Bruce ignored the phone, as it continues it's overlay of recorded messages that he had no interest in.
He rubs the newspaper article in between his fingers, a sort of surreal dread clogging his throat, filling his chest, his heart. Not an anger, or sadness, or grief. Dread. Like the kind children get on Sunday nights, at the back of your mind, there's school tomarrow. No matter what.
The headline is bold, loud, screaming at Bruce through it's paper confinds, and he want to burn it. Burn it, so it will stop shouting at him, reminding him of all he didn't do.
He lets it crumble as he clenches his fist. He hears Alfred in the other room, cleaning something, shining something, cooking something. Whatever he does, and Bruce remembers he never really payed attention to what it is Alfred does. Does he clean all day? Does he just march around the manor, hunting for a speck of dirt, an ant? Does he even sleep?
Bruce lets his mind distract itself with these thoughts, letting the words on the piece of paper blend into each other as his eyes unfocused.
But he couldn't, as the words kept screaming at him, even when he looked away, let them fall into the trash can, took a lighter, lit the whole damn thin on fire, stomped it out.
These events rotated in blur, and Bruce wasn't sure if he were moving or his eyes were playing tricks on him.
Alfred comes into the room with a dustrag. He ask Bruce if he would like some tea, coffee. Bruce sends him away without a glance, looking at the charred renments of the destroyed words. But they are still there. They are on every TV screen, every newspaper stand, every billboard, poster, news station. They float from people's mouths in thick, bold, bright lettering, every time he enters a room. They are branded on in concious, his thoughts, his mind. He can't escape them. Maybe he doesn't want to.
He gets up and walks into the hallway, stopping at the last door on the right. He looks at it, dark wood. Old, since the house was build. It hasn't been open since the owner of the room left years ago.
He stands there, looking at it, without really looking at it. Just thinking.
Maybe, if he stand there long enough, someone will come out, whining about how it's a crime against humanity to get up at six thirty a.m.
Maybe, but probably not.
Still, he stands and waits.
He considers opening the door, looking around. He doesn't. He thinks about it, though.
Finally, he goes back to his study, which still spells of burned paper. He sits down, and rubs his eyes. He tries to drown out the dead word's shouts, but he knows he never will.
Teen Titans Leader Dead.