Weew fanfic ideas at 6 AM~ Enjoy :3
The wooden bench is hard underneath me. Hard, too, am I, indifferent to the murmurs around me, unhearing of offered condolences and encouragement. Winter sunlight streams into the courtroom from the high windows, but I can't get warm, despite the fact that I wear a heavy coat. I'm cold, cold as I was that night when I was eight, the events of which are being judged today.
The pounding of the gavel signifies the court is in session. I watch the judge's lips move, but I can't make out what he's saying. My roiling emotions act as a filter, siphoning off all excessive stimuli. My senses are reduced to a dull drone in my ears, a slight tingling in my otherwise numb fingertips, a taste like ashes flooding my dry mouth. Other officials speak, at least I think they do, because different-sounding voices reach my buzzing ears. I hear nothing clearly but my father's even tones masking his fear, my mother's screams, the shots that changed my world forever, leaving a ringing and roaring silence in their wake.
I idly wonder if I'm going insane.
The man who has almost been my obsession for years stands. He begins to speak, spinning some sob story of his remorse. In the wake of the initial rage comes a kind of clarity. My breathing, so rapid before, slows and calms. My vision narrows exclusively to the back of his head. I try to peer inside, pick apart those wisps of graying hair to the brain inside in a futile attempt to find out why. The answer to the question I've been asking myself for years is right there, mere feet from me. If only I knew how to get to it.
My filter snaps off as the judge says, "I gather a member of the Wayne family is here today. Does he have anything to say?" He looks in my direction; I can see this in my peripheral vision, focused as I am on the man who should never have been up for appeal. I imagine the judge's face has a kind of pity in it, but I dismiss that thought. He won't be feeling so sympathetic towards me by the end of the day.
I rise. The courtroom collectively sucks in its breath. Maybe I was going to say something, I don't know. The words get caught in my throat, choking on the grief that's stuck to my Adam's Apple. For an instant I'm eight years old again, sitting in the police station, unable to answer the gentle questioning of the officers. Instead of my coat, I feel Officer Gordon's patrol jacket around my shoulders, too big, gingerly arranged, a nice gesture but bringing no warmth.
So cold. After all these years, I still can't get warm.
I turn and march out of the courtroom, everything inside me condensing into a single point of rage. The outside world is swirling into a confused kaleidoscope of color and a babble of noise. I was just as silent now as I was that night as I watched my parents die. I am furious with myself, yet I am calm. I do not lose control.
The gun, hidden in my pocket and banging against my leg, will do all the talking for me.
;-; Poor bby Bruce. Thank you for reading; reviews are always appreciated!
