Boy and Butler

It was a silent night, so quiet that it almost deceived you into thinking that it was utopic. In that hushed night, a young boy's fate was being written. It was written by a single gunshot. The sound pierced the night, like a needle breaking skin to draw blood. But it was just one simple gunshot so the residents didn't bat an eye. The thief continued to rob, the husband continued to transgress, and the police officer calmly finished his cheap meal. This was Gotham after all. In Gotham, it took more than a single gunshot to draw attention. This was a city that was just as cruel to its criminals as it was to its citizens. It was the truest reflection of a devoured society. This night that held no special significance for most of Gotham was probably one of its most defining moment. The more observant animals remained drew a collective breath waiting for the inevitable second gunshot because they knew, they felt it, this was a night that death would take its fair share. And sure enough, the second gunshot came. It stabbed the night and was accompanied by a wail. Then, finally, the city paid attention. But by the time the residents took notice, it was too late, the blood was spilled. It weaved through the ground ignoring the desperate howls of a young boy. ---------------- The funeral was uneventful. The sobs were quiet, and no one dared to throw themselves on the coffins that held the bodies of Martha and Thomas Wayne. It wasn't that kind of funeral. This was the dignified kind, the kind that judged the length of your sob, the weight of your tears and brand of your outfit. Everyone was on guard, and the priest mumbled words he no longer believed. The young boy felt like he was in church, surrounded by strangers that he was supposed to know but didn't. He recognized a few faces, but he couldn't tell if it was because they were famous or because they gave a shit about his parents. His parents had been wealthy, the wealthiest people in the city, perhaps even the country, so like all rich people, Martha and Thomas' death attracted fraught spotlight seekers. The young boy felt like he was having an out of body experience. Nothing felt real except for the light rain that was beginning to fall. The boy wanted to believe that the sky was crying for him, but he had learned the water cycle in school, and the fantasy didn’t get far, instead, he tried to remember, was it vapour and precipitation or precipitation and vapour? The rain continued to fall lazily barely paying attention to where it was landing. The guests shuffled uncomfortably, some of their clothes were borrowed. But the priest continued on robotically, he was dealing with his own inner demons and had no time to care about the problems of the rich. The young boy looked down at his shoes, they were getting wet and he didn't like that. He turned to his butler and motioned him downwards. The butler bent down to get closer to him. "I want to go home," the boy whispered flatly. The butler sighed and his eyes turned sadder, a drop of rain fell on his cheek giving an impression that he had been crying, and maybe he had been. Throughout the ordeal, the boy hadn’t dared to look up, he hadn’t wanted to see the butler’s expression, unsure if he could handle it. "We need to be here until the end. We must be the last to leave. It's the proper thing to do," the butler mumbled patiently and straightened back up, He left a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. Irritation flared within the boy, of course, it was the right thing to do. Why did the butler have to be so patient, so stupidly polite? It was grating. He almost shook off the butler’s hand, but it was a cold day, and the hand was warm. He trailed his eyes and examined the beautiful caskets once more. They were glistening in brown and golden colors, drawing all the attention. He didn't know who had chosen the coffins, who had arranged the funeral or who had invited the guests. The young boy didn't know anything and that terrified him. Everything seemed to terrify him now. He could barely sleep anymore, he usually lay in his queen bed, heaving and sweating, suffocating under the darkness and uncertainty. A part of him wanted nothing more than to call out the butler, to ask him to not leave until he fell asleep, but he didn’t want to look weak. He didn’t want to act childish. He needed the butler to know that he was alright. He didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t want the butler to leave him too. The funeral finished with a prayer. The young boy couldn't remember if his parents had been religious. Lately, he had begun to realize just how little he knew about his parents. He knew them as Ma and Pa, but not as Thomas and Martha. The guests started flocking towards him and he tensed in dread. They hugged him weepily and kissed him leaving their tears on his cheek. They whispered words of comfort and he took it all in fighting the urge to vomit. He looked over to his butler who unlike him, seemed perfectly composed, and genuine. The young boy almost hated him, but the warmth of the butler’s hand grounded him. Obedient, the boy stood, mute, until the voices faded, and it was only him and butler left. As they drove away, the rain drummed on the rooftop of the car and the butler finally spoke up. "That went well. You behaved splendidly young master." The young boy didn't respond but he felt his eyes sting and he blinked a few times. Much to the boy’s disappointment, they didn’t make any stops, and the ride was far shorter than he liked. When they finally pulled up to the grand mansion, he dug himself deeper into his seat, afraid to leave the car. He didn't believe in ghosts but his home no longer felt safe, it felt dark damp and far too empty. He hadn’t realized how big his house was until it only housed himself and his butler. "Are you coming young master?" the butler asked already opening his door. The young boy nodded weakly and timidly got out the car. He shuffled behind the tall butler his eyes stinging again. He rubbed away the pain. He wasn't a child anymore, he was the man of the house now, and that meant no tears. He couldn’t stop his lips from trembling though. He silently watched as the butler pushed the beautifully carved wooden front door open. His father had once noted that no one opened a door quite like their butler. The boy tried to take a step forward, but suddenly he couldn’t walk through the front door. He remained frozen, his knees rattling like a newborn calf. Entering meant accepting that he would never hear his mother’s voice again. He couldn’t imagine that the sounds of his parents would now just come from his memories and that overtime the voices would lose their clarity. He was only eleven years old, would he eventually forget his mother’s laugh? The boy started heaving, overwhelmed. He backed away from the ominous door and the future it represented, the world spinning beneath him. He wanted to call out to his butler but he was scared. What if he called and the butler didn't come, what if the butler had already left him too. He started choking on air and clutched his throat desperately. He fell to the floor and pain rushed from his elbow to his head. He lay on the wet floor and watched as the clouds created a path for the sun. His vision started to blur and his breath came out in short jagged bursts. He smiled in relief, it wouldn't be too bad if he died. He closed his eyes, he had no one to live for after all. He felt droplets of rain land on his cheek and forehead. "Please young master, it's going to be alright, please, open your eyes." A voice called above him. He didn't really want to open his eyes but the droplets kept falling, keeping from the darkness. Eventually, he slowly opened his eyes and above him, was his butler. He knelt there, cradling the boy, tears freely flowing from his eyes. He had never seen the butler cry. Maybe it was the shock of it, the pain of it, but then, the young boy who didn't want to be a child started to sob. The sob started small and unsure, but then, it occurred to him that he would never feel the touch of his father’s hand or the kisses he had been embarrassed to receive from his mother. And now his butler, his Alfred was crying. It wasn’t fair. Bruce let out a loud wail and brought a hand to his face. It was the first time he had cried since his parents had been killed. He felt a wave of pain leave his chest. He didn't know how long he cried, how long Alfred cried with him but when he let out a final hiccup, he felt better. The world seemed less terrifying. Bruce looked up to Alfred who still held him tightly, his eyes were red but kind. Alfred smiled down at his young boy, desperately glad he had finally allowed himself to start grieving. The past few days had been difficult for Alfred watching Bruce walk around in a stiff zombie life trance. He knew now stubborn Bruce could be and wasn’t sure how to tell him that it was okay to be sad, to be vulnerable, and to let others hold you. His worry for Bruce had kept him from thinking about the fact he had lost his best friends. When he had found Bruce lying on the floor, heaving, clutching his heart, sorrow had overwhelmed him. He was sad, he was lost, but he loved the young boy, and didn’t want him to despair. They sat for a while, the butler and the young boy, enjoying the sound of their heartbeat; funny how the heart kept on beating even when it felt like it was shattered. Finally, the young boy got up and brushed himself off, he offered a hand at the butler, who was still kneeling. "I think...I think it’s going to be alright, with you here," the young boy said somberly. The butler took the boy's hand and stood next to him unable to say anything. "It’s not fair. The world is too cruel, even to the kindest people,” the young boy added, his lips pursed. The butler remained quiet. He didn’t want to interrupt the moment, there was something forming in the young boy’s eyes. The boy stared off into some unknown distance, his eyes ageing. Alfred felt the moment surround them, and he looked down at the boy, trying to sound casual. "So, what do you plan to do about it?" The butler asked carefully. The young boy cracked a small burdened smile. "I promise to never let fear hold me from upholding justice however I can," Bruce croaked his young voice dropping suddenly. Then the young boy cleared his voice and awkwardly ran a hand through his brown rain-soaked hair. He looked up at his butler shyly realizing how silly he sounded. "I know it sounds silly, like something a naive cartoon character would say," he said biting his lip, his cheeks a rosy color. The butler laughed lightly, stood straight, fixed his suit and gave Bruce a decisive nod. "I think it sounds like something a great man would say, young master." The butler didn't look at his young master, he kept his eyes fixed ahead and patiently waited for him to enter their home. As Bruce finally stepped into the future, he glanced up and saw that Alfred was smiling. It was a sad little smile, but it encouraged him. He took a breath, and made another promise, he declared it with his entire being, short and small as it was. "I also promise to always do right by you." Alfred blinked surprised, losing his composure. His eyes followed the boy, the words bouncing along the walls of Wayne manor. And maybe it was the way the light hit the boy, but for a brief second, Alfred saw a man. It was a tall man with broad enough shoulders to carry the weight of the world. The young master's silhouette cast a distorted figure as the sunset behind them. But Alfred couldn’t place the shape. For a long time after, the butler would wonder about that shape. Then one night, years later, the butler figured it out. It was a quiet night, a gunshot went off, and suddenly a shape formed in the skies of Gotham. It was a shape that fulfilled two important promises.