This randomly popped into my head one day, and I had to write it! I've been proofing it like mad, because it is in the point of view of Bruce Wayne, and he is smart. To clarify something, this is not the Bruce Wayne- the drunken idiot; and it is not Batman. This is Bruce Wayne- the man behind all the lies; the man who saw his parents die and the man who no one really knows (except Alfred). So I hope that you too are able to see Bruce sitting at his Bat-computer typing this up; as this is an excerpt from his journal, I hope it is written in character. I own nothing, but a vivid imagination. Hope you enjoy reading this, and please review!
-Start digital journal.
I honestly don't know why I still write this… Maybe it's to remember who I really am, or because Alfred makes me. Either way, I might as well get started on what made me write this.
I had THAT dream again. The one with my parents… It was different this time though.
It started out like it always does.
We turned the corner, and walked into THE alley- the alley where they were shot. I held my mother's hand in mine as we walked. A man came up to us, demanded our money and held a gun up to our heads. However, this time before he pulled the trigger- I stepped forward, and slapped the gun out of his hand. I punched him in the face – a standard move I use today.
My parents were rejoiced that we were safe. My mother kissed me on the cheek; my father ruffled my hair and told me good job. Then suddenly they started laughing.
At first I joined them in their laughter. After a moment I stopped; something was wrong. They kept laughing, their smiles growing larger, and larger. Then my mother gasped, and stopped laughing- same as my father. I looked at their chests, they were bleeding profoundly. Then they fell backwards- shot dead.
I looked up, and thought I saw the devil standing there. He could have been the devil.
With his pale white skin like the moon; his dark and hallow eyes revealing an absence of a soul. His green hair- mocking society and everything orthodox in the world. And his lips- those blood red lips that seemed to stretch to the ends of the world, proclaiming all his. As if his lips were the devil's arms embracing the world in a choke hold. Redder than blood, and perhaps more red than hell itself.
Anyway, the man, rather the monster, Joker stepped out of the shadows. He looked down at the bodies, then up at me, then back down, and back up. He moved one hand over his mouth and spoke.
"Oopsie, did I do that? I'm sorry. I meant to kill you too! OH WELL! An orphan is as good as dead in my book!" then he threw back his head, and he laughed. I felt tears coming to my eyes, when a bat flew by. But instead of feeling frightened as I did when I was a child- or feeling the inspiration that I do now- I felt worried.
The Joker paused in his laughter, and cocked his gun. Then the bat was on the ground, twitching, and bleeding. I wanted to scream, but found I couldn't.
"No family, and no inspiration; what's a little orphan boy like you to do?" Joker said to me tauntingly.
Then I woke up, Alfred brought me breakfast, and I came down here to the Batcave.
That's all for now; I don't even know why I bothered to type that dream up. It was a dream; nothing more.
-End Journal entry-
