"Mr. McGinnis?" Dammit Wayne.
I refuse to go out there. I have other things to do. Have to take care of Mom and Matty, have to watch Ben, have to see Lydia. Don't have time or patience to go out and do what you can't.
I barely open an eye before I realize that that's a long far-off nightmare. This is reality.
Jake Doyle stands over me, pad of paper in hand, face eager. I groan.
"Morning, sir." Prompt and perfunctory, just like a drill sergeant. I yawn and sit up on the couch. At least I'm home, back at Wayne Manor, not stuck in that lily white box they call a soothing hospital room.
"It's a bit early for the psychoanalysis." Jake sits in a chair next to me, ignoring my comment, surveying the room. He can survey all he wants. Not one thing in Wayne Manor will give him any indication of what I'm like. Every stick of furniture asserts itself as part of Bruce Wayne. I've never actually lived here- I'm more like a tenant in a boarding house.
"How do you feel right now, Mr. McGinnis?" He says, turning back to me.
"I feel as though I could strangle someone if they call me Mr. McGinnis one more time." Jake flinches, but only for an instant.
"Well how do you feel right now, Terry?"
"I don't feel like I'm Terry. Or Mr. McGinnis."
"Who do you feel like?" An old man. A very old man.
"I feel like I'm missing a good portion of myself."
"How much?"
"All of it." He writes it down on his little pad. I resist the urge to take both pad and writer and toss them out a window.
Cooperate. Cooperate and they'll leave you alone.
"What things were a part of you?" Normal guys would say Lydia, Ben, Molly, Rose, my job, my house, et cetera et cetera.
The only thing that ruled my life and governed my decisions was Batman. And now I'm not Batman. It's a hard thing to abandon something you've given up your life for.
Of course, I can't tell the kid this, so I feed him what he's begging for.
"My wife. My children." Jake takes the bait.
"What was your wife like?" Is, is is. Lydia IS my wife. 'Was' just makes it seem like she's died all over again.
"Kind, patient, never complained." Jake stares at me for a minute.
"No she wasn't." He says. I resist a smile. The kid's not as stupid as I thought.
"You're right. She wasn't."
"But I get the feeling that you wouldn't have married her if she was." I nod. How can you marry someone 5 thousand times better than you? You'd constantly feel that you were inferior, unworthy. That was one of the beauties of Lydia and I: She wasn't anywhere near perfect and neither was I.
"She couldn't have been perfect if your son was born only a month or so after you married." Jake replies. I raise an eyebrow.
Okay, so the kid's good at checking records. Wayne wouldn't be impressed. Why should I?
"What exactly do you want, Jake?" He stares at me with some confusion, like I shouldn't be asking him any questions.
"To help you."
"And what if I don't need your help?" Jake eyes the layers of bandages on my wrist. They're at least an inch thick, as if the hospital believes that if I have enough padding I couldn't possibly find a way to end my life.
"Don't worry. I'm not attempting that again." That's maybe the first true thing I've promised the kid since I met him. But I won't try to end it all again. People usually end it all because they see no point in life. I see no point in death either.
"So why did you attempt it in the first place?"
"Boredom. Disinterest."
There's nothing left to do. Lydia's dead, Ben's dead, Molly and Rose are off in their own lives, oblivious to Batman and what he means to me. And I'm not Batman anymore. I don't want Wayne's house, Wayne's job, Wayne's millions. What's left?
"Well, if you don't think you need help, why bother talking to me either?"
"Boredom. Disinterest." Jake sighs in exasperation, then tosses the pad of paper behind the chair.
"Why would a man with millions in riches, a fine home, two daughters, and a successful company get bored and disinterested?"
"Because I no longer have a purpose, kid. There's no one here to hang onto or look after. And it's my own fault. What the hell does the rest matter?" He can't possibly know what I mean by any of the statements, that I'm no longer defender of Gotham City, no longer the Tomorrow Knight or Bruce Wayne's heir. That I sacrificed everything to become Batman and now I don't have the slightest inclination towards donning the suit.
"And what was your purpose? How was it your own fault that you lost it?"
"I'm Bruce Wayne's heir." I reply simply, getting up to wander around the room.
"Yes. His company's doing better than ever; you've kept his fortune and his home maintained, so haven't you accomplished what that entails?" Hah. Like any of this crap meant anything to Wayne. He'd have burnt it to the ground if it meant he could keep being Batman forever.
And Batman is the real thing I inherited, the real thing I was heir to.
"You don't understand." I mutter.
"Mr. McGinnis," Jake begins, impatient and annoyed, "How am I supposed to understand when you evade all my questions, refuse to tell me anything of importance, and make strange, disconnected, or false statements that have nothing to do with what I asked you?"
Enough. I've had enough. I've destroyed every part of my life. I just want to be left alone to sift through the ashes, not be badgered on just how and why I did it by some snot-nosed college doctor.
"Get used to it. I'm not planning on telling you anything."
"What is it that is so harmful to you that makes you think you've ignored the rest of your life for, not lived up to what Mr. Wayne expected of you, and lost your purpose in life?" He snaps, not quite letting go of his professionalism just yet.
"Leave me alone." I growl.
"If you'd just trust me, I could help you!"
Trust him? Trust this stupid kid with my life, with my secret? Wayne would be laughing at him. Laughing and then forcefully kicking him out.
No one can help me.
"I don't want your help. I don't need your help."
"That's fine, because I think I already know your problem," Jake yells, restraint breaking into anger. "Batman."
I refuse to go out there. I have other things to do. Have to take care of Mom and Matty, have to watch Ben, have to see Lydia. Don't have time or patience to go out and do what you can't.
I barely open an eye before I realize that that's a long far-off nightmare. This is reality.
Jake Doyle stands over me, pad of paper in hand, face eager. I groan.
"Morning, sir." Prompt and perfunctory, just like a drill sergeant. I yawn and sit up on the couch. At least I'm home, back at Wayne Manor, not stuck in that lily white box they call a soothing hospital room.
"It's a bit early for the psychoanalysis." Jake sits in a chair next to me, ignoring my comment, surveying the room. He can survey all he wants. Not one thing in Wayne Manor will give him any indication of what I'm like. Every stick of furniture asserts itself as part of Bruce Wayne. I've never actually lived here- I'm more like a tenant in a boarding house.
"How do you feel right now, Mr. McGinnis?" He says, turning back to me.
"I feel as though I could strangle someone if they call me Mr. McGinnis one more time." Jake flinches, but only for an instant.
"Well how do you feel right now, Terry?"
"I don't feel like I'm Terry. Or Mr. McGinnis."
"Who do you feel like?" An old man. A very old man.
"I feel like I'm missing a good portion of myself."
"How much?"
"All of it." He writes it down on his little pad. I resist the urge to take both pad and writer and toss them out a window.
Cooperate. Cooperate and they'll leave you alone.
"What things were a part of you?" Normal guys would say Lydia, Ben, Molly, Rose, my job, my house, et cetera et cetera.
The only thing that ruled my life and governed my decisions was Batman. And now I'm not Batman. It's a hard thing to abandon something you've given up your life for.
Of course, I can't tell the kid this, so I feed him what he's begging for.
"My wife. My children." Jake takes the bait.
"What was your wife like?" Is, is is. Lydia IS my wife. 'Was' just makes it seem like she's died all over again.
"Kind, patient, never complained." Jake stares at me for a minute.
"No she wasn't." He says. I resist a smile. The kid's not as stupid as I thought.
"You're right. She wasn't."
"But I get the feeling that you wouldn't have married her if she was." I nod. How can you marry someone 5 thousand times better than you? You'd constantly feel that you were inferior, unworthy. That was one of the beauties of Lydia and I: She wasn't anywhere near perfect and neither was I.
"She couldn't have been perfect if your son was born only a month or so after you married." Jake replies. I raise an eyebrow.
Okay, so the kid's good at checking records. Wayne wouldn't be impressed. Why should I?
"What exactly do you want, Jake?" He stares at me with some confusion, like I shouldn't be asking him any questions.
"To help you."
"And what if I don't need your help?" Jake eyes the layers of bandages on my wrist. They're at least an inch thick, as if the hospital believes that if I have enough padding I couldn't possibly find a way to end my life.
"Don't worry. I'm not attempting that again." That's maybe the first true thing I've promised the kid since I met him. But I won't try to end it all again. People usually end it all because they see no point in life. I see no point in death either.
"So why did you attempt it in the first place?"
"Boredom. Disinterest."
There's nothing left to do. Lydia's dead, Ben's dead, Molly and Rose are off in their own lives, oblivious to Batman and what he means to me. And I'm not Batman anymore. I don't want Wayne's house, Wayne's job, Wayne's millions. What's left?
"Well, if you don't think you need help, why bother talking to me either?"
"Boredom. Disinterest." Jake sighs in exasperation, then tosses the pad of paper behind the chair.
"Why would a man with millions in riches, a fine home, two daughters, and a successful company get bored and disinterested?"
"Because I no longer have a purpose, kid. There's no one here to hang onto or look after. And it's my own fault. What the hell does the rest matter?" He can't possibly know what I mean by any of the statements, that I'm no longer defender of Gotham City, no longer the Tomorrow Knight or Bruce Wayne's heir. That I sacrificed everything to become Batman and now I don't have the slightest inclination towards donning the suit.
"And what was your purpose? How was it your own fault that you lost it?"
"I'm Bruce Wayne's heir." I reply simply, getting up to wander around the room.
"Yes. His company's doing better than ever; you've kept his fortune and his home maintained, so haven't you accomplished what that entails?" Hah. Like any of this crap meant anything to Wayne. He'd have burnt it to the ground if it meant he could keep being Batman forever.
And Batman is the real thing I inherited, the real thing I was heir to.
"You don't understand." I mutter.
"Mr. McGinnis," Jake begins, impatient and annoyed, "How am I supposed to understand when you evade all my questions, refuse to tell me anything of importance, and make strange, disconnected, or false statements that have nothing to do with what I asked you?"
Enough. I've had enough. I've destroyed every part of my life. I just want to be left alone to sift through the ashes, not be badgered on just how and why I did it by some snot-nosed college doctor.
"Get used to it. I'm not planning on telling you anything."
"What is it that is so harmful to you that makes you think you've ignored the rest of your life for, not lived up to what Mr. Wayne expected of you, and lost your purpose in life?" He snaps, not quite letting go of his professionalism just yet.
"Leave me alone." I growl.
"If you'd just trust me, I could help you!"
Trust him? Trust this stupid kid with my life, with my secret? Wayne would be laughing at him. Laughing and then forcefully kicking him out.
No one can help me.
"I don't want your help. I don't need your help."
"That's fine, because I think I already know your problem," Jake yells, restraint breaking into anger. "Batman."