1.
Fuck.
How do I say this? I feel like a towel that has been wrung so many times that it is now no more than a few strands of cloth. I feel like a handkerchief that has had snot on it so many times that when you blow your nose in it, you feel the oozing wetness of your snot that has gone through the layer of the handkerchief and into your hand. I feel like the skull of a gorilla that has been crushed so many times by a fellow gorilla that it no longer looks like a skull. I feel like a pen that has had all of its ink dried out, all of its ink bled out of its system, and now it sits on the table, weak and useless and pathetic. I feel like a seashell, arriving at the shore of a beach after a long and tiring journey through the ocean, only to be picked up by a stupid kid and put to that kid's disgusting ear so that they can hear the secrets I have learnt from the sea.
I was walking today, breathing the air of Gotham City, not great air, but still fresher than the air at Wayne Manor, and thinking about buying myself some $200 ice-cream. As usual, I remarked upon the gloomy clouds that seemed to hang over the faces of the people I passed. Some people recognised me and stopped to ask for my autograph, but most of them simply walked by, lost in their thoughts about the frightful city they lived in, praying that the stranger next to them wouldn't pull out a gun and start shooting. You could see it in their eyes, the fear, the weariness, the dread. People avoided each other, eyes shifting hastily. If someone had a bulge in their pocket, they would turn back and wait until that someone passed by. Gotham City was a city of fear, of people not knowing whether or not they would get back home in the current condition they were in, not only not knowing whether or not they would, but fearing that they wouldn't. And the most terrible part about Gotham City is that, more often than should be the case, these people were right to fear.
I passed by the Official Gotham Dojo again today, and I was thrown back to that tour of Gotham I had written about a few months prior. The inhabitants of Gotham knew that Gotham was a cat, both dangerous to the mice and friendly to the humans, but all the tourists saw was its rich and fascinating history, its gloomy landscape reminding one of a Victorian-era city, its many billionaires funding the places that tourists go to so that they look nice, and they were always thrilled and walked away thinking, "What a nice city!", while the citizens shrivelled away in their homes in fear and hopelessness.
Heck, even I had seen Gotham City in a positive light on that tour. I had always lived in a better neighbourhood than other Gotham City residents, had never really seen the crimes that were committed daily, but I had always known that Gotham City was a bad place to live in. My parents had sheltered me, but they had not kept me ignorant of the atrocities being committed here and the impact that their humanitarian efforts had in making them slightly less atrocious, in the hope that I would grow up to continue their legacy. That tour that I had gone on a few months back had opened my eyes to what Gotham City had been in the past, before the crime bosses had become too powerful, and I had mused upon a future where it could be possible to return to that past, perhaps even better than before. I had mused upon a future where my parents' dreams had come true.
I am so sorry, mother. I am so sorry, father. I failed you today.
I saw a woman, one of the millions of women that reside in Gotham City, who go throughout their daily lives begging to be left alone, and she was not being left alone. There was a gun, and there was a man holding that gun, and there was a deserted alleyway in which all of this was happening. Other people went by this alleyway, not doing anything, too afraid for themselves to help, too grateful that it wasn't happening to them. I do not blame them. No one should have to be put in that situation, and, if one lives in Gotham City, I don't blame them for not even calling the police. What are the police of Gotham City going to do anyway? Stand around and shake their heads, as if they were at a funeral and not at a crime scene.
However, I have had a sheltered childhood. I have not learned to fear the criminals of Gotham City. I have learned to fight against them instead. And so I ran into the alleyway. The people who were simply passing by stopped doing so to watch me, in disbelief that someone had decided to actually fight back in Gotham City, a foolish someone, perhaps, but someone nonetheless. But none of that mattered. What mattered was saving that woman. And as I ran, I vaguely remember spotting the eyes of the people watching. Their eyes were filled with hope. That's not an emotion you see often in Gotham City.
I ran into the alleyway, with shadows looming at me from either side. Graffiti screamed at me from the walls, and a beggar stared in curiosity. My footsteps were quiet due to my premium Stealth-100 sneakers, but they felt like loud thuds. Perhaps that was just my heart.
The criminal did not hear my approach, but he did see the eyes of the woman he was attacking change. He turned around, and, for a split-second, saw me before it was too late, and a well-executed Giant Soliloquy had his gun out of his hands and onto the floor.
Now, I must admit that so far I have not been a very good author in this chapter. You see, I forgot to mention what the criminal looked like and, more importantly, what he was wearing, and that's because I wasn't really focusing on those details as I ran. I was focusing on saving the woman. But after I slapped away the gun out of his hands, I was presented with a good look at the criminal, and my heart drowned, wailing all the way to Davy Jones' locker.
Because the criminal had a green robe on, and he was wearing a mask with a dove above a tree on it.
"Holy fuck", I whispered, but by then the attempted murderer had started to flee.
"After him!" a person shouted.
"We'll look after the woman," said another.
And so I chased after the (attempted?) murderer, and my brain was spinning, and my heart was pumping, and my hands were shaking. Needless to say, I did not catch the criminal. He turned around a corner and was gone forever.
But that costume...
That fucking costume.
Did I murder the wrong person?
2.
I was on the news this night. The reporters arrived at the scene shortly, and I was caught right in the middle of it. The people were praising me, calling me a hero. The woman hugged me in thanks for saving her life. I had given these people hope, that there were still people out there who would do something to make Gotham City a better place. And I'm glad I saved that woman's life. It was the right thing to do, but I do not deserve to be called a hero.
I murdered the wrong person. Mr Jeremy Fox is, in all probability, completely innocent of murdering my parents. Why did he have the same costume as their murderer? I don't know. Maybe it's some sort of role-playing group's costume. But what I do know is that the presence of someone who I caught trying to murder someone else, and who had the same costume as my parents' murderer, means that there is a very high chance that Mr Jeremy Fox is completely innocent. I murdered an innocent old man for no reason. NO REASON, dammit! His children and his grandchildren wept because of me. Ms FkFillet will have no one to keep her company because of me. I ruined lives under a mistaken drive of violence and anger. I had felt the power of life and death when I had held a gun to the shop-keeper who refused to give me information. I remember writing that no human should have the power to take a life away. I took a life away.
I failed my parents and their vision of a Gotham City with less crime. I tried to avenge their murder, but I instead made their murder even more pointless, because their only son is now a criminal. He is now a butcher, a slaughterer of a human, someone who pointed a gun to someone's head and decided to pull the trigger.
How can these people call me a hero? As I stood there, receiving praise and seeing their admiring faces, being interviewed by the media and pretending to be a saviour, the disgust and self-loathing spread throughout my body like a squelching parasite.
"What inspired you to save this woman's life despite the threat to your own life?" I was asked.
"Well, my parents believed in a better Gotham City, a brighter Gotham City, and they raised me to believe in such a Gotham City as well. So I couldn't just stand there and watch a woman get killed."
Hypocrite. But they cheered for me as I gave that answer. And I have to admit it felt good.
As I write this I realise that I cannot continue my life as only being an assistant to Alfred. I had thought that my parents' death had been avenged, that everything was over. But I instead stained the legacy of my parents, and I am going to need a whole lot of detergent to wash that stain away.
My father and mother had tried to clean the filth of Gotham using just money, but only money was not enough to do the job. Eventually, they too were products of this city's crime, and that turned me into a product of the crime here as well. I need to make sure that no one is ever forced to do what I did, that no one is forced to avenge the death of their parents because of a faulty justice system and the fear of crime. This is no longer about avenging my parents' death. Finding one man and killing him will change nothing. There are still so many other criminals out there who will continue making children orphans. Avenging the deaths of my parents was not a pursuit that they would have been happy to see me doing. They are not watching me from above now and feeling proud.
Ridding this city of its filthy crime rate, however. Now that is a pursuit worth going for. That is a pursuit that will continue the legacy of my parents. It is a pursuit that will make sure that people will be less likely to suffer through what I have suffered. It is a pursuit that will hopefully make me feel that, whenever I am called a hero, I deserve it.
I can no longer just teach neo-karate. I must become something more.
Something my parents will actually be proud of.