Don't Stop Now What You're Doing
I suppose I should introduce myself further, before I continue with my story. The rest of it will make little sense without knowing more about me and my life.
It was a beautiful city. That's what I'm told, anyway. Before the depression, before greed and corruption tainted the lovely buildings. When I was young, all this had already made it a place to be generally feared. But I didn't grow up in the city, not until after my parents left.
My mother was an aristocrat. Or, anyway, as close as people in our country get to it. Her name was Emily Stanhope. Her family had been wealthy and lived on the edge of Gotham for over a hundred years. They were not as well-known as, say, the Waynes, but were well-to-do nonetheless. What her childhood was like, I don't know. I only know that when she was nearly thirty, both of them died in a car accident. Mother's husband (divorced) had been with them. She was, naturally, quite devastated. Because of their wealth, and their tragedy, reporters came constantly to question her about insignificant details. She grew to hate them as vultures who profited on the misfortune of others. Except one.
My father was a reporter, George Ducard. His family was from the Midwest, and he escaped them to "make it" in Gotham. Apparently, his leaving was not welcomed by his family, for they have never spoken to any of us. Anyway, he was a compassionate soul and took pity on my mother. He kept the other reporters away. He would admit quite freely that he had ulterior reasons for this (it would then be his story, after all), but he loved my mother.
Needless to say, Mother's family, what remained of it, strongly disapproved of her relationship with a "commoner." They despised him for his profession and for his tactlessness. The latter was certainly a problem. He often got himself into trouble because he didn't think before he spoke. But, anyway, Mother's family disowned her and left her with little of her inheritance. How they achieved that, I don't know. But somehow, Mother was forced from her parents' mansion. She did, however, have enough money to move into a small country cottage outside of town with my father.
Soon after, my brother, Alexandre, was born. My mother was quite amused with her new French last name, and determined to name the children with proper French names. It was, however, some time before she was again pregnant and could think of more names. I don't know what happened in those five years between my birth and my brother's. The city, of course, became more infested with corruption. It was staved slightly by the Waynes. But neither of these had much to do with us, or so my mother believed. But the media was (is) heavily influenced by those in power. My father was probably not the upstanding citizen we like to think about, since we were never openly bothered.
I was born in an oddly safe time in the city. When I was five, the Waynes were tragically killed. The wealthy and powerful worked hard to continue their legacy, which had before been merely considered an eccentricity. We did not have enough money to engage in anything similar, so we didn't change.
My young life is only little in my waking memory. I have a few images and things I recall. I remember our cottage. It was very comfortable, just large enough for the four of us. I remember my brother and my parents, and pleasant family activities. Father's work took him all around the country sometimes, though Gotham was plenty newsworthy. But one tires of reporting the regular atrocities of city life. Father, and the rest of us, welcomed what seemed great peace elsewhere in the country. Of course, my brother and I were not permitted to accompany them when in school. We stayed behind and the housekeeper (when we could afford one) cared for us as well. Mother always went with Father.
I loved my mother. But I fear she preferred her husband to her children. This, however, was not brought home to me for some time, and I was content to be with my brother and Nan, as we called the housekeeper, who left us when I was seven.
I went to a nice little elementary school in the country. That's when I met Lisa, before both of our families fell on hard times and moved to the city. Even as a child, she was a beauty. This made her able to get away with a lot. I didn't have her beauty, but I had more charm. Or so I'm told. We were terrors, I'm afraid, always running about and getting into (and out of) trouble. No one was able to stay mad at us for long.
My brother fared differently. As the firstborn, and a boy, he was heavily laden with responsibility. While I was permitted to run loose, he was charged with keeping me in line. This was, I'm sure, a difficult task. I adored my brother, and idolized him, but I didn't follow his directions all of the time. I don't think we got along very well when I was young.
Alex went to a private elementary school, and, later, middle school. He took that much more seriously than the other students. I have no doubt that my parents frequently reminded him how poorly they were able to pay for his education (which was not entirely true) whenever he was not doing well. He worked very hard so they would be proud of him. But they were too obsessed with each other to notice. I'm glad they loved each other, but they didn't have time for two children. They mainly focused their doting on me, on the rare occasion that they doted.
I did stop running wild when I was introduced to the same school later on. We attended it together for a year, which was fun for me. I don't think he liked having me there, just another place to keep track of me. But I had sobered up, as Lisa had. She was the only child until she was seven, when her parents began to have more children. She was then the oldest and had to care for her siblings. Like my brother, she embraced the responsibility. I think that my brother had a great influence on that, though. She adored him as much as I did, though in a different way. Losing him was quite a blow to both of us. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
But I've forgotten my sister. She's technically my half-sister, and was not raised with us. My father adopted her legally, though Mother's side of the family kept her away from us. I should start at the beginning.
Mother married early, probably too early. The man she married was seven years older and adored by her parents. They had pushed her to marry him, though he was quite sweet to her. He was from a wealthy family, and both were delighted with the union. Mother was happy enough with it, I suppose. But he was not very. I think he felt Mother was beneath him, and he loved another young lady, from a family higher in the social hierarchy. Mother quickly became disenchanted with him, for she did not value social standing.
However, she did have a daughter, Renee. I suppose she liked French names before meeting my father. The marriage had so rapidly turned sour that Mother was living with her parents when Renee was born. The divorce was finalized before my sister learned to crawl. Mother was overcome with depression, considering herself to be doomed to be single for life.
My grandparents cared for Renee, with little help from my mother. Renee's father helped, but soon had a new family to care for. It was against his sense of honor to abandon his child, regardless of how he felt for its mother. He was a good man, and his new wife was kind and understood the importance of honor. Unlike my mother, who abandoned her child without much regret.
I repeat: I loved my mother. But she was not cut out for the job, I guess. She was the pampered daughter of the wealthy, and had not been properly instilled with her duty. But everyone is selfish and I forgive her.
Renee was raised quite differently than Alex and me. In fact, I did not even meet her until she was a young adult.
When she was three, my grandparents and her father died. Her father's widow and children were swept off to live with her family in Europe, and she was thrown quite out of her comfort zone. My mother didn't know what to do with her, and was soon distracted by a reporter. Renee was briefly forgotten, before being rescued by Mother's cousins. They took care of her until she was five, then she was sent to boarding school. She spent most of her life there, until she was eighteen. Then she returned to us, but I'll get to that.
Renee is four years other than Alex, and nine years older than me. I heard about her a lot as a child, how wonderful and distinguished she was. Mother was very proud to have a child in upscale boarding schools, though I doubt she cared much beyond that. She was happy for her daughter, and saddened by any unhappiness. But not saddened to the point of actually doing something about it.
Father was better at showing compassion, but he was rarely around. Mother was more of a playmate, with petulance and mood-swings, than a mother. Father behaved as a father should, I suppose. It was in his absence that I ran wild with Lisa, but I was well behaved when he came back from his trips. He entrusted Alex with the care of Mother and me equally, not expecting Mother to be more mature in her decisions. But it is hard for a seven-year-old to counsel his mother.
Despite all this, I look at my childhood fondly. Perhaps only because I know of no other, and children are generally happy with their lot, being unaware of any other way for things to be. Even now, I don't know how my childhood could have been better. Perhaps Mother could have loved us more, but she herself was incapable of that. I would have had to have a different mother, which would certainly have come with her own issues and shortcomings to be dealt with. So, I will not complain. Things could have been worse more easily than better.
Thus, my first nine years of life passed without much discomfort. I went to school and played with Lisa. I came home and played with Mother or listened to Father tell stories. I frequently did as my brother asked of me, once I realized what a burden my actions were to him. The wide world outside of my home and my school rarely pervaded my knowledge. I occasionally heard stories of my family, and of the lovely young lady who was called my sister. Her existence, and the disapproval of Mother's family, was a distant fact that could never touch me. Or so I thought.