Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any relations and associates.
Nightmare
Chapter 1
Dinner is set in front of me. Steak – Bruce's favorite – drizzled in warm sauce, oozing oils and fat. The vegetables are bright and crisp. But I know their secret. The grease laughs at me as it sizzles in the low light of the dining room.
Bruce sits across from me, on the long stretched out table. When I was younger, my plates would be set on the seat to his right. I was still little then. I needed a guardian to make sure I could reach the salt and pepper, finished all the Brussels sprouts, and that I'm not playing with my food. When I was little he would cut my steak for me.
Now, I'm expected to do it myself. I'm old enough to know how much is enough and how much makes me bloated. Alfred helps. He calculates the grams and kilos and make sure I'm getting enough calcium and protein in every bite.
Bruce stuffs a forkful in his mouth. There's only me here. There's no need to be polite and modest in front of the quiet, silent boy who plays with the food on his plate and looks like he's too busy cutting the thick meat to eat any of it.
"How was your day?" The talking has started. He's asking me question, testing me mentality, waiting to hear what the crazy freak will reply.
I know my lines. I've been in this play before. I've prepared myself, made up mental cue cards, revised, revised, revised.
"Fine," distract him with the short, blunt answer, shrugging off his question like a normal kid would. "We had a substitute again. Mr. Patcher was still out with the cold."
"Your science teacher." Bruce knows everything. The big dark scary Batman can stare into your soul, read your dirty, dingy secrets like cracking open a book. He knows my grades are starting to slide but he hasn't said anything yet. He knows I know. But it's his way of showing me he trusts me.
"Yep," bad grammar, Alfred's too occupied on fixing dessert in the kitchen to reprimand me. I change the subject so we don't accidentally stumble on my grades. "How's work? You went to the office today."
Bruce nods, has a taste of his red wine while I cut the broccoli on my plate into thirds. "There was a meeting with Jack Carter that Lucius wanted me to sit in on."
"The guy from Hastings & Co.?"
Bruce nods again. I see him eye my plate. It's still full. But now everything is cut into equal sized chunks. If I don't start eating he's going to get suspicious. He's going to start keeping tabs. He's going to bring up my weight.
I go right for the evil and dirty. The head honcho. I watch the juices ooze out as my fork slowly stabs into the meat. I move it around the plate a bit to collect some more of the heavy sauce and pop the medium-rare into my mouth. I ignore the way it melts like butter. I fight the taste of herbs and the guzzling homemade sauce. Everything is a number as I count each bite and the seconds between each chew. I swallow and pretend like something inside me didn't just die a little.
Bruce has gone back to his own meal but his attention is still on my plate. On how long we have sat at the table and how much is still on my plate. On how much I'm eating. On how calculated each forkful is. On me, me, me.
Please don't talk about it.
I feel like screaming.
I take a sip of water. I try to wash away the taste of fat and grease in my mouth. Alfred would have a field day if I blew chunks at the dinner table.
I go back to my plate. I decide on the veggies as the first obstacle. They're lighter and less destructive. Broccoli, ignore the taste, it's not worth it. Carrot, ignore how the grease is building up. Cauliflower, ignore your stomach. It's just the acid talking.
Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.
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My room is a mess. Clothes clump in groups and piles around the room. Books are scattered and piled over one another into makeshift towers. I have my own den with a fireplace and a small study connected to my room. The extra space is very useful when I need more floor space for towers and clumps.
I lock the bathroom door and step lightly towards the toilet. If I step to hard the eggshells under my feel will break. I kneel over the porcelain throne and heft the seat up gently. Two fingers go down my throat and I force my gag reflex to start working. My stomach empty's all the fats and oils and grease in chunks and the voices, screaming, mocking, laughing, crying; they all fall into the toilet with my dinner.
I turn on the shower and step in front of the mirror. The contorted face smiles at me. The Terrible Thing has words etched into its surface, oozing and gushing blood and rotting disease. The words dance and are burned onto its skin, the pain laughing and every lick opens new cut. The Terrible Things whisper death and gore in my ears.
Good job, it wheezes, but you ate too much. There's too much garbage inside you. They've clung onto your skin. You're weak. Fucking disgusting. Worthless little piece of shit.
I guzzle on mouthwash for half a minute before stripping the clothes from my body. Steam has fogged the mirror but it doesn't hide the rolls of fat on my body or the uneven lines that make up my face.
I step into the shower and turn the tap till it won't budge any further. The jets of water are like bullets cutting into me and leaving me raw.
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I tell Bruce I have homework. That there's a test in physics tomorrow that I want to study for. I'm on the floor of my room, fighting through the burn and the pain, counting each sit-up. I need to cram five hundred in the next three minutes. I take a simmering breath and persevere.
Ten minutes later I'm situated on my bed with my textbook and notes draped in front of me. When Bruce comes in I don't tell him it's because I'm too tired to sit up straight. I pull the comforter around me and hope he doesn't notice the way I'm shivering.
He asks me how the studying is coming along. I answer optimistically. He absorbs the answer but we both hear the Terrible Things, bringing up my grades, bringing up 'disappointment'.
Bruce asks if I want to stay home and finish my school work instead of taking up the mantle – just for tonight. He's not asking. Bruce's made it clear since I first started that school came first. He's not asking. But it's nice that he pretends he is.
I stifle the fear of him taking Robin away and ignore the way my brain tries to get through the fog and persuade me into staying home and under the covers. Terrible Thing sneers and I stretch a smile and tell Bruce I'll be down in a minute.
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My body is fighting me. It's angry, the Terrible Thing tells me. But they'll get over it. They'll get over it once you're perfect.
My brain reprimands. You shouldn't have gone out. Look at you. You're so fucking lucky you can even throw a punch. You're so fucking lucky you didn't break an arm or a leg or your rib cage out there. Look at you. You can't even stop shaking. It's almost summer for fuck sakes. You're not supposed to be cold in the summer.
The Terrible Thing just stares at me; its cold bloody eyes bore into me, jagged teeth and a voice that sound like grinding bones when it talk whispers. You're pathetic.
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Nightmares surround me. I can't sleep. A bottle of sleeping pills are pulled out from under a pile of clothes where Bruce doesn't know about. I throw back two and pull the blankets over me, wrapping the comforter around me. I make a note to find a new place to hide the pills tomorrow. In case Alfred decides on one of his impromptu hurricanes of vacuums and garbage bags.
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110.50
A/N : This story will only be a couple of chapters I think. I hope you like it. Enjoy!
PS. Feel free to tell me if you find any mistakes.