"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's engagement is dedicated to the man brought back from the dead—our very own Prince of Gotham: Bruce Wayne!"
Thunderous applause erupted from the dozens of party guests at the gala thrown in Bruce's honour. He'd been home for little over a month and the lavish parties were nearly never-ending. This was the first one Bruce attended and he brought me along for the occasion. He said he wanted to do something fun together, but I don't know if he really felt that way; things were unbearable between us for the first three months he was back.
It took over three hours of convincing, but Bruce relented and I brought Parker along for company. I would never have been able to handle being there without him. This was Bruce and my first foray in public together, and the amount of attention I was getting from everyone was almost excruciating. Having Parker there, another manifestation of my selfishness, made things easier to bear. Bruce stood near the podium, looking like the definition of dapper with a champagne glass lifted in acknowledgment and a smug grin on his face. It was infuriating.
"Well, thank you, everyone. If I knew I had this many friends, I would have disappeared a hell of a lot sooner," Bruce said with a half-assed smirk.
People laughed, eating up Bruce's words like they were dropped nuggets of gold. Bruce wasn't being funny; it was snark laced with sarcasm, and it rode the line between rude and charmingly aloof. He was dressed to the nines in a smooth tuxedo, his hair slicked back, shoes shined to a brightened gleam, and a cocky air that made me want to punch it out of him. This was a version of Bruce I'd never seen before. I avoided my feelings for Parker and crippling guilt in an on-and-off relationship with self-abuse. For Bruce, I was dodging the deep and long-held anger by not spending any more time with him than necessary. I think he felt the same way on some level. Bruce kept trying on different personalities to see which one worked best with me. He never found the version of himself that existed before he left, the one I loved but let me down in a way that never recovered.
"You were always the funny one, Bruce," the host of the party said. I don't even remember his name, just the ingratiating look on his face. It also provided plenty of fodder for Parker and me to do mocking impressions of later. "To many happy returns!"
We were in the main ballroom of some five-star hotel Bruce just bought, high above the regular people of Gotham on the top floor. I never knew Bruce to spend so wildly before he disappeared, and the flashing of opulent wealth was counter to everything Mom taught me. White marble floors, thirty-foot ceilings with faux Italian murals, and ionic columns gave the room a gaudy, try-hard feel. A string quartet with bored-looking musicians were playing Brahms, ruining the song for me and adding to the idea of elitism that everyone exuded. There was a lot of food, nothing filling, of course, just fancy little hors d'oeuvres that looked nice but left you craving a cheeseburger afterward. Alcohol was ever-flowing, with waiters handing out fresh flutes just as the last drops of champagne graced the bottom of the glass.
I felt very out of place amongst it all. My dress was too tight and a flashy shade of purple. I was the only brown girl there, and I already felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb. I didn't like how the dress hugged every inch of me, defining the parts I wanted to keep hidden. Bruce picked it out, showing up one day with a car full of expensive garbage we didn't need. He paid to have someone style my hair in a bunch of elaborate curls I would never have been able to do on my own. He didn't know me well enough to understand I never wore anything revealing, preferring instead to hide in my clothes and fade into the background. I was wearing heels—I never wear those—that made my feet ache, and my skin felt like it was on fire from the paranoid certainty that people were staring at me.
"Miri, did you try that stuff with the crab?" Parker whispered to me as he and I pretended to listen to the rest of the speeches supposedly honoring the Wayne legacy.
"I'm eighty-nine percent sure that's lobster," I whispered back. One lady in red glared at us for our daring failure to fake rapt attention at the asinine words spilling out of some guy's mouth.
Parker looked at the small piece of bread topped with avocado, coarse-looking pepper, tomatoes, and the mystery seafood with exaggerated incredulity.
"Would it kill them to label this stuff? It's not like they have a shortage of minions lingering around the kitchen," he said while simultaneously stuffing the food in his mouth. He chewed slowly before he decided it was good enough to eat more, grabbing another four from the passing tray. He'd been eating non-stop since we arrived, and the way his cheeks puffed out when he was eating was adorable.
"Parker, don't pretend that would've stopped you."
His side glare caused a small fit of laughter I could barely hold back. My giggle was too loud, and I had to clamp a hand over my own mouth to keep the noise low. A snappy glare from an elderly man next to us shut me up quickly. I turned my giggles into a small cough but almost started right up again by the look on Parker's face.
"Sure, laugh it up. Hilarious," he muttered with a mouth full of food.
I may have come from money, but Mom was largely anti-social. She didn't like crowds or the sycophantic ass-hats that plagued these events. Mom was more cynical that way—she never trusted anyone when money was involved. We never went to parties, and her lack of social upkeep kept her and me below the radar until she died. People suddenly cared who I was when I went to live with Bruce. After he disappeared and showed no signs of returning, most people went back to ignoring my existence. I liked it a lot better that way. It was too bad the pendulum swung in the other direction when he returned. Now Bruce, and me by extension, were hounded by reporters and internet bloggers looking for a quick story everywhere we went.
The flashing cameras and new sounds of applause signaled that I could stop pretending to listen. Parker went to go snag one of the open chairs at the rows of tables sitting along the edges of the room. Parker underwent grueling physical therapy in the years since… since the beating he took that should have been mine to bear.
Alfred made me join a few AA meetings when he found out about the drugs, hiding the medicine in the house and enforcing a strict curfew. Alfred didn't understand that I wasn't hooked on the pills themselves. Most days I didn't feel any urge at all to take them. That is, until I saw Parker struggle to regain full function of his body or any sort of kind look from Soo-ah. Or late at night, when sleep wouldn't come and I was plagued with visions I couldn't escape from.
I hadn't touched anything in three years, but that didn't matter to Alfred. Anytime he saw a dip in my mood, patterns of reclusive behaviour, or if I took anything stronger than Advil, he threatened me with rehab, counseling, and the possibility of medication to level me out. Alfred didn't realize I'd grown adept at repressing what I didn't want to remember all on my own. That was before. When there were fewer reminders about how badly I fucked up—how I was poison to everyone around me. Though Parker could walk without a limp then, he tired easily after standing for too long. I went to follow him when I felt a hand on my arm.
"Miriam Kane, right?" the man said in a tone that connoted he knew who I was.
From the way he was dressed, I knew he wasn't one of the rich ilks that surrounded me. He was wearing a suit that looked too big in the shoulders and had a small stain on the lapel where he tried unsuccessfully to scrub it out. He wore glasses, had a mousy shade of brown hair, and a five o'clock shadow he needed to shave. Thick-framed glasses created a border around his eyes that made him look cartoonish. He wasn't bad looking, objectively. Something about him was off-putting, like he was looking at my smallest flaws to laugh about later.
"Yeah, do I know you?"
Vague hostility with strangers wasn't a trait I left behind in high school, but I tried to cut back the bite in my tone. I didn't like how his gaze flicked to my chest and I crossed my arms over my torso, trying to angle myself away from him. I felt way too exposed in the dress and I silently cursed Bruce not for the first time that night.
"No, no, I guess you wouldn't. Sorry, I'm Jack Ryder," he said, extending his hand out for me to shake. I took it apprehensively and didn't like how he tried to crush my fingers in his grip. "Quite the party, huh? These guys sure know how to have a good time."
I didn't like his smile either. It was trying too hard. Shooting a glance over my shoulder, Parker started waving me over.
"Yeah, that's one way of putting it." I tried turning away, signaling with my body language that I wasn't interested in conversation, but he side-stepped around me and kept talking.
"So, what's is like having Bruce back home? Must have been quite the shock. Did he ever let you know he was coming back or reach out at all when he was gone?" He was asking way too many questions, more than was appropriate. Especially given that most people there knew to hide their ripened curiosity with leading questions and inquiries about current events without caring what the actual answers were.
"Um, excuse me—" I shouldn't have been polite. I blamed Mom for ingraining so many rules of social engagement in me.
"Sorry, am I keeping you from your boyfriend? How long have you two been together?" His rapid-fire questions made my cheeks burn and I didn't like how personal they were.
Social etiquette be damned, I thought.
My temper got away from me; the impulsive insults were only partially involuntary. "OK, look—Jack, right? Do me a favour and piss off." Instead of looking taken aback, Jack smiled. It's then that I noticed the pad of ruled paper in his hand. He was taking notes, sizing me up like he was my psychiatrist.
Of course, this asshole's a reporter, I thought.
I didn't have time to insult him further. Bruce snuck up behind me and threw a, what I thought was at the time, drunken arm around my shoulders. His speech was slightly slurred, and he felt heavy against me.
"Look at you, Miri, making friends everywhere," Bruce said, still with that half-smile that offended me more than it should. His voice steadied, but it had a lilt meant to hide the biting derision. It didn't work very well. "I didn't think I invited anyone from the Gotham Times. Funny who managed to scurry in."
Jack stiffened for a moment, not missing the implications in Bruce's words, before going on the attack again.
"Bruce Wayne—the man of the hour. How does it feel to be back? Care to share where you were—"
Jack was interrupted by a movement that was too quick for me to see. When I looked back at Bruce, he was holding Jack's notepad.
"Usually when you conduct an interview, you tell the interviewee about it first. Or did I miss something new in journalism ethics while I was away?"
Jack didn't look amused. The grin he maintained before disappeared and was replaced by a grimace.
"I know this might be a new concept for you, Mr. Wayne, but it's generally frowned upon to take things that don't belong to you." Jack was bringing out his own snarkiness in an attempt to rival Bruce's. It would have been a funny exchange if I wasn't so angry.
"Huh. You don't say? I wonder what you'd call this, then." Bruce flung the notepad nonchalantly over his shoulder. His aim was true, and it landed right in the middle of one of the giant punch bowls, tainting the mix of juice and fancy alcohol with Jack's musings that he passed as being newsworthy.
"You son of a bitch," Jack muttered. His face flamed red and his balled hands shook.
Bruce didn't pay any attention to Jack's anger. He laughed lowly and took his arm from my shoulders, splaying them wide in a show of theatrics for the small crowd that watched with poorly-hidden amusement. The keen sting of embarrassment pricked my cheeks.
"You should learn to relax a little more, Jack. You're at a party after all—who knows when you'll be invited to another." Bruce had that smile again—one that showed his arrogance and a frustrating amount of charm. It set my blood on fire.
A few people laughed, but I wasn't interested in watching Jack be humiliated further. He was the walking definition of a douche-bag, no doubt about that. Bruce stooped to the same level as Jack, something I'd never seen him do in all the years I'd known him. The chasm time opened between us felt insurmountable at that moment, like I would never be able to see the man I knew—the one who used to be the model of perfection in my eyes. Bruce looked at me with an expression I saw as him urging me to join in the fun; to laugh along with the show he was putting on. I turned away and went to where Parker was still sitting, rubbing his thigh to ease the ache I knew he was feeling.
"What was that all about?" Parker asked when I sat next to him.
"Oh, you know. Just another day in the life of being related to Bruce Wayne." I sounded bitter, petulant, even. I didn't know how to handle my feelings towards Bruce. A small part of me itched for the drugs I had found peace in before—it would save me from destroying what little I had left to hold onto with Bruce. It was fleeting, but its presence—and the intensity of it to have passed the mental blocks I put in place—was enough to make me feel weary.
Alfred was so happy that Bruce was back, eager to have him home without questioning why he was gone. Even if it wasn't the same man at all. No explanation was given, no line of inquiries opened. Just a "hey, how've you been?" and an abrupt attempt at normalcy that hurt just as much as his absence did. I didn't want to be the one to ruin the precarious balance we had found, one that was rife with the possibility of spilling over at any moment—collapsing my world completely. That's why it hurts so bad that they lied about where Bruce really was, what he had become. They played me for a fool, hiding the truth that would have eased everything I felt in those seven years.
Parker understood. He always did.
"Hey, take a walk with me," Parker said. He got up in a fluid motion, but I saw the wince that touched his eyes.
"Parker, no. Rest your leg for a bit, please—" Parker waved away my words and he smiled, temporarily erasing my frustrations and itch to fall into old habits.
"Relaxing for a few minutes won't kill you, you know."
Parker was wrong about that. As well as Parker knew me, he didn't know the little things I did to continuously punish myself. I may have been bound to the Manor and school, had my drugs taken away from me, and denied the opportunity to have others inflict the pain they didn't know they were dealing out—but I was inventive in the ways I hurt myself. Punishment isn't always about the physical. Having too much fun, the pleasures that should have come with physical intimacy, even enjoying the foods I liked, letting go and relaxing—all of it was akin to admitting I deserved those things. Self-denial became an art form for me. Parker just hadn't realized it yet.
He took me by the hand and led me to one of the balconies that overlooked the Gotham skyline. The city looked beautiful from up there, a place where only good things happened, and nothing was marred with the toxicity I knew was festering just below the surface. The first inklings of who would be known as 'the Batman' started to be whispered about by then. A man spotted jumping from rooftops and leaving street criminals and thugs scared. In a few more weeks, Batman would make his debut as a force to be reckoned with.
The wind wasn't too strong that spring night, but it was still cold enough that I shivered. We could hear the music trickling in beyond the glass and white sheer curtains. Somber tones from the cello, and the high, soothing harmony of the violins, all working together to encapsulate the moment. I worked hard against the feelings they inspired, resisting the urge for the tension and anger to leave me.
"I always liked seeing Gotham from up high," Parker said after a minute. I stared at his profile before glancing back down at the streams of faint yellow and red of the cars stuck in traffic for miles ahead.
"Yeah?" It was becoming painful to speak, and I think Parker knew. He kept talking, easing my discomfort with his words and the sound of his voice.
"Yeah. You can't smell the garbage from up here, for one thing." That earned a laugh I didn't mean to make. "I don't know. I guess it makes me feel hopeful in a way. Like everything isn't all bad."
Parker struggled not just with the physical aspects of what happened to him, but the mental repercussions as well. The attack compounded his struggles with depression, providing me with another reason never to tell him the truth. Bravery came so effortlessly to him, I thought. He was so much stronger than me, but I didn't want to be the one to break him. Just thinking about it all—about everything I wanted to say but couldn't—made my eyes heavy with unshed tears.
Parker touched my arm. His expression was soft, and his goofy grin was back.
"C'mon, let's dance." He looked downright mischievous then. My blush of embarrassment came back full force at the thought. I'd never danced outside of the weird jerky motions I did alone in my room, and the prospect of doing so there tipped too much into the pool of self-indulgence. I shook my head and backed away. "What's the point of being at a fancy party if you're not going to dance? C'mon, Miri."
He was swaying in large, exaggerated circles, dancing with an invisible partner with a grace I envied.
"No, Parker. I don't dance. You know I have the poise of a platypus." I was trying to be funny, to brush off the serious tone underneath the jocularity.
Parker didn't give me much choice at all. He grabbed my hands in his and pulled me into step with his movements. He more than made up for my awkward stumbling, and there was a tension in the air that made my skin tingle. He kept us angled away from the main windows, in the corner of the balcony where it would be harder for others to see us.
"Where'd you learn to dance like this?" I was trying to hide the hope in my chest with distracting questions. I didn't want him to look too closely at me.
"Umma taught me. She said every good Korean boy needs to have all the makings of a proper gentleman." His voice took on a false air of a posh Englishman, both to lightly make fun of yet another one of Soo-ah's extracurricular activities she signed him up for and to lighten my mood.
"Does Jun know how to dance then?"
"God, are you kidding? Of course not."
We both laughed, the sound mingling with the music as it rose to a crescendo. There was that feeling again—one where a part of me was beginning to bloom with the possibility that maybe I had earned some small moment of happiness. The proximity of his body to mine was something I used to think about all the time, but I warped it—intermingling the feeling of physicality with shame and humiliation; the feelings that every part of me wasn't worthy of the affection Parker was showing me.
"You're not as bad as you make yourself out to be, Miri," Parker said, his breath moving through my hair. For a moment, I froze, thinking he discovered what I'd been trying so hard to hide. "We should do this more often. Umma will be happy I found a dance partner that isn't Mrs. Kim."
He was referring to his elderly neighbour who lived two doors down from his parents' house. She was barely half his height and had a fiery temper. The image of the two of them trying to dance created an image in my head that I couldn't help laughing at.
"Do you see it now, Miri?" he asked. The question caught me off guard. I didn't understand what he meant.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you see how everything you need is here now? You don't have to feel bad about trying to be happy." I could only stare, stopping the movement of our bodies and take in his face—how the lights of Gotham and the party inside warmed his features. Echoes from the first summer we spent together came to my mind.
"You don't have to fade away anymore, no one's leaving. Everything will be OK. You just gotta believe in that sometimes."
Parker and his eternal optimism were wrong. I thought what Ivan and I had done was the worst thing that could have happened to either of us. My mind couldn't conjure any evils beyond what I saw as a sixteen-year-old girl. Another cruel joke from God—he wanted to prove me wrong. To prove all of us wrong.
Something pulls me out of the stupor my mind wandered to, where things were bad, but they were better than what's happening right in front of me. What I can't accept. It's like I'm back in freshman year again, dwelling in a fantasy world that's better than reality.
"What's wrong with her?"
I hear the words, but I don't register their meaning. They don't matter, they won't change anything.
There's nothing that can make up for Parker.
I can't handle a reality without him. He got me through the worst time in my life. I abandoned him once already, and now I can never make up for it. Now I'm trapped in a waking nightmare I can't imagine myself out of. Even my memories—the ones I want to dwell on—are tainted with the knowledge of the present. Every time I lapse back into a state of mind that's safe, I'm drawn back out and away from any refuge.
Things were better when it was just me and Alfred. Fewer people to irreparably disappoint and lose. You knew better than to make friends, Miri. It's all your fault. You kill everything that's good.
There it is again. That tug on me, trying to draw my attention away from my thoughts; the words that have lost their meaning and what my body feels doesn't register fully.
Don't look at them. If you can't see them, they don't exist.
Something in the space is too bright. It feels like I'm both floating and incredibly heavy at the same time, being dragged ever downwards. There's a lamp shining in some distant corner that's blinding me, keeping my eyes from adjusting to the dark.
Maybe it's better this way. Nothing can hide in the light.
The nice thing about the light is it makes me focus on how much my eyes hurt. How my skin burns from the fire in the arcade and the blisters on my hands that weep blood. My mind aches with a pulsing behind my eyes and a throbbing beat banging at the back of my head. I've reassembled the mental prison I tried so hard to dismantle. I don't even know how I got back here.
Where is 'here' anyway?
Does any of it matter anymore?
"Miri," a voice says. It doesn't matter.
Nothing matters anymore.
My mind won't recall what's important. Just fragments of the past I wanted to forget forever but now can't bear the thought of losing. Memories are all I have left of the before—when Parker was alright and I could just be mad at Bruce for being an irresponsible whoremonger. This is worse. Worse than anything my mind could have invented on its own.
It's your fault. All of it.
Nothing seems real. The edges of what I'm seeing are too crisp; the colours oversaturated and scratching at the backs of my eyelids.
That's right. None of this is real.
"Miriam, please."
Some distant part of me knows I'm in pain. A lot of it. I can't seem to focus on it—a wisp that's just out of reach. I can feel the edges of it around my periphery, dancing—just like Parker and me that night—out of sight when it gets too close, but a constant reminder to alert me of its presence. My soul left with Parker's and now some small piece of me is trapped inside what remains of my battered body, trying to jump-start a corpse back to life.
Parker's dead because of you.
"Miriam."
A missing piece snaps back in my brain. It's enough for me to look around for the source of the noise, to see what's impeding me from disappearing entirely.
"Miriam, I need you to say something."
It's Bruce. He's here, somehow. He looks tired. Maybe he wants to disappear, too.
No, Bruce is gone. He's not coming back. You're all alone.
I go back to staring at the light when I'm shaken so violently I'm forced to look up. Bruce's face takes up most of my vision. Every pore, whisker, and blue and yellow traces of bruising are so clear. His eyes, the ones that just look brown from a distance, have flecks of gold and green. There are hints of purple under them, and little lines mark his skin. Beyond all that, he looks like he did before he left. Like he never disappeared at all.
He can't be real. I would have noticed all of this before. Right? I would have noticed.
His mouth's moving, forming words I don't hear. I stare at how the pink contrasts with the pale white of his skin. It's all just little details. Marks made on a painting.
I'm shaken again, jarring my aching head back and forth. My eyes blink a few times and sound hits me in waves. It's an eerie quiet, a reverberation of sound that hammers in my ears more than the talking in the background. It's the familiar Cockney accent of Alfred's voice, the low hum of Rachel's. Distantly, I register the panic coming from Bruce.
"Talk to me." He's pleading with me, and I don't know why.
Doesn't he know I'm empty now? Why does it look like he's about to cry?
He lets out a long exhale of frustration. My eyes track his movements: the hand that goes through his hair before pinching the bridge of his nose; the moisture that brims around his eyes; his broad shoulders coming forward in a motion of internal pain; the hands that reach out and hold my own. It's a familiar gesture, one that pulls me back out from where I've receded, grounding me back in the room. I realize suddenly that 'here' is the penthouse.
Why am I not with Parker? I should be there with him. He can't be alone.
"If you won't talk, can you at least hear me? Can you understand what I'm saying?" Another plea. Some part of me doesn't want to answer.
It's not real if you don't want it to be.
My anger with Bruce is gone. Deep loneliness fills my chest, pushing my ribs apart and pressing against my spine. I don't know if I should open myself to his words.
What will it hurt? Nothing matters anyway. It won't change anything.
Not speaking, I nod my head ever so slightly. Just enough for him to know I'm listening now.
The next breath is one of tentative relief.
"Miriam, I—" Bruce starts before stopping himself. More sensations come back to me and, with them, the visions of violence and blood and death. The more aware I become the worse they are. Soft fabric rubs against the jacket I realize I'm still wearing. I wonder if the gun is still there.
If it was, would you use it on yourself? The perfect solution for a permanent problem.
You are the problem.
Hands are on my stomach again, going up my sides and touching my ribs. I don't know if what I'm feeling was ever real or not, and I'm not sure I care anymore. I'm sitting on Bruce's bed and both Rachel and Alfred are gone. I have no idea how much time has passed since I heard them speak. It's dark outside, well into the night. Bruce's room feels cold and empty.
Just like me.
"Alfred told me what happened." My eyes snap to his in alarm.
No, he didn't. Alfred said he wouldn't.
"Miriam, what happened to Parker wasn't your fault."
Now I'm shaking violently all on my own. I rip my hands away like he burned me, burying my face in them. I can't look at Bruce anymore. His face is too real; it's lost the dream-like quality.
Go back to where you were. He doesn't understand. He doesn't get it. He knows now—he knows what kind of person I am. He hates me.
I hate me.
"No. It's my fault. My fault." I'm surprised that it's my own voice I hear. It's so small, almost child-like. A pitch I thought I outgrew.
I'm in danger of snapping back to the present. To a full body realization of my own failings and the agony rippling through every part of me. To how broken I am. I can't even find it in me to blame the Joker. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for me. It all started because of the choices I made. Me alone. If I talk anymore, it'll pitch me over a ledge I'm not capable of saving myself from.
"Can I tell you something, Miriam?" Bruce's voice is gentle and quiet. It appeals to the small, vulnerable part of me, the one that would run to Bruce to chase the monsters away—even the ones I invented.
He's pulling at my hands, trying to look me in the eyes again. The feeling is accompanied by sensations I don't remember experiencing. A creeping touch tracing along my clavicle.
"I never told you why I left, and I should have." Bruce has my full attention now, or at least, the full amount I'm capable of summoning. "I have a lot of anger, Miri. Anger at Joe Chill, and the vengeance I couldn't get for my parents. At Gotham, for being the place that drained away almost everything I loved."
Bruce is looking away now, staring at the gauze wrapped around my hands. He traces the edges of them gently.
"Why did you leave me all alone?" There's that voice again. The one I don't recognize. I don't feel very grown up at all—I feel weak, helpless.
That's because you are helpless. You couldn't save Parker and you can't even save yourself.
There it is. A truth sitting in front of my eyes. Another reality I don't want to acknowledge.
You know how this is going to end, Miri. You never could open your eyes. They can't see what's right in front of you.
Bruce looks close to crying. I know he must be remembering the promise he made to me after Mom died, but the emotion strikes me as odd. I don't ever remember a time when Bruce cried—not even at Mom's funeral—only the rage that formed him into a taut fist. I've never seen him so vulnerable before.
"Most of all, Miri, I'm angry with myself."
I look at Bruce then. Really look at him. I don't see the boy who watched out for me when I was young, the man who let me down, or the man he was when he came back. I don't recognize this person either, but maybe this is a truer version of who he is. The one I always wanted to know but he always kept hidden.
Maybe we're alike that way.
"I felt responsible for what happened to my parents. I still do, sometimes. It was me that asked to leave the theatre." Bruce takes a deep breath before he continues and the pain in his eyes matches what I feel. "There was a time where I nearly crossed the line; when I thought killing the man responsible for my pain would take it away. It took a long time and a few slaps in the face to see where that line of thinking would lead me." He has a wistful smile on his face, pondering some memory he keeps to himself.
"I used to be a very fearful person, but I hid it in rage. Leaving Gotham behind, finding a way to fight the injustice that killed my parents and take back the control I craved, seemed like the only way to overcome those fears. I wanted to help, to make a difference. I needed to see how the world worked in order to combat the evils that ruled it, and I couldn't do that by staying in Gotham." Bruce rises from his position from the floor and sits on the bed next to me, the mattress sinking under his weight. "Someone—a man who used to be very important to me—told me later that what I was really afraid of was my own capacity to do harm. He said I had a drive fueled by hate and anger that made me powerful—that I could do great and terrible things."
The pain's coming back, seeping into my tendons and muscles—twisting under the strain of grief and the extent my body was pushed past its limits. What happened at the arcade hits me like a blow to the stomach. The smell from the hospital fills my nose. The Joker's face is in front of mine, whispering poison in my ears. Zsasz has his hands around my throat, pinning me to the ground and I can't escape. I can hear Soo-ah crying, see Parker's stump for a leg—his face as the monitor flatlined. It's all one rotating mass my mind tries to repair the shattered pieces of. I'm not sure if it's an exercise in futility yet or not.
I'm shaking again, vibrating with the pain that's starting to define my existence.
"Did it?" I can't help the question coming out of my mouth. I need to think about something else. Anything else. I need Bruce's words to ease what I'm feeling.
"Yes, it did. I spent five years training how to harness the damage I could unleash. They wanted to use me as a weapon, but they also made me realize that the power I was afraid of didn't have to be destructive; it could do good." Bruce gives a rueful smile. I have no idea who 'they' are, but I keep listening. "But that was a form of its own naïveté. I missed something important in all the years I was gone. All of this—everything—"
He sucks in a breath. I know what he means. Our suffering has reached the same wavelength. We're thinking about the same people—the twenty-six who died. And the death toll that will only keep rising. The escalations that won't stop.
"I've learned something important. Deep down, I'm not a good person." I snap up at the admission. Maybe—just maybe he understands. Because, deep down, I don't think I'm a good person either. "I used to think there was a divide between me and the people I fought against, but there isn't much of a difference between us at all. What separated me from them was self-control and a hard line I told myself I would never cross. One rule I would never break."
The air hitches in my chest and my lip quivers. I'm closer to the edge, and I need someone to keep me from falling. I realize now Bruce isn't that person. He's struggling, teetering on his own edge while trying to hold up the world around him.
Parker is gone. Bruce can't help. Where does that leave me?
Selfishness. All I can think about is myself right now.
'You'll never change.'
Parker was right about that.
"It was Alfred who told me Batman couldn't dive into the personal life of Bruce Wayne. If Batman acts out of vengeance, then everything he's done is rendered meaningless. Batman is incorruptible, an absolute that needs to be more than what I am." Bruce doesn't sound crazy anymore, not like he did yesterday—god, was it only yesterday that I was screaming at him? He doesn't look at me when he says it, but I feel my blood stop in my veins. "Batman has no limits, but I've found mine. I can't stop the Joker, Miri. Even after everything he did—"
I look over at Bruce. He's crying. For the first time in my life, I'm seeing Bruce cry. Even on my own island of pain, the sight of it gives me a sense of permission; it's safe to be upset here. I can break down completely, and I won't be alone. The motion hurts, I can feel every muscle grinding against the other as I lift my arms, but I hug Bruce. Seeing his pain worsens my own, and all I can do is cry. Cry for Parker and my role in killing him, for the people who died and those who haven't yet but will, for the loss and pain that's been consuming me for years. I cry in relief that Mom isn't alive to see any of this, that her suffering didn't have to be entangled with mine. I'm crying because she isn't here and that loneliness is killing me.
Bruce returns my hug after a minute, and for the first time, I don't feel that subconscious pullback from the contact. I'm sobbing, but Bruce's pain is silent—even as I feel the warm dampness grow along my neck. Bruce speaks into my hair.
"Harvey Dent is holding a press conference tomorrow." The meaning doesn't click in.
Why should that matter?
"I have too much blood on my hands, Miri. I can't add any more." Another thing we have in common. "It's time for Batman to be put aside."
I pull back from him. He still won't look me in the eye. The knife's edge of betrayal skirts along my heart.
"You're going to leave me again?" As quickly as he'd drawn me out, I feel myself retreating again.
Of course, Miri. You're always going to be alone. Always.
"What else can I do? How else will all of this stop? This will keep you safe. I won't go anywhere you can't reach me."
You being in prison won't make this stop. None of this stops until one of us is dead.
It's a dangerous game my mind has tapped into—a deadly triage that only ends one way. Bruce—no, Batman—and the Joker, they can't both exist. Not for long. And me, I won't last, either. I'm going to die, and I'm certain the Joker will be there, sending me into the netherworld with a smile on his face.
'I own you.'
That's what the Joker said to me on the ship. I thought it was an intimidation tactic, a strategy to keep me scared. I'm convinced now that he was telling the truth. He's put a mark on my soul and he's going to be the one to drag it out of me completely.
Numbness finds me again, bleeding through my skin and wrapping me in a smothering blanket of familiarity. The tears stop and my hands fall to my sides.
"I'll come with you." I know I'm saying the words, but the voice doesn't sound like mine. "You can't... you can't leave me behind again."
I faintly see him nod his head, and that's enough for me. My dead hands unzip my jacket, vaguely taking in the detail that my pockets are light—there's no gun weighing it down—before lying down across the bed. I don't want to be awake anymore. Oblivion is calling back to me, beckoning me home to a place where I can watch my ruin from a distance.
"Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?" It's a childish request, one that I can't help but make. I'm being selfish again, hoarding the small time he has left.
I'm relieved that he doesn't say anything, that he doesn't direct his reddened eyes at me. When I close my eyes, I feel a blanket being put around me. Bruce's hand is on my back, rubbing in small circles. A motion of comfort that brings none of what it intends. I don't move, I don't acknowledge any of it.
None of this is real.
But the nightmare of images that comes back, playing on a reel across my eyelids is real. I don't try to hide from it. I lay there in darkness as everything that matters dies around me.
Leaving the penthouse with Bruce has instilled a sense of calm in me I didn't think I was capable of feeling anymore. Perhaps it's the pervading cold that's sapped the life from me, or maybe mental anguish can actually translate to the death of your body.
I woke up alone in Bruce's room. Alfred was the first to come in, holding a mug of hot chocolate. I drank it but didn't taste anything on my palate. He tried talking with me, to tell me about Soo-ah's arrangements for Parker. As soon as his name left Alfred's mouth, my ears stopped working. I just laid my head against his shoulder and waited for him to stop talking. Soon, it'll just be him and me again.
Always has been, always will be.
I feel guilty that he'll be stuck with a girl that's more dead than alive.
Rachel helped me get ready for the conference. She wrapped my hands in plastic to keep the water from burning the aggravated blisters, not that I would feel it anyway, and got the temperature of the water just right. It was hot enough to burn away the cold gripping me and sear the first-degree burns on my forearms from the arcade. She picked clothes I could get into on my own. A warm cotton sweater, in a muted gray, and a dressier pair of pants that I could slip on.
Rachel even braided my hair, taking the long damp strands and tucking them away from my face. It reminded me so much of Mom then; it was nice. I retreated to that place for a while, dwelling in another memory. I caught myself appreciating her in a way that surprised me. It made me regret that I didn't get to know her better. The resignation in her eyes was something I almost missed, but I caught it in the reflections of the mirror as I pretended I couldn't see myself at all. I gave her a hug that I almost entirely meant before Bruce and I went into the elevator. She was staying behind with Alfred.
Bruce is driving now. It's some fancy car I could never learn how to drive. It's a standard—that's the kind Alfred's Rolls Royce Phantom was before I hit that oak tree. Another regret; I wish I'd learned how to drive after all.
We're silent the whole way to City Hall. I had my fill of everything he had to say last night, and I don't need to hear any more now. Walking inside the large building of ugly glass and metal is an exercise in living in an alternate reality. I don't feel my legs going through the motions, the strains of my body struggling to function with so little energy. But I don't feel afraid anymore; I've found a welcome reprieve from the terror that's held me for so long. It's like what I saw in Rachel's eyes: a tired resignation that will accept whatever outcome.
There are more people here than I thought there'd be. Large groups of reporters with their phones set to record and people vying to have their microphone closest to the podium. The rows of chairs are taken up quickly by other eager journalists, leaving Bruce to wedge his way in to find a spot against the far wall. There's a large group of cops in uniform, standing together with looks of determination. I stand next to Bruce, ignoring the stares that are trained on me and the flashing of cameras. Bruce has been adept at fielding the media's unrelenting frenzy at our doorstep when he pulled me from the river, but no one missed what happened yesterday. I could see the questions, almost comedically like text bubbles over their heads, they were dying to ask. Jack Ryder's face was a familiar one among the crowd. The room is filling to full capacity—the close quarters of all the people, their loud voices and tinges of panic create a thick cloud of uncertainty I can almost feel against my skin.
That's right. I'll need to talk to the police today.
The thought brings back an inkling of dread. I don't want to talk about what I saw, what happened, with anybody. I'd rather take it all with me to the grave, an event of punishment that out-did everything I've ever done to myself.
Soon, no one's looking at me anymore. Harvey Dent walks in, commanding everyone's attention through the power of his personality alone. He stands in front of the podium, the American flag stoically beside him in a parody of his campaign commercials. I still see the severity in his features, the unyielding, fervent passion that makes him so likable. It's also what unnerves me the most about him. The room quiets when his voice resounds from the microphone.
"Ladies and gentleman, thank you for coming. I've called this press conference for two reasons. Firstly, to assure the citizens of Gotham that everything that can be done over the Joker killings is being done." Mutinous voices rise from the sea of people in the room. People shake their heads in disbelief and expressions of anger mark many of their faces. I don't blame any of them. "Secondly is that the Batman has offered to turn himself in. But first, let's consider the situation."
Spoken like a true politician.
"Should we give in to this terrorist's demands? Do we really think that he's going to—"
"You'd rather protect an outlaw vigilante than the lives of citizens?" a woman's voice from behind me calls out. There's no denying the logic in her words, even as the sting registers almost imperceptibly in Bruce's expression. The voices that rush to agree with her give the woman a look of vindication.
"The Batman is an outlaw," Harvey says, cutting through the voices of the masses, "but that's not why we're demanding he turn himself in. We're doing it because we're scared. We were happy to let the Batman clean up our streets until now."
"Things are worse than ever!" a man's voice yells out followed by more shouted cries of agreement.
"Yes, they are." Harvey's voice forces another wave of quiet in the room. He's pulling people in with his words, with a tone and image meant to inspire hope. But they haven't seen what I have. There's no hope to be found in any of this. "The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming. One day, the Batman will have to answer for the law's he's broken. But to us, not this madman."
"No more dead cops!" This time, it's clapping and a unified yell of solidarity from the other officers present. Harvey's losing control of the crowd quickly.
"He should turn himself in."
I grab Bruce's hand, just like I did with Parker, and hold on tightly.
"Yeah, give us the Batman!"
Harvey's voice is almost too quiet to hear over the shouting, but I hear him clearly.
"So be it. Take the Batman into custody."
The sounds now are varying levels of vocalized incredulity. They seem to be forming into a mob, taking advantage of the opportunity to vent their frustrations and fear at a target that can't hurt them back. Soon, all of that will be focused on Bruce.
Bruce lets go of my hand and walks forward. He never looks back at me. Not once. I stare at my bandaged hands and my mind crawls backward, away from any conscious parts of me that will register the pain of what comes next.
"I am the Batman."
The voice isn't right at all. Bruce isn't the one speaking. It's Harvey.
The mob that was about to boil over simmers down to a dozen different conversations when two officers, both eager to make the arrest, come up to Harvey and cuff his outstretched hands. Shock manages to reach the distant place where my consciousness resides. I look from Harvey to Bruce, expecting him to speak up—to clarify their mistake.
That's when I see it. A steely glint of calculation in Bruce's eye, visible even in his profile. One that's strategizing how to capitalize on Harvey's false omission. It took near-total detachment for me to see it, but I understand now. Bruce needs Batman; they're two halves of a whole. Bruce was willing to go down in self-sacrifice, but the opportunity to maintain the identity that gives him so much power is naked in his eyes. The vulnerability I saw last night is gone. I don't know if I envy him or if it's disappointment that I feel. All I know is nothing good will from come any of it. My vision comes to life in front of me.
One of us isn't going to make it out of this, Bruce. It's too late. If I'd known, if you had told me before, would the outcome have been different? Nothing we do will stop any of it now.
Nothing matters at all.
AN: Hey everyone! I just want to thank you all again for reading this story and those of you who have been so kind to leave reviews. The last few months have been pretty tough for me personally with stress from school and health problems, but coming back to write and share these chapters every week - and reading all of your comments and seeing how invested people are becoming in this story- even after all the awful things I put these characters through - means the world to me.
There's one bit I want to clarify in this chapter: I have Bruce being incredibly vulnerable with Miriam. Some of you may see that as him being out of character. But I do this very specifically: it is very rare in any depiction of Batman for him to have emotions beyond stoicism, anger, righteous fury, and, occasionally, sass. Batman is the pinnacle of what has been traditionally valued in masculinity. Part of Batman's innate appeal is how rigidly he stays within the moral high ground - taking an untold number of beatings, emotional and psychological torture, loss, and pain while remaining steadfast in his goals. Some writers of Batman have shown the negative sides that come with that rigidity - the loneliness, alienation, and deep, deep pain that Batman will never allow himself to be rid of.
But in order for a hero to rise above something, there has to be a stumbling block to begin with - an emotional trap door that leads to the things that are capable of breaking any one of us. As much as I love Nolan's movies and the fantastic, brilliant job Christian Bale did as Bruce Wayne/Batman - that emotional vulnerability was rarely acknowledged or addressed. When Rachel dies, we see Bruce's choked grief in the form of a 100-yard stare. We don't see him cry over the woman that he's loved since childhood. His grief for his parents' is relatively understated in Batman Begins. Something could be said about the possibility that he's emotionally stunted - but I don't believe that's true. I just think people are uncomfortable with seeing a man being emotional, especially one who is supposed to be as bad-ass as Batman. One of the reasons Batman is so amazing as a hero is because he is human. Unlike Superman, or any other enhanced superhero, Bruce has known true suffering and has managed to do what almost no other hero has been able to do - rise above almost every single challenge thrown his way while never compromising. It's what makes him admirable, despite his flaws. But we need to see those flaws, the parts that connect him to others. Yes, it makes it all the more painful when those vulnerabilities are ripped away, hurt, or destroyed, but it's also what drives us to cheer him on. Because no matter what happens to him, we want to see him get back up and rush into the fold again, even better or more scarred than when he arrived.
That's another reason why I wrote an OC that's related to Bruce. We rarely see Bruce have a familial connection to anyone outside of the small glimpses with Alfred and flashbacks of his parents. I've introduced an element in the story (in addition to just straight up diverging/altering canon) that adds more emotional power to what happens - grounding it in a reality that we all on some level will contend with at some point in our lives: being afraid that those we care about will be hurt, failing (in whichever way we interpret that), being helpless, and living with loss and trauma. Killing off Rachel in the movies provided a reason for Batman to be angry and a hurdle for Batman to overcome when it came to his final showdown with the Joker - but it wasn't explored as fully as it could have been (and the novelization of the film was straight up terrible at it). Miriam parallels a lot of the qualities and struggles Bruce/Batman has, and it's because of those shared traits (and other factors I will explore later) that the Joker can't leave her alone. We see the Joker obsessed with Batman, but I don't see their relationship as totally homoerotic (4ofCups in her amazing epic Not Playing With A Full Deck explores the complex dynamic between the two beautifully, definitely check that out if you haven't already!) but the same things that draw the Joker to Batman feeds into his pull to Miriam. I'll leave it at that for now.
I'm sorry for this terribly long and rambly Author's Note, and I would like to say there will be fewer of them - but that's probably not going to happen (I'm incorrigible, please take these long chapters as penance!). The Dark Knight is a story that's impacted me tremendously since I first saw it in theatres when I was 14. I have a lot of thoughts about it, and a lot of time and consideration went into how I was going to present the characters and where I'm going to take this story. Hopefully my vision is coming across, and maybe adding a plausible - possibly more gut-wrenching - alternative/addition to what was unfortunately limited to two hours and thirty-two minutes.
I'll shut up now, but I'll be back next weekend with another Joker POV chapter and more agony to unleash on everyone... Things will only get darker, so I guess you have that to look forward to? ❤