I'll be good

Family

It was dark— not entirely pitch-black, but enough to obscure the areas surrounding him. It was cold too, almost as if he was stood outside in the dead of winter wearing only light clothing. There was a single flicker of light at the end of the long, narrow passageway, it's presence seemed to instill some form of comfort inside him as he made his way toward it.

The wooden floor creaked beneath him with every step, and the closer he grew towards the soft glow of light, the colder it seemed.

He eventually reached the end of the narrowing passage, only to find himself stood underneath a dimming streetlamp behind an alley. He looked back but the passageway was already gone-- as though it hadn't been there at all-- replaced by the empty, damp streets of Gotham. Every instinct inside him told him not to walk down that alley, to forget about it and simply walk away. But his feet moved forward and before he could blink he was cautiously walking down the seemingly empty, cobblestone road.

He knew it was a dream, how could it not be? He wasn't the type to willingly walk down dark alleys anymore, not unless he was the only thing to be feared that was in there.

Two figures were stood underneath an unlit streetlamp at the other end of the alley. They stood with their backs toward him so he couldn't see their faces. He didn't feel afraid, in fact, he felt at ease almost, a sense of familiarity emitting from the two strangers.

He didn't say anything as he slowly reached his hand up to the more slender shoulder of the figure standing to the left. He didn't want them to turn around and acknowledge his presence but he couldn't seem to help himself; he needed to know who these people were.

Slowly his outstretched hand reached it's intended position, and he froze before making contact, his hand hovering just above the shoulder that was partly covered in darkness.

Suddenly a cry of laughter broke out amongst the silence before being muffled by a sudden gunshot. His hand dropped away as the man and woman fell to the ground, the harsh intensity of the freshly lit streetlamp beaming upon their faces.

The sound of a gun cocking forced him to look away. A silhouette half-covered by shadow stood before him with the weapon raised and pointed at his chest.

He felt it before he heard it. The sharp, white-hot agony as the bullet hit him. He dropped to his knees, clutching his abdomen as the crimson liquid seeped out of the wound. His vision began to blur as he desperately tried to steady his breathing.

The world around him began to slowly darken. A tear slipped from his eye as he watched the white pearls-- now covered in blood-- that had fallen from the woman's neck as she fell, roll passed his face, and into the drain next to him.

***

Bruce woke with a start, looking frantically around his room, and trying to untangle himself from the bedsheets in desperation.

Just a dream.

Once he got his bearings and calmed his breathing down to normal, he let himself slip back into bed but he didn't dare go back to sleep; the dream startled him too much. It was too vivid and felt too real. It was like being back in that alley when he was a boy, watching his parents die in front of him.

He remembered the nightmares he would have for months after their deaths, almost like his subconscious was playing a sick game with him, forcing him to relive the moment over and over again.

But they stopped after a while, and they didn't come back, that is, until this very moment.

He felt wetness on his cheeks and immediately he knew he'd been crying silent tears in his sleep. Bruce scowled in annoyance; night-terrors were for children, not him. Not Batman.