A/N: So, hi. I am not dead! This is a collection of internal monologues I wrote for a class and I thought they turned out pretty nice. Thanks for reading!
Bruce Tells His Son How Much He Cares About Him (And Blames Himself For Everything)
That battle was awful; I'll be the first to admit. You'd say it was "so gosh-darn thrilling" or that the "serious business danger was so serious you could literally see the Wall Street conference table," in your bizarre, joking way. You'd laugh and go along your merry way, to the kitchen to greet Alfred with your bright smile and shining azure eyes, telling all about how the "Dynamic Duo saved the day once again!" But, you're not right now.
Now, you're pallid with dark circles under your lidded eyes. You're littered with cuts and bruises, the worst of it on your neck. Deep purple, black, and blue mar porcelain skin. You have a severe protuberance on the side of your head. Medically speaking, you're comatose, induced by asphyxiation and head trauma. What happened, son, if you don't remember, is you were being choked before you fell. You couldn't breathe, couldn't right yourself in the air to fall how you'd been trained. You fell three feet, five and a half inches, onto your head. You've been out for three days. I…I'm sorry. It's my fault for not being there when I was needed. I have no excuse, as your mentor and especially as your father.
...I don't act like a father, do I? I distance myself from you so much. Your late parents never did that to you. They always stayed right by your side and reminded you that they loved you. You'd say that it's not my fault; that I'm a busy man and that it's understandable that I don't have time for you. But, you see, son, I do have time for you. And when I don't, I want to make time to spend with you. I don't because I don't want you to get hurt. Everyone who I care about or who gets close to me gets hurt or really, killed, and I won't let that happen to you. I can't let that happen to you.
I know you're comatose, but I need you to know something: you are my son and I am proud of you. There is not a day that passes that I don't love you. I know I don't tell you that often enough, but it's true. I don't know how to express to you that I am proud of you, Dick. I know you'd say that you understand, that you know it's because when someone has a genius IQ, their brain cannot process emotions the same way normal people can. You'd never stop to consider any other possibility; like that I don't display emotion because I choose not to. You're more understanding than anyone else I know. You still look up to me, no matter what.
…Am I like that to you: understanding and compassionate? I must not come across that way at all. I seem so emotionless. I act like I don't care. How can you see me as a good role model? I am so stubborn, so vengeful and so dark and so angry. I'm broken and hateful. I am a man living two lives to compensate for that: the billionaire and the Bat. I hate myself. Do you see me the same way, Dickie? Do you hate me as much as I hate me?
You should, but you don't. Why? I cannot wrap my head around that.
Dick, I doubt I'll ever understand you. You are the light to my darkness and I thank you for that. I'll be here for you from now on, whenever you need me. I'll be here when you wake up. When you get better, we can go shoot hoops. Does that sound good? I won't neglect you anymore. You're my ward. You've taught me that I don't need to be all by myself and that even I'm lovable. Thank you, son.
