I was born into greatness. Since the second I took my first breath of air, a weight a thousand times heavier than the world was placed upon my fragile shoulders. People would look at me, small and cozy, wrapped up in a pink blanket in my mother's arms, and know I was destined to be great. I had to be. But I never understood that when I was younger; though as I grew, I realized what they all meant, and just how heavy those weights had begun to push down on me. It was expected; perhaps not perfection or wisdom, or even implausible knowledge, but a sort of greatness that only comes from those born into my family, into my name. It began generations back, further back than my mind can even comprehend, but they didn't matter; not anymore. Now it was my turn, my time, and my weights that have already been worn and burdened by those before me. My name is Alexandria Wayne, and Bruce Wayne is my father.
Like my grandfather and father before me, I was born into wealth of unimaginable measures. To live in a family that owns enterprises that exist all over the world is no small feat, but it wasn't impressive to me, never was, never will be. Money didn't bother with me, and I didn't with it. I could have had anything I wanted growing up, anything at all, and my father would have done everything in his power to make me happy. But even so, since I was small, father always warned me of the power and evil of money, and so I stayed wary of it. But that didn't stop the thoughts and tongues of the people of Gotham. I was the daughter of a billionaire, and so, just as small as their minds, their mouths would talk and call me spoiled and rotten; some even called me the princess of Gotham City.
But I didn't want that. I wanted to be just another girl, just another citizen. But I couldn't be that either. Because my father was Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne was Batman.
I found out about my father when I was merely eight years old, and by accident as well. I had been playing the piano when I accidentally entered in the magical keys that opened a secret door in the bookcase just beyond that lead to the Batcave. My father wanted to try and keep the secret from me as long as he could, but I was too old to be convinced that what I saw wasn't real. I had known of the Batman, all of Gotham knew of the Batman, but I never would have guessed that my father really was the superhero that my imagination always depicted him as.
But that's nothing. The real story doesn't begin until years later when I turned sixteen, and Batman was a figment of the past.
I woke up that morning like any other; sunlight glinting its way through the crack in my curtains, dancing and flittering over my eyes, gently waking me up. I swam soundlessly through the sea of blankets and sheets that was my bed; oversized ever since I was brought home from the hospital. With my feet eventually poking out, I felt myself extend down to touch the cold tiles that always sent a shock of awareness through me and helped to waken my senses even more. With a rub of my eyes, I walked the yards it seemed from my bed to the double doors that marked the end of my room.
Beyond them, the manor was silent, as it always was; it was only I, my father, and our butler Alfred who lived here. I could smell the cooking of chocolate chip pancakes wafting from the kitchen as they always did on the morning of my birthday; it was one of the only times my father actually cooked and gave Alfred a break. Barefooted, I made my way down the hall and round to the main stairway until on the first floor, the scent spiraled in my nose, and the excitement jolted me into a run into the kitchen.
I pushed open the swinging door to find that the whole kitchen was one big mess, with a big steaming plate of chocolate chip pancakes sitting at the table. Pans and utensils flooded the sink, while pancake batter and chocolate chips buried the counter, and at the center of the mess stood my father, his back to me at the stove, until his head turned slightly to see me. A smile crept up his face as it always does, taking it's time, never coming all at once. I made my way over to him; I still only came up to his neck.
"There's the birthday girl," he said as he flopped the last pancakes that were on the pan onto a plate that was beside him. He wiped off his hands before turning to me and placing an arm around me. "Happy birthday." I swung my arms around him as his laid on my shoulder.
"I hope those are for me," I said as our grips released on each other and I held an intense staring contest with the fresh plate of pancakes. I started for them.
"These are Alfred's favorite, but I guess you can have some too," he joked. I took the plate, and grabbed the bottle of syrup nearby as well, and made my way to the table where the others waited to be eaten. I sat myself down, got situated, and began to cut into them, when it dawned on me that I was at the table by myself. I glanced up, expecting him to follow, but my father still right where I left him. With a glance between him and the pancakes, I smiled unto him.
"You know, I don't think Alfred would mind too much if you had some of these too." He bobbed his head at my suggestion before walking over.
"Alfred's a decent guy, I think he would understand." He pulled out the chair opposite me and seated himself. He began piling the cakes onto his own plate, before drenching them in a river of syrup. He cut them into only moderately bite size pieces before sticking them in his mouth. I chuckled at him; the food made him look like a squirrel with nuts in his cheeks busily storing up for winter. Behind the food in his mouth, I heard a muffled laugh escape him as well. It had always been the simple moments I enjoyed with my father; the moments that neither of us ever really remember nor notice.
He chewed and swallowed until his face and cheeks were the size of normal humans again, at which he patted his mouth with a napkin and began gathering more on his fork.
"So, do you have any plans for today?" he asked before his mouth was occupied again. The end of my fork grazed over my pancakes, suddenly loosing part of my appetite. On any other girl's sixteenth birthday, she might have said that she was going shopping or out to party with her friends, but I didn't have that privilege. I didn't make friends easily, and I didn't have many for that reason. School, or really any place that would have kids my age, was hard for me. Most of them looked at me, and because of where I came from, they would judge me on the spot and say I was a spoiled little rich girl, when I never understood where that came from, because I had tried all my life to never act that way. But I guess people will think what they please no matter what.
"No," I peeped out. I impaled a piece of pancake and stuck it in my mouth. I peeked a look up at him from my plate. He furrowed his brows at me as he chewed. He spoke once he swallowed.
"I thought you were going out with Elizabeth to go shopping, or get your nails done, or do whatever it is teenage girls do." A subtle chuckled came out of me. I poked more holes in my pancakes.
"We were supposed to. But her family is visiting from London." Elizabeth was the closest thing to a real friend I had, but even so we didn't see each other much with our given schedules; me, always going to charity events and balls and galas with my father, and her with her family. Part of her family was somehow involved with the monarchy in Britain, and she was even a very long heir to the throne. If there was ever a mass epidemic or killing in Britain, she could be the next Queen of England.
"That's a shame." My father finished off his last piece of pancake as he popped it in his mouth, and had it chewed and swallowed within seconds. I still had at least half a pancake left. If there was one thing my father was, it was a professional eater. He had the appetite of a thousand kings, and could put each one of them to shame within seconds.
His blue eyes stayed on me; I had always been jealous of his eyes; I wish I had inherited them instead of the brown ones I have; blue is much more fun to get lost in. "But, I think I know what might brighten your spirits." I eyed him suspiciously as he pulled something out of his pocket and placed it on the table in front of me. I pushed my plate aside, done uninterested in what lay on the plate, and reached for what was in front of me. It was a little rectangular black box with a velvet coating. I slipped my finger between the top and bottom of the box and began to uncover whatever lay inside. I glanced back and forth between him and it before it was completely opened. I tried to read his face for any clues, but my father was a master actor, and quite the professional at hiding his feelings as well. My eyes meandered back to the box, now opened. Inside lay a beautiful snow white string of pearls, pretty enough for angels to wear. I had never been a pearls kind of girl, but I couldn't ignore the beauty that emitted from them. I looked up to my father with a smile I didn't know I was wearing.
"Dad, I know you have a lot of money, but these must have cost as much as I'm worth." His eyes carried from me to the pearls, a subtle smile on his face as he shook his head slightly, almost as if he was lost in thought.
"I didn't buy them. They were my mother's." I should have looked down at the necklace again, but I didn't. I watched my father, I watched his face and I knew he remembered his mother, and it was tragically beautiful to see him and know that to think of his mother, or his parents as an entirety, is so wonderfully torturous for him.
"She must have been very beautiful to wear something like this." I had seen pictures of my grandmother, but I knew nothing could compare to having your eyes on the real thing. My father's attention wavered to me slowly, as if he literally had to tear his eyes from the sight of his memories.
"Ever since I found out that you would be a girl, I had been dreaming of the day I could give these to you. And I knew they would look just as beautiful on you as they did on my mother. But," he reached out and shut the little box while it was still in my grasp, and then lifted it up and pulled it back towards him a bit. My eyes went from him to the box then back to him. "You can only have these on one condition."
"Anything."
"You have to wear them tonight when you come with me to the charity ball." A lazy smile cascaded my expression. I had been to literally hundreds of charity balls in my lifetime, one more couldn't hurt. Besides, it's better than spending my birthday most likely alone in a huge mansion. He slid the box on the table back towards me as my fingers met the box but my attention on him.
"Are you asking me to be your date?" I asked with a sly look.
"Well you know me. I only ask the prettiest girls." My father should be given a medal for his ability to always get the perfect last word. I had seen him do it millions of times; with me, Alfred, even other rich and powerful people. I hoped when I was his age I would be able to be sly like that too.
"Thanks Dad." He began to get up and take his plate over to the sink already overflowing with dishes, when he stopped midstride.
"Hey, and since today is your birthday, I'll have Alfred take you out dress shopping later." I smiled at him, as his back turned once again to continue on to the sink. He deposited his plate, leaving the initial cleanup to Alfred, and without another word or look my way, he made his way through the kitchen doors, leaving them to swing back and forth until they found a rhythm together and eventually stood still once more.
I stayed where I was, watching the door to see if it really was still or still slightly moving, until my mind bored of it. My sight and attention grazed on the pearls in the box. I traced my fingers over them; they really were beautiful and so elegant, like something a woman much wiser than I should wear. I gently pulled them from the box and took them tenderly between my fingers and laced them around my neck, hooking it firmly in the back. My hands kept a hold on them; the pearls pushing down on the weight that had been on me from birth.