The summer night clung to the city like a warm, wet blanket. Tall skyscrapers and narrow streets cut off most of the inner city from cooling bay breezes. In the summer, downtown Gotham City was not the most comfortable place to take a walk, especially when one was confined to a uncomfortable suit, and one’s sweaty neck was nearly choked by an oppressive tie. Bruce Wayne would have rather been anywhere but where he was at that moment. Some friends at school were attending a baseball game at Heights Field, home of Gotham’s baseball team the Gotham Rogues. Bruce had an affinity for the sport, an affinity his affluent parents did not share. Instead, determined to infuse a higher culture into their son, Thomas and Martha had attended a performance at the Gotham Opera House, compelling Bruce to join them.
Bruce didn’t harbor any negative feelings towards his parents. He appreciated that they were invested in his life. He just sometimes wished they would invest in his interests as well. At the moment, anyway, he was much more interested in reaching the street. He knew that Alfred Pennyworth, the family butler, would be there waiting for them. The family Bentley would be rumbling gently, and Alfred would have the air conditioning tuned just perfectly. The car would provide a welcome refuge from the sweltering summer sauna. Also, Bruce hoped, he could talk Alfred into a bit of ice cream once the family returned to Wayne Manor, the mansion in which his family had lived for generations on the rural outskirts of Gotham.
Bruce’s formal shoes crunched on bits of glass and grit that had begun to form a jagged covering to the crumbling asphalt that paved the alley. The Wayne family had exited the Opera House via a back door so as to avoid the paparazzi spotlight. Thomas Wayne, while a practicing medical doctor, was also a businessman and one of the wealthiest persons in the nation. There always seemed to be someone who was hoping for a salacious story and a scandalous photo. The alley was lit only by a light at the Opera House door, a pallid pool of yellow luminance, a light now behind the ambling family. Ahead, at the entrance to the alley, the lights from the city streets streamed into the alley, broken occasionally by passing pedestrians. The resulting illumination jumped down the alley like gnarled, grasping fingers. In between was a hazy grayness. Little starlight filtered from the sky above.
Bruce was staring down at his formal shoes, ignoring his parents who walked a few paces ahead and talked quietly to themselves. He was lost in his own thoughts, and paying little attention to his dingy surroundings. He very nearly walked into his father’s legs.
Thomas Wayne had stopped abruptly. Standing in front of the family, appearing as a specter out of nowhere, was a thin, gangly man. He wore a hooded sweatshirt which was several sizes too large for his frame, and a scraggly beard reached out from his face like so many greasy tentacles.
“Your money. Quick.” He rasped. It was then that Bruce saw the gun. It was a .38 calibre revolver, snub nosed, not all that large of a gun, but to Bruce, it was a cannon. From between his mother and father he stared into the gaping barrel. The gun shook, the mugger apparently weak from malnutrition and nervousness. Martha Wayne had frozen in fright, neither speaking nor moving. Thomas held up his hands slowly.
“Take it easy. I’m reaching for my wallet.” Thomas, keeping his left hand aloft, slowly reached his right hand into his formal jacket, and withdrew his billfold. Betraying none of the fear he must have felt, he reached out his arm, offering the leather wallet to the mugger.
The ragged man groped for the wallet, not taking his eyes off the elder Wayne. His fingers brushed it, knocking it to the alley floor. With a muttered curse, he tried to reach down for the wallet while keeping his eyes, and gun, trained on his victims. He couldn’t locate his prize by touch. Looking down for a split second, he tried to spot the wallet on the ground. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Thomas simultaneously shoved Martha backwards while he stepped to the side. Martha, caught off guard by her husband’s split second defensive motion, shrieked. She also stepped inadvertently on Bruce’s foot, not knowing he was there. She began to fall. The commotion caused the mugger to snap his head up. Not taking time to realize what was happening, he panicked.
Boom.
Boomboom.
His first shot was a bit wild, but it caught Thomas Wayne in the temple. The man went down without a sound, his body crashing into the brick wall of the alley, falling into a twisted heap on some garbage. The second shot went through Martha’s chest. The third her head. She continued her backwards fall, collapsing on top of Bruce.
Bruce’s world was suddenly one filled with noise and terror. While his father was talking and moving he had only been slightly alarmed by the situation. He never for a second doubted that his father would remain in control and keep him safe. His father had never once in Bruce’s memory been out of control. Everyone always did whatever his father wanted, usually as soon as he asked. The suddeness of the attack and the loud report of the gun startled him. He watched in horror as his father twisted and smacked against the wall, while at the same time his mother was crashing into him. He felt her body jerk under the impact of the bullets, and then he was crushed under her weight. Martha wasn’t a large woman, but Bruce was small for his age. He felt smothered. He could hardly breathe. The gunshots rung in his ears and he couldn’t hear. The world through his eyes smeared and seemed to jumble itself.
Bruce struggled to lift his mother and squirm out from under her. He pressed a hand into the ground and succeeded in scraping it against the glass and grit. With effort, he freed himself.
“Mom! Mom!” He started to shake her, but his hand slipped across her chest and he fell face first into something sticky. Pushing himself up, he stared into a gaping chest wound. He looked at his hands: they were covered in bright blood. He looked at his mom’s face. Her mouth was contorted, an expression of terror. The top of her skull was blown away and blood covered her face.
Bruce could make no sound. The terrible sight of his mother unnerved him. For a second the world stopped and all he could see was blood and death.
Then something heavy hit him from behind. Adrenaline spiked and Bruce flailed wildly.
“Get off! Get off me!” He struggled against a a firm grip. He was aware of a strong hand grasping each bicep.
Then he heard a whisper, the first sound he perceived clearly following the bang of the gun.
“It’s ok, Master Bruce. It’s ok.”
“Alfred…” The name was more sob than sound.
Bruce Wayne, orphan, crumpled into his butler’s arms. Burying his face into Alfred’s rough, woolen jacket, he broke down in tears. He wasn’t aware of the rush of police boots, nor the strobing of squad car lights.
Beneath Martha and Thomas Wayne, blood pooled, crimson glinting darkly in the dim light.
Disturbed by the commotion, a few bats who nested beneath an overhanging fire escape further back in the alley fluttered off into the Gotham night.
a simple man 