Batman and Catwoman

A Beginning Bloomed from an End

I think back to that day every time our eyes meet. Every word he speaks emanates from that dark place, the pearls that rolled gently over damp pavement in the dead of night.

    It was a night that changed Bruce more than anything, yet somehow, it's when I felt the beginning of myself emerge as well.

    I had stolen milk. That's how it began. A rush of cool night air blew my hair back as I ran relentlessly through a crowd of people. The cold from the carton of milk I had taken began to penetrate the skin of my breast, seeping through my shirt and sending icy shivers through my body.

I clambered up a building and gazed down at the glowing city. The night air filled with crime potential made my lips curve upwards into a smile. Little did I know, the expression wouldn't last.

    After climbing back down to the ground, descending on a low hanging staircase, I crouched and greeted the cat that dwelled near. She let out a soft meow as I grabbed a small tin carton and poured her some milk. My gloved fingers touched her soft fur and she began to drink. I let myself relax for a moment before I heard voices echoing down the alleyway.

    At the sight of a rich family strolling down the pavement, I scrambled up a staircase, ascending a ladder and positioning myself on a platform out of the eye of the civilians.

    "The acting was fine and the music was lovely," I heard the mother say as their voices and steps grew louder. "What about you Bruce?"

    "Sorry mom, I agree with Dad; it was kinda lame," the boy chuckled. He seemed to be only a couple years younger than me. Something about his name sounded familiar...

    "Kinda lame," the father replied. "There's no such word as kinda. It was really lame!"

    They went on like that, clearly having the time of their lives probably talking about some  movie they watched at a fancy cinema or something, but a new player stepped onto the board. A dark figure crept up to them as the kid's mom replied.

    He shouted something I couldn't quite make out from beneath his mask, and in mere seconds he held a pistol pointed toward the family.

    "Stay calm, Bruce," the father warned his son as the robber demanded money. Bruce's mom clung to her son.

    They made a few transactions, one I assumed was a wallet, and the other, a glowing pearl necklace, it's white beads dropping and scattering across the alley floor.

    Then the robber slowly pointed the direction of the gun. Before anyone could do anything, a shot rang out through the darkness. I watched the kid, his shocked face gasping for breath as his father plummeted to the concrete, his mother following shortly with yet another loud clang of the gun. In her last moments, she tried to grab onto her son, only to end up in the same place as the pearls from her broken jewelry.

    At this point, my heart was pumping like a jackhammer. Let's just say it was not what I had seen myself doing that evening.

    Bruce turned, his jaw slack, only able to watch as the same thug who had just murdered his parents pointed the same weapon at his face. I gazed at the scene, eyes wide, bracing myself for a shot that never came. The killer dropped his wrist and jogged off, running into the boy during the process.

    Still in shock, Bruce shook his parent's limp bodies, screaming for his mom and dad. Upon seeing their blood that now stained his own hands, he crumpled to the ground and screamed at the top of his lungs.

    His cry of despair sound echoed off of Gotham's buildings, tinting the damned city with another shade of broken.

    It was the first time I ever saw Bruce. That was years ago. Yet the thought still haunts my mind, and sometimes I can still see that little boy in Bruce's eyes, hear his scream from beneath Batman's mask.