Chapter 3: Broken
I remember how I will sometimes join her in bed in the late hours of the morning, wounded and tired, both physically and emotionally, after difficult patrols.
I know I do not want to hurt her. I don't want to let her into this dark world, so I push her away, ignoring the small part of me that selfishly wants her to myself.
But I cannot keep doing this.
Notes:
The characters do not belong to me (Unfortunately)
Thanks to my beta AJ ( SaultNPeppah )
"One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is love."
(Sophocles)
Park Roll || Gotham City
East End District, Crime Alley Street, Park Row.
A punk, a couple, a child.
The firing of a gun, the river of blood spilled, the tragedy announced.
He can feel the ripple of horror catch up with him as the punk's eyes recognize the darkness, briningin the Bat to live, covering the single thread of light the lamp brings, partially illuminating the alley. I, The Dark Knight, swallow the light, feeding the darkness.
The bandit's body trembles, as if he is convulsing. His hands shake and he drops his weapon, as if an indication of his conscience anticipates his irrevocable condemnation. He wants to look away, close his eyes, like a child trying to rid the fear of the monsters of childhood, but he cannot.
Jonny "Little Mouse" Larson feels the weight and agony of a prison without bars. He knew fear and violence as a boy, having run away from home at the age of nine, fleeing from the beatings of a drunken father. He had overcome the fear of running away, turning to drugs since the age of ten, sustaining his addiction with petty thefts and small-scale trafficking, yet he is unable to escape me, the Batman. Because there is no escape from terror, as I corner him, ready to deal my own form of justice.
He moans a prayer, crying out for God, but the terror in his mind reminds him God does not interfere with the affairs of Hell. He feels his heart petrified as I, the guardian of Gotham, land before him. I can see Little Mouse is sure I, the Batman, amd one of the Knights of the Apocalypse, ready to condemn his soul to the eternal fire of hell.
(...)
For over thirty years, Park Row had seen better days, much like all the streets and avenues in Gotham Center, which had gone through a period of dizzying economic growth. Even the abundant financial capital now lures the mob into the city and unleash the violent wave of corruption, violence, and madness that has grown exponentially ever since.
The glamor of its prime soon gave way to poverty, crime, and debauchery. Park Row is like a lady: well dressed, well educated, refined, young and progressive, having grown up in a politically, economically, and socially successful Gotham. But with a nickname such as Crime Alley, the first lady of violence opens its wings of cruelty.
Crime Alley, born from The Park Row Tragedy, as the newspapers had called it, sealed Gotham's sentence, embracing the darkness, bathing in the blood of my parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne. At the hands of Joe Chill, Crime Alley had become ground zero, the beginning of the end of the city that was home to many such as myself; A place to live and thrive.
The actions of Chill destroyed the hope of better days again, killing the benefactors who could restore Gotham. Nevermind he had killed the parents to an eight year old boy, destroying the hopes and dreams of a childhood, resulting in my crude and warped perception of the world. He had ruined my life and countless others', killing two of the few left to heal the city of the pathology of corrupt villainy that plagued my city.
In Crime Alley, the darkness was established, planting the seed of vengeance and the blood of righteousness spilled irrigated the soil, causing it to sprout; Establishing the guardian of Gotham, the Batman.
I was born in a valley of tears and blood. I am a son of darkness, pain, and despair. The fruit of irrevocable oath of revenge, sealed with wrath and revolt in the brute state, unbreakable, inseparable, and indissoluble. I am the Dark Knight. I am the night. I am the revenge. I am the Batman.
(...)
The scene that lays ahead of me makes me sick, my stomach churning at the sight of the mutilated man laying in the street, his body soaked in blood that I cannot discern if it is his or anothers. Either way, it does not matter. He's another victim of Gotham's crime laden streets; It's the same street that last saw my parents alive, and where the Batman was born.
I can't help the feeling of helplessness that overwhelms me as I stand here, surrounded by the same walls that witnessed my parents draw their last breaths, their lives cut short by a thief, who wanted nothing more than a quick fix and some cash. Even now, with the analytical mind I have forced myself to have since becoming Batman, I cannot process every feeling, every emotion, that is running through my head. It is too difficult for me.
Commissioner Gordon stands there, staring at the body, his hands on his hips as he releases a deep sigh. He asks me a question, his fourth since I joined him in the alley, but I remain silent, unable to answer in fear my voice may crack and reveal what I've tried my hardest to hide. Usually my silence is common practice with other officers in Gotham, but never Jim.
Jim is the only one, besides those who know my secret identity, who can get answers out of the Batman. They may be monosyllabic, but I have never denied him answers. That is, unless I disappear while he is still verbalizing his questions, never giving him the opportunity to finish asking what is on his mind.
He asks another question, searching the whites of my cowl for an answer, before he lets out another sigh, realizing he isn't going to get any verbal response from me tonight. He quickly backs off in silence, pulling his men away from the perimeter bounded by the yellow caution tape, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I watch as he gives me a subtle nod, giving me his consent to investigate the scene with a moment of privacy, which I am grateful for. Gordon is the only one who trusts the Batman fully, and for that I am truly grateful.
I continue to study the body at my feet, crouching to get a better look. I run my eyes over the dead man, mentally cataloging little details I find. My eyes glance down the alley and my eyes narrow. There is a bitter taste trapped in my throat and I suddenly find it difficult to swallow the lump that has begun to form. Everything inside me hurts like hell when images of that fateful night start to surface.
(...)
Bruce, young and small, stands happy, swinging an imaginary sword. "On guard villains!," Bruce shouts, imitating his favorite hero; the hero he has just seen on the big screen during a private screening of Zorro.
"Careful Bruce," Thomas Wayne says to his son, as he distances himself from he and his wife.
"Slow down, Honey. We're not as fast as you are," Martha Wayne says to her husband affectionately. She places a hand on Bruce's shoulder, calming him for the moment.
Bruce looks up at his mother and offers her a smile, before looking over at his father. "I want to be Zorro when I grow up Dad," he says excitedly, swinging his imaginary sword once more, jabbing the air in front of him.
Thomas laughs at his son's statement, happy to see the young child so excited. He stares at Bruce, his world, and gives him a large smile. If he could freeze this moment, he would. He glances over at his wife, his smile fading when he sees the worried expression plastered on her face. "What is it Dear?" he asks, stopping in his tracks.
Martha looks at the alley in front of them before she turns to look her husband in the eye. "Thomas, my dear, are you sure we need to cut our way through Crime Alley?" She shifts her eyes back to the alley and bites her lip nervously. Something about tonight feels terrible.
Thomas gives his wife another smile, trying to reassure her things will be okay. "We must have more faith in people, Martha. Let them prove their worth," he retorts. He enters the alley, knowing it is the fastest way to the street. He doesn't have time to react before a man comes out of the shadows, his gun drawn, his head held low.
"All of you, quiet," he says, shivering as he points the gun at young Bruce, who begins to cry, unable to understand what is going on. He watches as his father stands there, his hands curled into fists, as his mother grips his shoulder tighter. "Let's start with the lady's pearls," the mugger says, "Hands up and do not try anything, or I'll shoot." He jabs the gun towards Bruce, causing the three Waynes to flinch.
Martha and Thomas place their hands in the air, surrendering any kind of control over the situation. "Do what he says Honey. We do not want problems, and we can replace the necklace." Martha gives her husband a small nod, before reaching down to pull the necklace over her head. She carefully hands over the necklace, flinching when he snatches it out of her hand.
"Smart lady," he says as she shoves the necklace in his jacket pocket. He watches as Martha raises her hands, not wanting to upset the mugger, before he turns his attention, and his gun, to Thomas. "Your wallet and watch. Hand them over."
Thomas nods, pulling his watch from his wrist and handing it to the mugger. He carefully reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet. He begins to hand it over when it slips from his fingers and falls to the floor, startling the mugger, who squeezes the trigger, firing the first shot. It hits Thomas.
The mugger, knowing he has made a mistake, knows he cannot leave any witnesses. He fires another three bullets into Thomas, before he turns his gun to Martha, who has begun to scream. He fires another two bullets, both hitting Martha, who falls to the ground besides her husband.
The mugger points the gun at Bruce and fires, his face falling when he realizes he is out of bullets. He quickly flees, leaving a scared and crying Bruce in the alley, his parents laying on the floor, bleeding to death. He falls to the floor next to his father, watching as Thomas stares at his wife, using his last breath to whisper her name, before the light disappears from his eyes, leaving the eight year old alone.
(...)
They do not understand my behavior, why I do what I do. They do not understand my isolation, my persistence to distance myself from love and relationships. They do not understand why I am what I am; Why I am the Batman.
My parents' death was not clean, nor fast. It was slow and agonizing, and it still haunts me to this day. I can still remember the smell of their blood on my hands; It is terrifying. Joe Chill, the man who ended my childhood, the man who killed my parents, must have been sent from hell to ruin me for life.
There is not a day I do not have nightmares of that nefarious night. I can remember every detail, can still feel his demonic breath, combined with a mixture of alcohol, cocaine, and methamphetamines, permeating the air around me. My father had tried to argue, but the coldness and cruelty in Chill's eyes had left no room for much dialogue. He was on edge and out of control, and once he made that mistake, firing that first round, there was no turning back.
After stealing my mother's necklace, he shot her twice, hitting her in the stomach. I still remember her blood splattered on my face as she fell to the ground. Her death was not quick and I remember watching her choke on her own blood. Nothing hurt more in my life, as I watched my own mother die, slowly, the pain and desperation on her face as she looked at me with sad eyes.
The only reason I lived that night was because Chill had chosen a revolver, with only the capacity to hold six bullets; six bullets he had pumped into my parents. I will confess, there is not a day I don't wish I had died with them that night, although some part of me did die with them.
After that night, I no longer cried. Before Chill took my parents' lives so effortlessly, I had never felt weak. After that night, I felt useless, and weak, until I was only impelled to enforce justice, wanting to help those who could not help themselves. There were no more room for tears or sentimentality. I have a mission.
Today the maniac in Gotham has brought me back to Park Row, and he is going to pay. That's all I can say, as my mind is running ragged with thoughts, but I know one thing. Tonight I am broken. "Diana, please be at the manor," I say silently, saying a prayer to the gods I do not even believe in.
(...)
I had assumed the tropical storm, which had been announced on the weather forecasts of local and national televisions, would reach Gotham ahead of schedule when I felt the warm breath of the summer breeze on my jaw, its warm dry touch without moisture hitting my skin. From the top of St. Paul's Church I keep watch of the East End, crouching among the gargoyles as a creature of the night, just as they do.
My memories of Diana are brought to the surface. My Diana. My Princess. I want to refute yet another of my numerous reasons against a romantic relationship between us, knowing it has terrible implications, but I cannot help but think we are perfect for each other. In times like this, she is my savior.
I remember how I will sometimes join her in bed in the late hours of the morning, wounded and tired, both physically and emotionally, after difficult patrols. I know I do not want to hurt her. I don't want to let her into this dark world, so I push her away, ignoring the small part of me that selfishly wants her to myself. But I cannot keep doing this.
I let out a curse, feeling the void of affection and comfort that my relationship with Diana can only bring me. She gives me a sense of protection that I never knew I needed, because I had always been the one to protect, never the one that needed protecting.
I close my eyes and I can see her there, remembering our last encounter a few days prior, when she had met me in the Batcave. Her eyes close as she rests her head on my chest. She doesn't ask any questions, knowing I do not want to talk, as she uses her middle and fingers to trace a trail over the scars of my body, starting at my chest and moving down to my abdomen. There is a subtle delicacy that emits feelings other than desire. My eyes open, and the image of her disappears, before I release a small sigh. I want here here again. I need her tongiht, more than ever.
Wayne Manor || Gotham city
The light above me barely affects the darkness of the cave. Tonight, she is darker than than usual, which i find comforting. I prefer to be in the shadows, hiding, doing my best work in the dark of night.
Diana, Wonder Woman, floats silently toward me, her target, hidden in the dark corner that houses the batmobile. I can hear the rustling of her loose black hair. God, I love her hair. It always smells of herbs and jasmine, and always soothes me, like one of those tease with chamomile and fennel that Alfred likes to serve. She is not in uniform and the feeling of tranquility when seeing her off the battle order makes me relax my shoulders slightly.
She wears a small flowing white dress with thin straps that gently touch her shoulders, brushing the clavicle of the woman I love like a painting of Botticelli. I stare at her, as if in a trance. The dress she wears, cotton and simple, fee, like her and her spirit, is perfect for her, displaying her perfectly sculpted thighs.
"Diana," I say, nearly inaudible.
She nods, understanding what I am asking. She knows the Batman is a man at war, "a warrior" as she says. She doesn't know my fight isn't whether or not to done the cape and cowl, fighting for a city that seems hopeless. No, my struggle is within myself, between the man and his emotions.
However, she remains. She is there for me, the only woman who understands what I am going through, even when I have not uttered a word. She stays there, watching as I am crouched in the corner, compassion in her eyes.
She only approaches when she feels she will not invade the space I have given her, wanting to calm the crushing pain in my chest. I don't tell her when to come, she always seems to know when it's time to come to me. She's always known. She is the goddess of the night. She knows warriors, as she is one of them herself.
She walks slowly, making her way to me, placing her hand on my face. She gently touches my jaw, which is left exposed, even though I continue to wear my cowl, trying to hide the tears that have begun to fall. Tonight is the first night I have cried in years; I have only cried a handful of times since that night. I feel the warmth of her hands and I curl my face towards her, knowing I can trust her with my emotions; I can trust her with my everything. She carefully removes my cowl, allowing her to see me fully.
She stares at me, taking in my eyes, red and swollen, before her eyes soften. She embraces me, wrapping her arms around my body in an inexplicable way that seems to harbor her entire body, even though she is physically smaller than me. We both stay there, trapped in a silent hug, for more than half an hour, until my cries finally become audible.
"My hope died that day, Diana," I say, feeling her grip around my body tighten as my cries come faster. My tears flow like a river that has broken through a dam, falling like salty rain onto my cheeks and down my face. "It's too late. I cannot be saved. That's why I sacrifice myself night after night. I am full of scars Princess. I cannot be healed." I feel her shift and I can hear her take a deep breath, trying to keep her breath from shaking. "But, perhaps if I can stop another villain...if I can save another child, I can save my soul."
Diana does not answer my unspoken question. Instead, she sits on the bench in the locker room, pulling me down to join her. She begins to unbutton, unzip, and clip pieces of my suit, helping me by peeling off parts of my nightly uniform. With each piece she pulls from my body, her eyes never leave mine, holding my gaze with such intensity.
She finishes undressing me, leaving me in my black boxers, before she stands and leads me out of the room. We take the flight of stairs up into the manor, before we make our way to my room, both needing the time to breathe and think of what we need to do.
(...)
The water in the tub is lukewarm, and their are candles surrounding the tub, creating a soothing environment. I now realize she has prepared this bath specifically for me, knowing I would be stressed when I arrive. She holds out her hand, telling me to enter the tub, and I can't help but stare at her.
I quickly pull off the last article of clothing covering my most intimate body part, unable to contain the amusement on my face when I notice Diana is blushing. I enter the bath, immersing myself in the water until it hits my chest, letting out an exasperated sigh as I take comfort in the relaxing water.
Diana puts shampoo in her hands and begins to wash my hair, running her fingers through my hair, her hands working in a slow rhythm. I close my eyes and my lips curl into a smile, my eyes still full of tears at the memories that rush to me. My mother used to do this to me when I was a child, and for once, I imagine I am back to being a child enjoying the soothing actions of hands running through his hair.
Diana breaks the silence with her voice, a delicious whisper, emitting a poem I recognize as Tennyson.
"There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
She gently rinses my hair and my body, asking me to stand so she can dry my body. After the bath, she leads me to the bed, climbing in and placing her back against the wall. I lay my head in her lap and let sleep wrap its hand around me, my eyes getting heavy, as I let myself be consumed by my thoughts.
I love this woman. I am not a romantic man, I will never be, but I would do almost anything for her and she knows it. Me, Bruce, a small and broken man. An old tired Odysseus, returning home, full of war scars. Back to your love, back to her. I feel Diana's hand on my back as she gently strokes it, and for the first time since I have been eight, I feel complete. I am home.
I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
(Johnny Cash – Hurt)
Notes:
- Diana recites an excerpt from the poem Ulysses (Lord Alfred Tennyson)
This is an attempt to show one of the reasons that led me to elect Bruce and Diana as one of my favorite pairings - a preference forged by the affectionate memories in the heart.
It is a very particular perspective, which shows how a warm-hearted warrior can warm the cold, broken heart of another and help him piece together by understanding him, bringing him comfort, being a beacon of hope.
To me, broken mirrors, like Bruce and Selina, only reflect pieces. They do not bring real comfort to each other, they only serve as an emotional crutch, a support not to crumble. It's almost a sentence, with no hope of improvement.
Broken mirrors confuse love with passion, attachment to shelter and the comfort they give each other is not, but convenience to find an equal, who will not judge him, not to fight for a love that brings them happiness (because , deep down, imagine that no one could love someone damaged).