A/N: Really sorry; I'm not that proud of this chapter; I'm failing all my classes so I'm not in quite the right frame of mind to produce a masterpiece. Still, I want to thank everyone for reviewing my first fic. Personal notes are at the end, so those of you who don't care can skip over it. There are probably a few small details in here that are technically a bit inaccurate; and sorry if this is a bit melodramatic. Don't over criticize please. Other than that, thank you for reading my story. Also, to eliminate confusion, I'll warn you that I switched viewpoints. I'll probably be doing that a lot throughout the story.
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Overcast Eyes of Clouding Dreams
Sometimes I find it hard to believe. I woke up that morning feeling happy. I cracked open an eyelid, and stared at the clock with its two hands pointing sky-high at the twelve, and felt ecstatic. The thoughts still resound, Schway. Mom actually let me sleep in and miss school. Guess today's a day off.
It makes me sick, how overly joyful I was that morning. And the fact that I carried through with it, eagerly jumping out of bed and heading toward the TV; it's shameful. I keep trying to tell myself that I was just a kid, and that I didn't really know, but then I have to ask myself, How superficial were you back then? Was a day off from school, a morning in front of the TV, all you really cared about? Is that why you never really got to know your brother as well as you should have?
I really don't remember what I was looking for as I flipped through the channels. Probably nothing interesting, probably just some random thing that interested me. And I found it, all right. Probably the most interesting thing that I'll ever hear of. Not only interesting, but horrible and sickening and tragic.
So seeing the familiar bat logo, I released my finger's pressure from the "up channel" button. It was a news program, but I could hardly care less. Films of my favorite childhood superhero had often been shown on such programs; footage of Batman was usually the only things that attracted me to the news. So I stopped, curious, wondering what new act of heroism the invincible entity had performed.
I don't know, this many years later, whether I had actually referred to him as "the invincible entity", or if that was just a fine note of irony that I had created as I became more bitter over his death. I do know that I idolized Batman, regarded him as some superhuman being that was simply above the rest of us. Someone untouchable, distant, mysterious.
I remember wondering why the clips they were showing were all clips that I'd seen before, that I'd recorded and watched a thousand times over. And then I saw him, saw my brother's face, torn and bleeding and twisted into horrible contortions, a crimson flood spreading across his cheek. That face hung at a crooked angle over the black suit was barely recognizable amidst the flashing lights, but it was a face that I'd seen and taunted every day. Against the black tatters of the mask, his face looked pale and small and fragile.
That's not my older brother! That can't be Terry! That's not Batman that's not Terry Terry isn't Batman Terry's not dead Batman's not dead this is all some awful trick! My head reeled, and I let out a long wailing scream. I closed my eyes, but I could still see his face, painted on the back of my eyelids, the blood dripping down and the mangled body lying in the street. I screamed again.
"MOMM!!! MOMMMMM!!!!!!!"
Crying, I ran to her room, my small legs straining with tension and panic, my arms outstretched toward the comfort of her embrace. She was sitting in her room, her face, smudged with tear-stains and makeup, buried in her hands. Her head raised at my approach, and she choked back a sob.
"Oh, Matt, Matt . . ."
"Mom, Terry, he's, I think he's, on the news, they said . . .." My voice faltered, and I whimpered, burying my face into her shoulder.
"I know, honey," she whispered, "I know, hush now . . .." We sat there for a long time, clutching each other, my pajamas becoming heavy with the weight of tears.
There's a lot that happened after that, a lot that I don't remember. What I do remember is a lot of crying, a lot of people clamoring with cameras and papers at our door, and a lot of my classmates asking me about Terry; just a sudden, overwhelming attention that seemed apathetic, even before the word had existed in vocabulary.
There was a lot of missing school, too. I guess at some point I just broke down, and I couldn't take the attention much more. I'd run off in some opposite direction, hoping maybe that I'd look brave and without tears until I could get to an alley somewhere. And then I'd reach that alley and let my tears fall, ignoring the malicious shadows that lurked about, and just sobbing with loneliness and uncertainty and guilt and terror. And then I'd wondered what Terry would have and had frequently done in these alleys, to those shadows, something so terrible and courageous and inhuman and serious all at the same time.
Then there were times watching my mother in court, and listening to her bring accusation after heart-broken accusation upon Mr. Bruce Wayne. It was almost heart wrenching, both in regards to my mother, and the aging man. The little I had seen of Mr. Wayne had always terrified me. Even from the very beginning, when he offered Terry "a job", a half-bitter smile was on his face, almost sinister. Yet still, he had this commanding, awesome power about him, that always struck in me a jumbling of fear, curiosity, and respect. It had become apparent that he was the one who had turned my brother into the Dark Knight, that he himself was once this mysterious entity, and he had led my brother to his death. Still, I never lost that respect for him, for what he sacrificed. Oddly enough, sometimes I wonder if my brother was thrilled at sacrificing everything for Mr. Wayne's cause.
That great man died today. In my eyes, not as great as my brother, perhaps, yet, this was the first Batman, the first protector of Gotham city. There's something about that so undeniably demands an amazing reverence. Still, my mother never agreed, and she wanted to have as much compensation for Terry's death as was possible. Her attempts were all futile. It's not that much different from my trying to now forget the overcast shadows, the ones accumulating since Terry's death, nine years ago.
I don't really know what happened as a result of all those trials and accusations; back then, I was too distraught, and feeling somewhat indifferent to what went on in the world around me. I still freeze up emotionally, most of the time. What I do know is that whatever had happened as a result was not what she had wanted.
It happened somewhere between a cloudy moment and an eternal time span afterward. Another day where I realized I had been allowed to sleep in on a school day. At least this time, I was less cheery, with less of a mind for my own entertainment.
Instead, I wandered into Mom's room. And there, I found her, eyes closed, arms spread out limply, her mouth hanging half-open. Her fingers looked as they had loosened their grip on something, and I peered about to see that it was a bottle with a Tylenol label, now entirely empty.
I didn't scream. The sickening knot in my stomach convulsed, and I turned toward the phone. Dialed not the police, but Max. A friend of Terry's; I had recalled her as a brilliant girl, she'd know what to do. As for myself, the entire world felt locked in my churning guts, and my mind was helpless to resist the twisting revolutions that it had entangled itself in. Shaking violently, I picked up the phone and dialed the only number I could remember.
Policemen, an ambulance with paramedics, and Max came, I suppose not long after. Clocks hadn't really been very important to me at that time. She was rapidly borne away on a stretcher. There was more repeated questioning, and in the confusion, I felt threatened, accused, as more and more of the questions seemed to be asking about Batman, about Terry and Mr. Wayne. I couldn't understand why they couldn't just leave me alone, and after a point in time, I screamed and sobbed with all the fury and anger that a distraught eight year old could muster. Eventually, a long time eventually, they left. Tired and distressed, I curled up among the warm bed sheets, and let my eyes fall shut in a heavy curtain of darkness.
I skipped school the next day, too. I was starting to get used to it. I put together my meager allowance, and took the bus where they had taken my mother. Once there, while waiting to be admitted to her room, I had taken the opportunity to watch the hands of the clock, the hour and thirty-three minutes, 5,680 seconds, ticked off one by one. Finally I was called to the counter, given a room number, and directed to proceed down the brilliant white, deathly still corridor to the left.
The room in which my mother had laid looked like something out of a World War II hospital barrack. There was no privacy, but instead, rows of stiffly positioned beds filled with patients. There was a musty, deathlike smell, and I found it difficult to believe that our financial troubles were such so that they would only give us a room this dismal. I found her bed, and stared at my mother, my comfort, lying pale and sullen with tubes protruding from her veins, nostrils, and mouths. I remember shuddering in horror, then feeling guilty at my childish reactions and bowing in shame. At the recollection, I shudder in horror again, this time at my immaturity, not at the sight.
"Mom, Mom," I had cried, choking. "You can't die, I need you. There wouldn't be anyone left if you died, don't leave me alone, please Mom, I need you now, more than ever, you've got to stay with me, you've got to . . .." A lot of sobbing, a lot of tears, my voice cracking all the while, ensued. I stayed there a long time, weeping miserably.
I don't know if what I said had an impact, but something made a difference. After a long time, four or five months maybe, she'd recuperated enough to be returned home. There was still that sense of sadness about her, but I became a little less worried, and it eased me to see that she wasn't quite as despairing anymore. Still, things never really improved.
I shrugged. Ignore the fact that your trigonometry teacher told you today that you're so much better than your brother, I thought. Don't let the ignorance of others bother you. I sighed, staring and the dark gray, rectangular slab before me, centered in an expanse of green lawn grass dotted with other rectangular stones. It said, simply, "Terry McGinnis, 2042-2059". It was really all we had money for. Commissioner Gordon had offered to erect a monument to our brother and his accomplishments, but I think my mother wanted to purge all thoughts of Terry being a hero and a killer. I can't blame her, really, even in my reverence for what he did, I found it almost found it disconcerting.
I laid down the flowers I had brought, and stared at the block that had clouded over my life. I wondered if Mr. Wayne was meeting Terry now, Terry who idolized him enough to risk his life for a hero's cause. I wondered if there might be another slab here someday, dedicated to the first of Terry's kind, the first of the Dark Knights. I shook my head. For all the enigmas that surrounded Mr. Wayne's life, the intrigue had died out for me. I'd find out when it was due time.
For now, I'd have to return home. My mother would be worried about me. As I left, Max put her hand on my shoulder, her eyes misting over and asking, Are you going to be all right? I nodded sadly. It was all dying out into a dull ache now, the stabs of pain were less violent.
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A/N: That's the end of chapter 2. There's still more to it; if you want it to be continued.
Lane Navachi: Special thanks to you, being the first person ever to review any of my stories. And also for reminding me of the use of the word "schway".
Mr. E: Thank you very very much for putting my story down as a favorite; that was a pleasant surprise. Of course, thanks for the encouragement, as well.
Pinkangelsakura: I know that Terry isn't quite as cool as Eriol, so I thank you for taking the time and consideration to review my story. Sorry if this isn't that good; basketball and patting short people on the head is very draining on the energy sources. Especially since I don't take my sugar pills as regularly as you do.
Pikachumaniac: Well, you found me. I don't think I need a guardian angel; I'm fairly honest enough with myself as it is. TaKitties and BBMak and spitting fireballs. You really have a mind? Amazing. This unusual phenomenon must be looked into further. Keep writing Blood Relations. I don't care how many Jyoutos/Yamajyous you want to write. Chapter four? Ahem? I got this chapter up; you owe me one.
Arina: Thanks for the encouragement. I actually somewhat enjoy writing depressing stuff; it's nice to know that I captured the mood adequately.
Lady Destiny: Thank you for reviewing it, and the request to continue. It helps in regards to encouragement.
Rachael: That was an enthusiastic request for me to keep posting, and I was glad you enjoyed it and didn't think it was bad.
Malkavien: Another nice review; you sound impressed, which is a good thing for a writer to hear from a reader. I'm still not sure if Matt should become Batman, though. It is an interesting proposal that shouldn't be looked over too lightly, though.
Realtog: Yeah, I suppose Bat-people were never meant to be happy. Thanks for seeing things my way.
Also thanks to BeyondKnight and Etienne for the opinions which they emailed me. This all served as a great source of encouragement.
Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to review chapter 2. Thanks.
