Another Death
--"sparkvallen"

Naturally, characters are owned by DC Comics so I am just seeing where else I can take them for free. ;)



I cannot look to my left.
That's where he is lying.
I can't look.
Just look straight ahead, Bruce.
Not even into the eyes of those staring back at you.
Weeping softly in their seats.
Waiting for you to have the right words to say.
Something compassionate.
An endearing story.
They're counting on you.


Bruce stare remained fixed on the back wall.

Then they are counting on the wrong person, he thought.

"There's been another death," he said finally, "that is my fault."

Surprised looks and even a gasp came from the assembled mourners. After a moment's pause, they realized that Bruce must be still blaming himself for his parents' murder, as he'd done as a boy.

He remembered. "I have no wish," he'd said, "to spend my few remaining years, grieving for the loss of old friends. Or their sons." Who remained? Who was left grieving? He'd simply stared back at Alfred that day in the Cave, thinking his worries were unreasonable.

"Another whom I've failed to protect," Bruce continued after a moment's pause. "One who counted on me, who expected I'd be there until the end. And... when the end came, I failed. I--"

I couldn't have known!
The stress of all of this was eating away at his heart.
Could I?
I should have known.
That's the point!
I killed him with my fool's mission.
He stood by me and I failed.
Failed once again.
Failed him.


The mourners stared up at Bruce's eerily calm face, this face that was so placid that masked all the agony he was going through. He blamed himself? Everyone knew Alfred Pennyworth was well into his eighties and had continued to work for Bruce Wayne despite suggestions of retirement. He'd worked himself to death. Everyone knew. But Bruce couldn't see?

"I-- Too many people have counted on me, expected me to be able to save them. I can't. I... I fail. I'm not there for anyone," he went on.

Look, Bruce.
You have to face this reality.
You have to.


He risked a glance to his left. At the casket.

Best that money could buy.
For what that's worth:
Nothing.


He forced himself to look into the casket, to look at the face of the man who'd been his surrogate father, his teacher, his best friend. The face of the man he'd killed when he'd sworn never to take a life.

"I'm sorry, Alfred. I failed you," he whispered.