#post: drabble.

[gothamsxknight]

Task #001: Godforsaken

TASK: #001 - SEVEN DEADLY SINS - Wrath

GENERAL NOTES: There might be some triggering violence. JSYK.

The stillness in the air was enough to distract the young Bruce Wayne from his usual reverie, his head tilted up as his eyes followed the flurry of clouds hovering over the city, dark and heavy with set lines vivid against the dark indigo sky. The moon a heavy contrast in comparison as it hovered over him, the only source of light in an otherwise dark street.

 A grimace crossed his face as the idea taunted him, his thoughts returning to its usual grim pondering that only causes him to turn away from the light the moon cast and resume his walk. His shoulders heavier then they were when he’d snuck off from whatever obligation he had that day – the appeal of running away more poignant now as he breathed in the night air and found himself so deep in the city he no longer knew where he was precisely. But the fear that should have beheld him made no appearance. He felt as calm and as afloat as a leaf flying with the passing breeze.

He kept his path, forward and without looking back, only stopping when he heard a scuffle in an alley. His natural curiosity got the better of him and he came to a full halt, meekly turning his head to watch as muffled threats were whispered in the shadows - their outline vague in the darkness.

As the criminal pulled out a knife, a glimmer of light bounced against the surface as the moon came peering out from behind the clouds, seemingly to judge or just to gander at the unruly lives of the people that lived underneath her. The man was unfazed and only in the spotlight managed to gather the courage to make true his threats as he waved his knife around the young woman’s face.

There was rage before thought, action before introspection, a flood of memories before actual observation. In the next few seconds it took for him to walk towards the man, the memory of his parents death had already played itself half a million times in front of him, only replacing the figures with the faces but staying true to the trauma. He saw his parents crumble to the floor with blood seeping from their torsos followed by screams echoed into the night and his ten year old self crying helplessly in between them.

There was no act of forethought as he shoved the man roughly by the shoulder, enough to catch him off guard and make him stumble. The girl he’d attempted to protect forgotten in the sidelines, shaking and crying and clutching her chest. He didn’t see the mugger’s confused face and only saw the stone cold reaction of his parent’s murderer staring back him. He didn’t hear his threats or the fear in them as his own face managed to stay flat and inscrutable while he stepped on his hand and kicked the knife away as he let it go.

The man weaponless and defenseless wasn’t enough for Bruce. Joe Chiller’s face still as clear as it stared up at him, mocking him, just as he did eight years ago. He kicked at his sides and stepped on his shoulders, unhindered even as the sound of bones unlocking from sockets pervaded his current daze. He didn’t stop even when the man had begun begging for mercy, face bloody and body broken from his abuse. He still didn’t feel it was enough. He wasn’t…dead.

A small splash of clarity woke him up and left him staring at the miserable pile of tears and pleas which was the mugger and the weight of the moon’s fixed gaze on his back. It’s rays dancing off the clean surface of the knife he’d kicked away just minutes ago. He stared at his blood shot eyes staring back at him, his knuckles aching now with lucidity. His heart weighing heavier as he turned around and found not the dead bodies of his parents but of the young woman and a police man staring at him as if he was the criminal.

“Jesus Christ, kid.” The police man breathed, walking towards him warily.

How he wished it was his parents instead.

He pushed past them just as the man was reaching for his shoulder, his feet more eager to sprint now than to walk as he ran till he couldn’t breathe and no other thought ran through his head than: keep running.

The next day Bruce Wayne and his Butler was on a plane.

[gothamsxknight]

Demons Hide.

Characters: Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent.

Timeline: Past, a few years ago give or take.

Summary: Clark visits Bruce on one of the anniversary of his parent's murder.

“What are you doing here, Clark?”

 The question soft and curious, albeit unexpected with the way he was looking at the slightly taller man. Clark’s blue eyes glimmered stark and brightly behind his glasses even in the dimly lit study, the evident concern in them only mirrored by the reflection of the roaring fire in them.

 He turned away from the man’s piercing gaze, squaring his back as he snapped the book he was reading close and walked slowly towards the fire, setting it down on the mantle as he watched the man behind him continue to stare at him in earnest thru his reflection on the glass ornaments hanging on the wall. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t have a 97.86 % accurate guess as to what may have prompted his friend’s sudden visit.

 “There were talks today, well, at work, and I just realized what day it was.”

 His own eyelids shut tight, the memory of that night quickly flashing in monotonous repeat, faded and out of reach yet still as searing and agonizing as a wound poked and stabbed and reopened by the very same knife, a constant biting reminder of the reality he’d grown accustomed to. His grip only tightened as it clasped onto air, his knuckles white as the pain of his parents absence easily transposed to resentment – resentment for the world that promised kindness but dealt him with cruelty, to the fates that gave him the wrong side of the coin, to the longing no money could seem to replace, to the evil that can’t be quenched by just good deeds.

 “Bruce.”

 Clark voiced into his thoughts, stealing him from the downward spiral he was avoiding by staying in that night. His hand on his shoulder was the final reminder that pulled him back.

 “Are you alright?”

 He turned his head to look at his oldest friend, echoing the worry in those stirring blue with placid composure and the faintest of smiles. Emotions compromised the things you do and even at his weakest, even with one of his most trusted of comrades, the idea of exposing the pain and the fear just bubbling under the surface was unthinkable.

 “You’re concern, while appreciated, is unnecessary, Boyscout.” He added, nonchalantly, as he turned away and stared intently at the fire. There was a fraction, a tiny glitch in his well-protected system, of the sadness he puts so much effort to hide surface in the sigh that escaped him. And the only indication of it having ever happened was the reassuring firm clasp of his blue eyed best friend on his shoulder. He stared at the hand as the silence drudged on, his jaw set into an immovable frown only visible to those who look for it, but he didn’t pull away and didn’t think badly of it.

 ( Just that Clark Kent was a damn good friend. And you’d never hear him say that out loud. )

 ‘Well, you know, if you want to talk, I’m always available.”

 He only answered with a nod, turning away yet again to walk back to his desk, letting the grip slip from his shoulders and replaced by the weight of cold air. He pauses to rifle through his papers from work to fill the silence only to be stopped as Clark dropped tomorrow’s issue on the table. He looked up with one critical eyebrow raised and found the other man to only beam that honey coated smile of his and pat him on the back before he left. He leafed through the pages with briskly and with disinterest, not finding anything noteworthy until he lands on page 12 and Clark Kent’s name stood out in bold times new roman font with the title ‘Commemorating the Waynes and their legacy” hovering proudly above it.

 There were years when he was plagued with miserable regret, devouring rage and insatiable thirst to right the wrongs of the world but perhaps the small smile on his face would inspire remembrance instead of anguish.