Childhood: YEAR 1

November 25th

Crime Alley

Bruce Wayne's childhood is ripped away in a matter of seconds.

The first gunshot takes away his father, who crumples to the ground. "Don't, please!" His mother's scream rips through the alley, and she turns away just as the second gunshot sounds. Her blood splatters across his cheek, where he's standing close, rooted by fear. The pearl necklace hits the ground at the same time as her, breaking apart. Beads scatter around twinkling like little stars in the dark. The murderer curses, and flees.

Seconds. It took mere seconds. He can hear the man’s hurried footsteps fading away in the distance. He's fleeing, Bruce thinks although he’s finding it hard to care under the awful numbness, he killed them and he’s running away-  Silence falls over the alley like an invisible shroud. 

Bruce imagines this is what it feels like to live on the moon.

Then, a baby starts crying.

Baby, he thinks numbly, there's a baby in Mom’s arms. Of course there is. It's his brother. His baby brother. Bruce forces his locked feet to move. He approaches his parents with slow, deliberate steps and drops to his knees between their bodies. A macabre parody of how he used to slip between them in bed when his own bed felt a little too big, and too cold.

He doesn't even notice the blood seeping through his dress pants.

His father is on his back, blue eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky. There’s a dark stain where his heart is, growing and growing until the whole front of his dress shirt is soaked red. 

His mother lays on her side, arms wrapped around a delicate bundle. A moving, crying bundle. Rhys. 

Bruce reaches out a trembling hand. He needs to take his brother. He promised them he'd take care of his brother. He should- he should- 

A ragged breath escapes him. His cheeks feel wet and prickly in the cold November air. Dad. Mom. Please-

His mother's body is heavy, (a dead weight, he thinks through a half-hysterical sob) but it moves when he grabs her shoulder and tugs her away from his brother. Her eyes are closed, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. She does not look asleep, her brows are furrowed and her lips are twisted tight, as if someone had snapped her picture in the middle of a flinch. Bruce dares a look down, even as every cell of his being revolts. 

The lower front of the elegant, blue robe she'd chosen to wear to the theatre, is turning dark red. 

Swallowing harshly, Bruce forces his eyes away, and they land on the squirming crying bundle.

To his horror, his brother is also bleeding, his small, round face painted an angry red. Bruce scrambles to pick him up. His brother waves his little arms and legs beneath the shawl Mom’s wrapped him in. Bruce grabs a far end of the cashmere and wipes Rhys's face, trying to find the source of all that blood. It turns out to be a horizontal cut underneath his left eye.

Bruce isn’t sure, but he thinks Rhys was cut by a shard from a broken glass bottle. The ground is littered with trash, ripped newspapers, discarded beer packs, cigarette butts, (and lily-white pearls). It stinks of waste, stale beer, and rust, but maybe the metallic scent is from the blood. There’s so much of it. Dad and Mom’s bloo-

"It's alright," he croaks out, regaining use over his voice. He tugs his brother closer to his chest, rocking him gently in his arms. "It's alright, Rhys."

The baby's cries fade into quiet snuffling. In the distance, sirens can be heard, getting louder and shriller as they come closer. They might as well be coming from another planet. Bruce has never felt so alone- it’s as if he and Rhys are outcasts on the moon.

Bruce stares at his parents. He stares and stares and stares, as he and horror mingle into one infinite night.

Little Rhys, barely a year old and weighing down Bruce’s arms, sleeps fitfully.