DISCLAIMER: The only thing I claim as my own is the name "Andrew Starner." Anything you recognize is someone else's genius.
If you want some more insight into the mind of Andrew, read my story called "Pokerface."
This is Version 2.0 of this chapter, so if you've read the story before you might want to do it again. It's changed a lot since I've been revising.
Reviews give you good karma; even the bad ones.
RATED T for some language, mutilation, child abuse, and gore.
"Master Wayne! Master Wayne!" Bruce sat straight upright – he hadn't been sleeping. The night was too troubled for sleep.
"What is it, Alfred?"
"The first-floor parlour is on fire, Master Wayne. I've already called the fire department; we need to leave, now!" Bruce leapt from his bed and ran to the door, not bothering to pick up the shirt to his pajama set.
"Where's Andrew?"
Bruce sprinted down the hall to the boy's room and threw the door open.
"Andrew!" He wasn't there. Bruce's heart pounded in his throat – the boy could be anywhere, doing anything. He was responsible, Bruce knew, although he was ready to be proven wrong. He crossed the room and burst into the adjoining bathroom, slipping and almost falling as he entered. "Oh my GOD!"
He stood in a pool of blood. Blood was splattered on the pristine white tile, the walls, and the sink held an eerie pool of it. Rivers of it perforated the mirror. Three bloody fingertips had dashed a thick stripe of it across the glass. Bruce looked at his reflection, marred by the gruesome smile drawn upon it. The same bloody fingers had scrawled a chilling query above his head on the mirror.
WHY SO SERIOUS?
He turned and rushed from the room, leaving gory footprints behind him. He met Alfred at the door.
"Alfred, we need to find that kid. He could be anywhere…."
"You saw the bathroom, Master Wayne," Alfred said calmly, guiding Bruce toward the front of the house. "The boy's killed himself."
"You don't know that!"
"He's been threatening to do it for weeks. Think of yourself, for now, and get out of this house before it burns to the ground." They heard sirens in the distance, but Bruce's thoughts were not on them. He allowed himself to be led from the house, the boy's face in his mind.
What was I thinking? I could never have saved him.
Andrew, how Bruce last saw him: scattered on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, his eyes frenzied.
It was bound to happen.