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Caped
Crusader
Stages
of Grief
Contrary to popular belief, Thomas and Martha Wayne did not die on Park Row that night. They died an hour later at Gotham General Hospital, fighting for their lives. The gunshot wounds, both through the chest, had not killed them outright. Imagining what they went through in their final hour would haunt Bruce for all time.
For a while, Bruce Wayne had convinced himself that they might survive after all. His mother once read an article about a man who survived having the full length of a railroad spike driven between his eyes. His parents would need a miracle of that sort. They both had a lot of spirit but only so much blood.
Rushed into surgery for his injury, he promised anyone who would listen that if his parents lived, when he grew up, he would make a huge donation to Gotham General in the sum of one billion dollars. In truth, he would have given them all the money in the world to see his parents live.
When Doctor Roland West came in with the news, Bruce Wayne filled with the same demonic rage that took him in the place Gothamites would forever call Crime Alley. Bruce relied on this place of light to undo the damage done in a place of darkness. These overpaid fatheads had let his parents die. A crash rang out as his feet gave out from under him. Dr. West had not yet told him about the possible nerve damage.
An orderly restrained Bruce Wayne as he screamed like a wild animal. The orderly recoiled as Bruce's teeth found his flesh. As the medical staff strapped him in place, he suddenly stopped fighting. He began to cry. Denial. Bargaining. Anger. Depression. Acceptance. Psychologists called them the five stages of grief.
An ordinary person went through the stages in a fairly linear fashion. But nothing on Earth could make Bruce Wayne an ordinary person now. The night had opened his eyes forever to the evils of Gotham. The stages of his grief would move in circles, forever orbiting the horrible truth he had witnessed that night.
Some days, he would convince himself that they never died like he could call them on the phone at some winter home in Florida. On even rarer days, he would make peace (however temporary) with their deaths. Those days did not happen often. Most days, he alternated between anger and depression.
The worst part came from the police. Lieutenant James Gordon forced him to relive every detail of the evening. The police psychologist, Leslie Thompkins, held Bruce's hand during the questioning. Pretty soon, Bruce broke down in tears. Apologetic, the lieutenant and the police psychologist left the room.
Strapped down to his hospital bed, Bruce said a tearful prayer. He swore to God that even if He could allow such evil in Gotham, Bruce Wayne would not. He would take his revenge by robbing evil-doers of their ability to strike fear into the hearts of the innocent. What happened to me would never happen again.
A clap of thunder rang out in the October night. As if God took offense at his hubris. How could a mere mortal hope to rid an entire city of evil? He could not walk let alone complete a task no society on Earth had accomplished at any point in human history? Indeed, Bruce Wayne had no idea how he would do it but he knew one thing for certain. He would either find a way or die trying.
As he nodded off into an uneasy slumber, he looked up at the ceiling. Someone had put up Halloween decorations. He saw the familiar shapes of a jack-o'-lantern and a black cat. His gaze lingered on the shape of the bat. Feelings of recognition came over him like brief glimpses of the future intruding on the present.