Love is what makes a life worth living for. Love is what makes it all worth it in the end. So laying here in your arms, Pamela… there's no better feeling. My heart beats, my nose breathes you in. I love you. I love you so much.
I curl against her, a soft giggle coming from her, "Aww, are you cuddly today, Grayson?" she coos, rolling over and opening her soft green eyes, her long red hair spreads out on the pillows like a field of lycoris. All I want is to be with her. I don't care about anyone or anything else. She pulls me close against her warm chest, running her fingers through my dark locks. I close my eyes, breathing in her scent. Roses, lilac, whatever she makes out of her plants. Lovingly grown here in our apartment. She shifts upward, the sheets rolling off her. She's absolutely gorgeous.
"Mmm..!" she stretches and looks down at me, "Come on, sleepyhead! Burning the midnight oil again?"
"Come on, Pammy! I was comfortable!" I whine, "Come back down!" She hits me softly with a pillow.
"Get yourself clean and then we'll talk." she smiles and pecks me on the lips, every day was less of an easy process and more of a war. She still stays there.
"Come on, baby. You can do it." she nudges me, "I know it's hard, but I love you and I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"So why are you still so scared?" she leans down on her hand, "Hm?"
"Just… I don't want to talk about it." I mumble, sitting up and heading over to the bathroom, Pamela getting up behind me and I flick on the light. Here I am. Long black hair greasy and unkempt, haggard eyes with bags under them a mile deep.
On my chest is a rip of a scar extending from pec to pec, spider webbing like an infection. More scars from my childhood make art on my skin. Falls, knife wounds, bruises. All lovingly cared for by my family. I lost count but when I look in the mirror I'm reminded of the days in that heavy, shadow monolithic city. Breathing out sickness and belching acid rain. Birthing trauma and the pain of loss every day.
The statistics go up as everywhere else breathes a sigh of relief. Glad they aren't the black spot on the hand of America. Glad their corruption hides deep. But not in Gotham. Corruption has a face, has a name, and it all started with my maternal grandfather. Everyone in Gotham knows the old jump rope rhyme. The story of Amedeus Arkham hangs over our heads. Mad Dog Hawkins, the Arkham wife n' daughter… and Amedeus. He thought he could cure someone who didn't want it.
I stand under the shower spray, closing my eyes and falling back into the labyrinth. Back when I dared the darkness. When I held the torch and lit the way. The prince of Gotham. Robed in red, green, and having the strength to smile and laugh. Then I drift right back to the old warehouse. A Sionis Steel Company one. The night flashes through my mind, stereo, mono, Smile by Nat King Cole. Pain on my chest, everything coming screaming back in a loud roaring laughter.
But I grit my teeth and continue washing myself, panicked breathing, calming down and everything refocusing. You're not in Gotham, you're here. Pamela's here. You're safe. Flashes of phantom pain crackle across my face and ribs, my eye pounds with a cluster headache pulsing like hell. My arms numb, a painful shocking burning pulsing straight through it all. My breathing catches and my eyes blur. I relive it. More blunt force, more shocking. More laughter.
It wasn't quick.
The water turns cold and I clench my hand into a fist, why do I always remember when she's gone? The big bad future Batman, jumping at his own shadows, remembering everything that happened to him years ago as if it was yesterday.
Batman.
That name reverberates through my skull and shrouds everything in darkness. Batman. Legendary protector of Gotham, the Dark Knight, and my father. His shadow eclipses all I could ever do or be. I lean against the wall, weakly curling into a ball. Head on my knees, scarred chest still burning. The blood, God there was so much blood. Mine, his, Dad's… didn't matter. Years later I'm still trying to clean it off.
Twenty one going on fourteen… eight left.
I wash my hair, my eyes closing, thinking of her. Thinking of Pamela, hair crimson and tied back from her face, green eyes intensely focused on her drink as if wanting to burn it into her memory. My life changed when I met her. It always does when other people enter. I want so badly to grit my teeth and not feel what I feel right now. I want to forget. Just get rid of the mock robin and the blood.
Eight left.
I step out of the shower, steam cloaking me and warming my skin. I grab a towel and dry off, my hair covering my eyes and my face in damp darkness. I comb it out of my way and tie it back. Putting in my earbuds and firing up Where Is My Mind? My day goes by, going to class was normal enough for me. Nobody speaks to me and that's good. I don't like the attention all that much.
Leaning against my walking stick, my braces clack out a constant rhythm and I focus softly on it. It's assuring. A constant support even during my time as Robin. A sound that grounds me, even when I'm listening to music the shock absorption helps.
The fact that I was famous back home is never lost, still a shadow of my past that I just want to bury. The others avoid me, good. That's good. Better even. I know it's hypocritical to have Pamela living with me but she understands. She's a child of Gotham, like me. There's a certain automatic trauma when it comes to Gothamites. They're spacey, flighty, and they jump at shadows or bitterly accept them. You better believe we have the strongest umbrellas on the market because of the acid rain.
I walk through the main area, my next class being psychology. Of course Dr. Strange wouldn't mind if I took a minute longer. But I hurry along on my route like I had to as fast as I could. The psychology building is an older building, the smell of age sinking and seeping into the world around it. Choked with ivy and looking more like it was ripped straight out of something like Dracula. I ease the oak door open and get into the lecture hall. Leaning against the cushy theater chair. Dr. Strange stands resolute.
"Mister Kyle…" he begins, his voice deep, resonant, his dark eyes peeking over round lensed glasses, "You're late again." He's got a glare that could kill but it softens once he realizes I look like hell.
"Sorry, had a tough morning…" I yawn a little and he smiles.
"Ah, tending to Miss Isley, I presume?" he guesses with a wry glimmer in his eye, "Of course, of course, young love." the others snicker at it. Of course they all know me and Pamela's attachment at the hip.
He rallies the others with a sharp glare, "Now, to continue…" he goes on, "Your thesis is due at the end of this quarter, of course the topics have been evaluated by me for approval."
I got an email from him, the Study of Arkham Asylum was approved, which meant… I gulp and almost want to throw up. The Prodigal Son of Gotham making his way back to comb through records and pore through hours of footage and testimony about what happened the night Arkham Asylum shut down. I sigh and head back to my apartment, knowing Pamela might not be home. I almost don't want to tell her because she'd blow a gasket at the thought of small, wafer-thin Grayson getting pummeled in a back alley.
I cradle the book I found in the depths of the Manor's attic when I was there last. Shoved in an alcove with circles all over the ceiling and walls, even the floor of some kind of code. Opening the door, I ease it aside.
"Pamela! I'm home!" I amble my way towards the couch, "Pammy?" Sitting down, I pull open my brace straps with the sharp ripping of the velcro sounding out. I pop them off after my shoes and crack open the near ancient tome of a journal.
Oh lord, help my soul.
The Bat comes for us when I'm asleep, and it glares at us from the shadows. God in heaven please help us… God god god.
The page scrawls everything else into mad rings. More of the Arkham Code. Still uncracked. Pages upon pages of them. Then one more normal line.
It's all over.
I note that down, a Bat, and something being over. What kind of something? Mad Dog Hawkins? Maybe the building of the first gaol in Gotham's settlement? Something's missing. Because this isn't JUST the Arkham Accounts from City Hall, this is tied to my ancestor.
The last surviving journal of Amadeus Arkham. I close it and sigh. Everything kind of ended with the rings. Of course I ran it through all the ciphers I knew. But in the end, I'm stumped. I stay up that night, staring up at the ceiling. Almost terrified of what I'll see in Gotham. Still terrified that what I did would follow me. Not even Pamela knows I was a Robin. I roll over and she sleeps soundly next to me. How would she react? I shift over gently and pull her close, closing my eyes and trying to bury myself back into her warmth. She doesn't have to know. She doesn't NEED to know. Know that I'm the son of Bruce Wayne and know that I killed the Joker.
Inches from me she sleeps unknowing of the life I led before. She rolls over and her dark green eyes are half-lidded.
"Can't sleep?" she asks, "Come here." she wraps her arms around me, "Just tell me what's wrong."
"I just... I'm thinking about back home." I kiss her on the forehead, "It's nothing, honey."
"Doesn't look like nothing if it's almost dawn and you're still awake." she sighs, "So come on, tell me."
I look at her and then look away with my cheeks heating up, "So… you know my scar, right?"
"Yeah, I see it every time you lift up your shirt. What's up with that?" she scooches over and rubs little circles into my chest with her fingers. Then I look back at her.
"Gotham's a brutal place." I start, "Years ago, when I was kid, my dad and I worked together on community service, you know the whole rich people thing…"
Dad and I loom on high, "Remember, Grayson. If it gets too much…"
"I'll call." the heavy breath of Gotham breathes down on us, capes billowing in the night. Neon soaked and more humid than a swamp, storm clouds and heat lightning gathering and bolting out.
Then it comes out of nowhere, a heavy strike right to my temple and a ripping, tearing laugh. My sight goes dark, the memory fractalizing and scrambling events like crazy. Days and weeks, all of them tumbling like tiny shards. The rain… The rain-soaked panes filled with rivulets of rainwater, the steaming city breathing gently throughout the night. All I can do… is sit. Clacking footsteps sound out, the crackling pop of a record player, the soft playing of Smile starts in the air.
"You know what, Gracie? You've been such a good pal!" his voice rises, whining and giggling. Almost like he knows a joke I don't, "I think I might start to like you!" he comes into the light, my swollen eye, my bloody face making me taste metal.
It hurts. That's all it does.
I see the crowbar. The blood on it dried and brown. Yet my single good eye meets his. My head awash with the heavy feeling of near-delirium. He's pale, reedy, yet moving with confidence. He has wild bright green hair and acid-seared eyes. His red lips crack and pop open with a shark-like grin and a bleached white set of straight teeth. He holds up his thumb, closing one eye and sizing me up. His suit is bright purple, muttered with my blood.
"Hehe, look at you, my boy! A work of art! Tres magnifique!" he can barely contain his laughter, "Uncle J's been taking good care of you, hasn't he?"
His laugh sounds like a gunshot, ripping through his chest and spilling his guts on the floor but the grotesque show doesn't stop there. He puts the crowbar down on the table nearby. His hands dance a little in the air, thumbing through the weapons.
"Ohohoho… What kind of delights will we explore tonight, Gracie m'boy? Jumper cables? Knives? Guns? Chainsaws?!" he laughs at the last one, "Oh no, no no no." he darts close and gently touches my face.
"Why would I ever cut up Batsy's dearest lil' boy? You think he'd care about Jayjay but the second the Cat gives him a half bat half cat freak he's tearin' up the town…"
"Mmphu…" I groan, "Mmrugh…"
"I punctured your lung… oh poor kid. That really makes you quiet." He reaches around back and the chains loosen. Useless and falling down like a sack of potatoes. The Joker catches me, his slender arms wrap around me, deceptively strong.
"Okay…" he removes the blood-caked Robin top, my cape fluttering to the floor, "Let's go with something really simple, Shmuckums."
He picks me up, taking me to a bigger table, dumping me onto it. And there's nothing but muffled screams. Cutting forward and I'm beating him to death with a broken chair leg before feeling everything fade back into my bedroom with Pamela hanging on every word. It doesn't look like I told her flat out that I was a Robin. So Dad's secret stays safe. Dumb fucking secret now, anyway. He hasn't been Batman for years, so what's there to hide anymore?
"Grayson, you were just a kid." Pamela held me tighter, "What were your parents thinking?"
"I just wanted to help, and I guess running off after him got me killed." I sigh, "But that's in the past now, I shouldn't be dwelling on it. I should be asleep, over it, stuff like that." I close my eyes, lacking any sort of need for self-improvement because there's nothing further beyond for me.
Pamela grabs my hand, "Grayson. You're not over it because it still affects you, it still hurts you. It'll never go away unless you get help."
"I'm going back to Gotham, I need to face it." I admit.
"No, you need to stay here and get better." she snaps back, "I love you, Grayson. That's why I want you to stay."
"You don't owe anyone your life," she says, "Just give it a shot, please?"
"I… I don't think they can fix me." I smile, "Gotham changes you completely after all." I'm right, after all. Gotham changes so many people, either too resigned to do anything or corrupted enough to truly live.
I settle down and Pamela kisses me, "Tomorrow, you better find someone who can help you with this. And I don't mean just anyone."
"I know, I know." I giggle, "Message received loud n' clear, Pammy."
When I fall asleep, the dream I have unsettles everything. The happy glow of my college life a mere lighthouse in the distance as I'm back in the tall, gothic spires of Gotham City. It breathes, it shifts and groans around me, waiting to swallow me whole. I brace myself against my walking stick, my cape billowing as I stare up at the spires, "Okay… what do you got for me this time?" I ask, the shadows forming into a blob, shifting and boiling. Even steaming.
Then it forms into something I never wanted to see, a thing that's been popping up in my dreams ever since I died that day in Gotham. A bat, rising from the shadow with red eyes and wicked looking claws, a stick in his right hand.
The Bat.
I'm going to become the Bat.
