A Serious House on Serious Earth

I spent an entire week in the hospital even though there was nothing seriously wrong with me, physically at least. I spend those seven days being checked out mentally and emotionally. After I had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and given a number for the shrink and a prescription of pills, I was allowed to leave. Gordon had been my only visitor. Bruce Wayne was in Berlin for a conference of some sort and Batman never showed his face.

The heat wave had broken while I was in the hospital, so I walked to my apartment instead of talking the busy midday bus. Even though it was only a little past noon when I got home, I went straight to bed after locking the windows and closing the blinds. I slept but I didn’t rest.

I awoke just before midnight to rain colliding against the windows. After trying to force myself back to sleep, I finally climbed out of bed and wondered into the kitchen. I pulled out a bottle of wine from the cupboard, popped the cork and took a sip directly from the bottle. I was set on sending myself back to sleep one way or another. To past the time while I was still conscious, I sorted through the large amount of mail I had received during my visit to the madhouse.

Most of it was junk mail and old newspapers, the newest of which informed me that over fifty inmates, including the Joker and Pamela Isley, had managed to escape on the fateful night. A small envelope stated that I was behind on my electric bill. I took another drink of wine. Buried beneath a bank statement and an advertisement for Gotham’s newest public park, was a square purple envelope with only my name on it, written in perfect calligraphy. No return address or postage stamp. Someone had personally dropped the envelope into my mailbox.

Without putting the bottle down, I opened the mysterious letter. I had an idea who it was from the moment I saw it. I hated being right. The envelope was thin for it only contained a single piece of paper which was folded in half. The paper had a yellow tint to it, giving the letter a more personal touch. After taking another drink I unfolded the paper.

Written in the same script as my name on the front of the envelope were two sentences and an initial.

Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it. – J

Even though I had my suspicions as to who had written the letter, I still dropped the wine bottle as I read the last letter. It shattered on the tile floor and the red wine rushed over my bare feet.

“Who is it from?” A deep voice said from across the room. I jumped but when my feet came back into contact with the floor, they slipped on the wine and out from under me. I fell backwards and my head hit the edge of the counter on the way down. I landed on my rear, in the puddle of red wine with an immense headache.

“Are you okay?” Batman, who had appeared at my side during my fall, asked.

Without looking at him, I rubbed my head cautiously. “No.” I breathed. My answer went beyond Batman’s contextual question. When I answered, I was taking about my emotional health, not my physical wellbeing. But that was before I saw my foot. “I have a piece of glass in my foot.” I sighed, turning my head to the masked man.

I averted my glaze as Batman removed the glass shard from the bottom of my left foot. A minute later, I was being carried to the living room. I gave no protest as I was set gently in an armchair and Batman began to sew the small cut in my foot. “What are you doing here?” I asked after a minute. “Shouldn’t you be out there? Tracking down the escaped inmates.” I finished in a bored tone as Batman began to wrap my foot.

“I don’t need to track them down. They’ll make an appearance sooner or later. Probably sooner.” He wasn’t talking in his usual voice. His voice was smooth and quiet instead of hoarse. It was his real voice. “As for you…everything that has happened to you has been my fault.” When he was finished aiding my foot, he carefully placed it back onto the cold wooden floor.

“Who are you?” I asked unceremoniously after a few minutes of silence. I was just thinking out loud. The Batman stood up his to full height and turned his back to me. I watched in a mild state of terror as he raised his hands up to his mask and pulled it completely off.

All I could see was his ruffled black hair. Ignoring the pain from my foot, I stood up and placed a hand on the Batman’s shoulder after limping across the floor. A minute passed before I began to turn him around. He willing followed my suggestion until we stood face to face.

Bruce Wayne had never looked so vulnerable to me. His hair, which had been disheveled by his mask, wasn’t the only thing not in its usual state. His eyes were a bit bloodshot and gave Bruce the appearance that he hadn’t been sleeping well. They were also lacking any emotion at all. As was the rest of his face. And not to mention how out of place he looked wearing Batman’s costume while standing in my living room. Then it hit me. It hit me like a ton of bricks right in the stomach. Bruce Wayne was Batman. Or was Batman Bruce Wayne?

It felt like the entire emotional spectrum occurred within me at the same time. Shock. Disbelief. Awe. Anguish. Each emotion pulled my heart and twisted my stomach in a different direction. My mind could barely keep up. Bruce Wayne. A friend, my only friend, had been directly responsible for what had happened to me the past two weeks. A friend had put me in harm’s way. A friend had purposely exploited my past in order to gain information, which was now of no real use. My friend had lied to me. My friend had promised to protect me and failed.

I didn’t know what to do. So, I did the first thing that popped in my head. I raised my right hand and swiped it across Bruce’s face. The sound echoed throughout the room. I regretted it the moment my hand made contact. I was sure the impact had hurt my hand more than his face plus I found the action completely childish. But I didn’t know what to do or say. I could feel tears start to build up in the corners of my eyes. Soon they began to fall down my cheeks. Bruce remained silence and unmoving. After a few more than awkward seconds, I did the only my heart would allow me to do. I hugged him.

It was more like I threw myself at him. I think the hug shocked Bruce more than my slap. He was probably expecting a slap. I tossed my arms around his neck before burying my tear-ridden face in the nape of his neck. Because of the height difference my toes were hardly touching the ground. To compensate, Bruce cautiously lowered himself into a sitting position against the wall. I, being considerably smaller, maneuvered myself into a comfortable yet untraditional sitting stance in Bruce’s lap while never removing my embrace from his neck and shoulder.

The tears stop after about five minutes but I didn’t move. Finally, Bruce spoke. “Marie, why are you crying?” He asked quietly and carefully.

Still not moving, I answered in what I was sure would be a muffled voice to him. “Because you’re an asshole.” I could feel Bruce’s heart beat regain some normalcy at my reply. He had interpreted my answer, and tone, as good enough proof that I hadn’t completely lost control of everything. I wasn’t sure if he was right or if I was getting better at pretending to be okay.

“I thought that was what the slap was for?” He said lightheartedly. Even though it was a joke, Bruce didn’t dare laugh in such an unstable and foreign situation.

I thought for a moment before removing my face from the corner of his neck and staring at the wall instead. Tear became to flow again but this time much more slowly than and not as loudly as before. I traced the edge of Bruce’s suit, the spot where the main body and mask are meant to meet, with my left ring finger before taking a deep breath. I used my other hand to brush away the tears before they left my face. I exhaled and closed my eyes. A quick moment passed. “I love you, Bruce.” I said softly.