's bedroom was not like a teenagers.
He grimaced as his nightmares flickered in the back of his head, the demons of his past entering upon rubbery wings, his fathers words exploding into a inhuman laugh from a painted clown…and Rachel. Those nightmares was him, he was made of dark thoughts, injuries and a darker past. They covered him and armored his heart in a pitch black, giving him more numbness than what his disguise could give him. It was like a freezing cold oil smothering all happiness out of him. As batman he was something different but as Bruce Wayne he was a man with a darkened heart. Bruce Wayne, the good looks but dark heart, Batman the dark costume but the optimistic way of looking at things; two people in one body, even he didn't know who he was.
Bruce looked to his hands in a quiet solitude as he remembered the events just before he woke up in his bed. He had been hunting the Joker, escaped from Arkham with just days in there and somehow Joker had got his hands on Crane's fear gas. Bruce frowned to himself, his hands clenching till they turned white and hurt, his mind flickering to why he was hunting them…revenge. He never had revenge for his parents someone took that from him, if he had not been stopped he would of broke his rule.
Rachel, his one true love, child hood friend, he had wanted to marry her, hold her in his arms but instead he chose to serve his city and protect her, Gotham, the city that took everything away from him; his love, his family, his life, his revenge. He did not want to be her dark protector, he wanted to give up the scrambles and fights, the police hounding him, his friends dying. He looked to where Alfred was sleeping, was it a matter of time till he too died because of his work?
The fight had left him, when he was in that Armour he was a prisoner to his monster, the monster that grew everyday with a unnamed rage. The Armour that destroyed everything that he loves or once loved. Bruce grew stoned faced, no he did not blame the criminals and corrupt he blamed himself.
He had given the corrupt chance to change but things just grew worse. Maybe Gordon was right, there was a escalation. Sure he cut down on the small time crime, maybe some of the mob bosses work but there would forever be Joker's hiding round the corner ready to kill, ready to do what he ruled out, ready to hurt and maim and push him to the very extremes, push him to the cliff he was already leaning over with only a old man and a commissioner who hunted him to keep him from falling.
A trickle of light had appeared at the hem of the horizon, Alfred shifted in his sleep a little but soon was breathing slow again. Bruce looked to it, but none of the dawn glow hit his eyes, and his heart was as dark as ever. Hope was lost.
He had innocent blood on his hands, he was classed as a criminal no matter how hard he tried. His city took everything he loved away from him and he was left drenched in blood and unexpressed tears. He watched solemnly as the rising of the sun, a beacon of light, but also the shadows that grew taller at its appearance.
Rachel, its dawn. The night is over but why is there so much darkness left?