This is my second story posted on the Internet, the sequel to "Breathless". Rated as it is for suicide, and the use of an awful slur. Thanks for all the reviews of "Breathless". They inspired me.(:
Sorry if this isn't as good as the first one.
Have at it:
Bruce had only been at this for minutes.
It felt like hours. Days.
Days since he had knocked down the door. Days since he had sprinted into the room. Days since he had been scarred for life.
When in reality, only minutes had gone by.
His hands throbbed, his triceps and pectorals ached, bunched, stiffened, screamed and pleaded with him to stop. But he couldn't. He couldn't give up. Couldn't accept this outcome. Couldn't live with it.
Bruce cringed at the thought.
He couldn't give up. Not now. Not when his son, his partner, his world had just given up everything.
His hands felt sticky, slippery against the boy's soaked tee shirt. Bruce's eyes were shut, only thin layers of skin separating his vision and the grotesquely horrific sight before him. Only thin layers of skin separated him from the slick, enticing edge of insanity. Sweat coated his face, his neck, despite how cold the bathroom felt. The air was thick, heavy, pressing in on all sides.
Suffocating him.
Harsh, florescent light illuminated his eyelids a dull red.
Red.
The sight of deep red splatters of liquid contrasting sharply with the stark white bathtub they landed in flashed rapidly behind Bruce's eyelids. The sudden image vanished as quickly as it appeared, frozen before Bruce's eyes for less than a nanosecond. But that nanosecond was enough to take his breath away. For his heartbeat to increase dramatically.
The pungent stench of blood stung Bruce's nostrils. The offensive odor was metallic, almost electric, heavy and crackling with energy. Strong enough to leave the sharp, tangy taste of metal on Bruce's tongue.
Metal and blood.
Metal and blood.
That was what fear tasted like.
He knew.
He had tasted it when he had heard the gunshots that had murdered his parents.
Bruce's stomach tightened, rolled. He was going to be sick. The muscle under his right eye twitched, jerked rapidly. His heart slammed against his ribcage erratically, trying to force its way out of his chest. His teeth clenched, biting down so hard he was genuinely surprised they didn't crack under the pressure. His ears rang, his head swam, colors mixing together as his vision swirled. The entire contents of his life had just been uprooted, shaken like the faux snow flakes in a snow globe.
But he didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Bruce heard very clearly when Alfred ran into the room to find the source of the noises. Bruce heard very clearly when Alfred froze in the doorway, gasped, choked. Bruce heard very clearly when Alfred collapsed to the ground, deep, trembling sobs wrenching themselves from the old man's throat.
But he didn't pause, didn't hesitate.
In this situation, hesitation was synonymous with death.
His hands picked up speed, his desperation clear in the jerky action.
Bruce leaned forward slightly, taking a deep, shuddered breath, trying in vain to bite back the nausea. The soft sound of fabric rustling reverberated around his eardrums over the echoing ring. Bruce jumped in surprise as Alfred placed a warm hand on his shoulder.
Warm. Bruce hadn't realized just how cold he was. His blood was like ice through his veins. He shivered, jerked his shoulder out from underneath Alfred's hand harshly without ceasing the rhythmic pulses of his hands.
Don't touch me, he wanted to say. Shout. He wanted to, but he couldn't. His throat was closed, his vocal chords crushed by the unrelenting and constricting grip that fearful grief clasped his neck with. His entire body trembled, quivered. The corners of his eyes began to sting, filling with moisture.
"Master Bruce," Alfred whispered. "You have to stop. It's not going to help him now."
"No," he gasped. He reeled back, startled. Was that really his voice? So scratchy, raw, broken. Hoarse to the point that he didn't recognize it anymore.
Bruce's elbows buckled, his entire body swaying dangerously. Stop? Stop, because it wasn't helping? His son. His partner. His everything.
Gone. Not helping.
No.
No, no, no.
This couldn't be happening.
This was just the affect of a new fear gas Scarecrow had invented. He was hallucinating. He would wake up soon. He would wake up, and Richard would be fine. Dick would be there to comfort him. To laugh that ghostly cackle Bruce secretly loved so much when he told the boy his fears. To help him take down Penguin or the Joker.
This couldn't be real.
Dick would be fine when he opened his eyes. He had to be.
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut tighter, thick and heavy tears escaping. Counted to three. Prayed to whoever was listening. Please let him be alright. Please let this be a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.
But when he opened his eyes, bile rose in his throat as his stomach attempted a complex acrobatic maneuver, and was tied in a knot instead.
No.
He was broken.
That was the only way to describe what was happening to him.
He had been pushed to far, and now he was beyond repair. He could survive the deaths of his parents. He could survive a life lacking love. He could survive the cut-off from all emotion necessary to becoming Batman. But this? No. No one could survive this. He was broken. Beyond repair.
Beyond hope.
Dark blue eyes he would forever associate with the ocean stared blankly past Bruce's face. Fixed on nothing. Empty. Normally pale skin was bone white, leached of all color. Thick lines of tears that had long since dried on sunken cheeks winked occasionally up at Bruce under the harsh, florescent light. Dark black locks contrasted sharply against the pallid skin, damp and sticking to the forehead it flopped on. His clothes were soaked, plastered to the boy's body. A wide pool of water coated the floor of the bathroom, deep ruby swirls slowly spinning through the otherwise clear liquid.
Richard's left arm was outstretched, his fingers falling open lifelessly. Thick, burgundy blood covered his arm, not a glimmer of white skin breaking through. But through the heavy sheet of red, deep, almost black lines shone through. Lines that twisted and twined to form one word.
One single word that shattered the infinitesimal, unsteady remainder of Bruce's mind that clung to sanity.
Faggot.
Convulsing sobs shook his entire body, jerked his shoulders violently. Tears formed a blurring film over his line of sight. Bruce closed his eyes again, and continued pushing his hands into Richard's unmoving chest. But he couldn't remove the horrific image from his thoughts. No matter how much he wanted to. He pressed his trembling lips to Richard's cold, pale ones, blew air into his son's lungs.
The boy's organs refused to function.
The boy's heart refused to restart.
Shaking his head, Bruce lifted his aching hands back to the center of Richard's chest. Pressed again, the pace faster, more desperate. This had to work. Please, let this work.
"Please, please, please," he whispered under his breath, nearly inaudibly. "You can't leave me here. You can't do this to me."
But the pleas fell on deaf ears. Ears that couldn't hear anymore. No longer functioning ears that accompanied a no longer functioning body. Alfred grabbed Bruce's shoulders, tugged him away. "Stop," the old man commanded gently. "You need to stop now, Master Bruce."
Bruce's head dropped, violent sobs wracking his shoulders. His hands fluttered, lingered, over the cold, still chest for a fraction longer before falling uselessly into his lap. He was helpless. It was hopeless.
He was gone.
Richard was gone.
And there was nothing more he could do.
Bruce fell back limply into Alfred's arms. Loud, gasping cries wrenched themselves from deep within Bruce's chest, his entire body trembling so hard it was practically vibrating. His body was numb, his mind shattered into a million tiny pieces that would never fit together perfectly again. A gaping hole had just been torn out of his life, out of his chest. A gaping hole where his son should have been.
Bruce was broken.
And there was no hope of repair.