CHAPTER 13

"Bruce, you don't understand who you're putting in danger." Alfred stands firmly in his beliefs. "I already told you that I'd turn you in to the police if you ever went back to doing this."

I stand straight up across from him, speaking calmly. "Alfred, I am not asking for you for permission for what I'm about to do. But I am asking for your support. So you can either help me, or not. But I am not letting you stand in my way anymore."

"Bruce, please do us both a favor and be rational for one second of your life. I did not spend the last fifteen years of my life raising you just so you could throw it away for some worthless cause at such a young age," Alfred says. "I've seen what you've become, and I see what you could be. It isn't too late to get out of this hole you're in. So please, don't dig any deeper then you already have."

"So what am I supposed to do? Take over a company and live filthy rich and unfulfilled for the rest of my life?" I say. "I saw what that did to my parents. And I've vowed since they died to never become what they did."

I stop, waiting for an answer from Alfred. But it doesn't come.

"Alfred, for my entire life, I have felt nothing. No matter what meds I was on, no matter how many therapists I saw, I always felt meaningless. But now I have finally found something that gives me purpose. This could be the only thing I ever do that matters."

"I know why you're doing it, though," Alfred says. "You're just doing it to let out your anger. I can see it in you. And I can tell you right now that that's not a good motivation."

I expect an angry flareup to rise up in me, but much to my surprise, it doesn't. I remain calm, both inside and out.

"So what if that's part of the reason?" I say. "Does anyone in this world do anything without some selfish intentions, whether they realize it or not?"

We stay silent for a few moments.

"If you do this, Bruce, it won't make a difference. Crime will still exist as it always has. And someone else worse than Cobblepot will take his place," Alfred says. "You need to understand this. Brutalizing one man will not change anything. Are you hearing what I'm saying?"

Yes, I understand it. But I don't believe it.

"You're wrong," I say. "People are at the bottom because of certain people at the top that are keeping them there. Think about water: you can try and stop the water flow from any point, but if you dam up the source to the flow, you can stop it for good." I take a pause, hoping Alfred will respond. When he doesn't I continue. "Like everywhere, Gotham is full of people. The issue is that some of those people actually give a shit about the wellbeing of the city, and some don't. Unfortunately, those who don't are more likely to seek power, but if we stop that from happening, then we can send a message."

"And by 'message' you mean violently assaulting them?"

"Whatever it takes to show those in power that what they're doing has consequences."

"But where do you draw the line, Bruce? You target those at the top, but who's to say that you won't take out some lower grunts while you're at it, just for safe measure? Who's place is it to decide who deserves to be punished and who doesn't? Yours?" I stay quiet. "Where are you drawing the line, Bruce? And how do you know you won't cross over that line? How do you know you won't-"

"I don't know," I say quickly, interrupting him. "...I don't know."

I look away, and we stand there motionless for a few minutes.

Finally, I speak. "Alfred, do you think I'm insane?"

Alfred takes a deep breath. "Bruce, I believe we're all insane to some degree."

"That's not what I asked. Do you think I'm insane?"

He pauses. I've been asking him this since I was nine. And I have yet to get a proper answer.

"No," Alfred finally answers. I'll take it.

Alfred has a hard time getting something out.

"Bruce," he starts, "if you say this is the only thing that will make you happy, I must wonder: do you ever recall a time where you were truly happy?"

I don't answer.

"I'm being genuine, Bruce," Alfred says.

Yes, many years ago. There was a little kid, quite childish but immensely intelligent. Of all things, he found happiness in dressing up as a bat. Unfortunately, that person died in an alley fifteen years ago.

After that, there was an angry, disturbed child who could only express himself through violence. He was psychotic, irrational, and just needed help. I thought I had killed that kid a long time ago, but all I did was bury him.

Then there was the angsty, depressed teen who was unsure of himself and just wanted to feel satisfied with his life. He eventually got what he wanted, but only briefly.

And now there's just me, beating up random criminals for pleasure. I wish I could give a detailed description of who this person is, but I can't. It seems like I've been a million different people throughout my life to the point where I can't even say who the real me even is anymore.

I remember Alfred's question, asking me if I've ever felt happiness. I do remember feeling it. Once.

"Yes," I say.

He nods, and we stay silent for what seems like forever. I remember all the times he would play with me at the mansion because my parents were always away. Times were simpler then.

"Bruce, it's not too late to turn your life around. I cannot dictate what you do. But I don't want you traveling down a path you can't return from." Alfred finishes, hoping for a response.

I don't make a sound. There's nothing more to say.

Alfred sighs. "Bruce, I hope you understand that one day, no matter how sly you might be, they will catch you. And you'll be looking back on this exact moment regretting your decision." I sit still, listening intently. "But it won't be because of me."

I sit there quietly for a moment, unsure of what to say. "So is that it?"

"I have done all I can. You're on your own now."

Taking in everything, I smile. "Thank you."

Alfred nods, and gets up. He begins walking toward the front door. Before he can leave, though, I stop him.

"Alfred?"

He stops, and turns around to face me.

"You'll still come visit me, right?" I say.

Alfred grins. "Depends if I'm invited. And of course if my daily soap operas aren't on that day."

"Duly noted."

And with that, Alfred Pennyworth and I part ways, not saying another word.

I walk into my room, remembering the briefcase Alfred left last time he was over. I haven't bothered opening it, thinking it would contain photos of frustrating memories.

The first thing I see when I open it is a picture of me on Halloween, seven years ago, dressed as a bat with my mom and dad. Alfred is there, too. I stare at the photo for what seems like a solid hour, fascinated by the child I see in the picture.

That child died in an alley fifteen years ago.

Now, I'm bringing him back to life.