Babydoll
Bruce
Words…
Words were the only thing he knew the most in his mournful life. He heard, acknowledged, and acted upon them even when he struggled with his own words. Speaking was hard, but listening… listening was something he could manage.
He had read somewhere—too many places, really—that words were the columns of a building. If they were empty, the building would collapse, turn into nothing more than sand and pebbles. It would be cheap and destructible.
To have a stable building, you had to have a stable ground, but all you needed was to build it with words that could carry it. You needed ideals and thoughts that could be exclaimed. Because, without them, everything was lost. Futile. Words had to have meanings, and each breath used to form them had to be worth it.
He wasn't good at doing that.
When he had lost his parents, the police had promised him safety. They brought him back home, let Alfred take him in, and tend the wounds that could never heal. They were too deep, bleeding too much to the point that no amount of words could fill the hole they left. As if it were an endless pit that could swallow him whole. If too far, he would drown.
It wasn't safe. Nothing could ever be again.
Getting back home after the tragedy—that's all it was. Just a tragedy for the media—it wasn't easy. He had spent his days in his room, too scared to get out at first. After a while, the manor became a sanctuary, somewhere no one could get in or out of other than Alfred. Bruce had been skeptical about letting Alfred go out all alone, but the butler raised his voice, had enough of him.
Nothing got better.
When he eventually started to warm up to the idea of getting out and taking a breath, it took a while. He couldn't even get out of the manor without checking every window, every door, and every valuable thing he ever had. He couldn't lose more. And to not lose more, everything had to be tidy, clean, and neat. If he didn't check everything, keep them cluttered, something would happen. And it would leave him isolated in the dark. Everything would fall. His cracked columns would give way.
He would crumble apart.
When he cleansed his clothes from that night, he could never get that pungent iron scent of blood off the fabric. Scrubbed it. Bleached.
In the end, Alfred had to pry away the clothes from his irritated and red hands. He hadn't worn gloves when he handled bleach for hours repeatedly every day. His skin was cracked, sore, and itchy.
The scent had never gone away. It clung to his body, wrapped him in a nauseating blanket of meat and blood. If Alfred hadn't hidden all the bleach and detergent, he would have used them on his body too. But scrubbing until his body bled had been his solution, even if it didn't help. He didn't try to stop, not really. Too tired to even think about consequences or how the scars he made would itch at night.
At night, his rest was filled with dreams that had his mother's pearls around his neck. They were hugging it, swarming around it in a suffocating embrace. They had comforted him at first,
But he wasn't allowed to have nice things.
In his dreams, the thug from that night would stand in front of him. The man was faceless, an image that was too blurred to be picked up. He had a gun in his hand, pointing it at Bruce's chest with trembling hands, telling them. But the words changed all the time, and in his mind, they were empty. Empty columns of a building that was about to collapse.
Then, Bruce would feel the panic. His chest would hitch, hands trembling beside him. He knew what this meant. Lived through it. Replayed it enough to still want to stop it. Prevent the outcome and actually have a happy ending.
Yet, his effort would be in vain. He would try to scream, tell him to stop, but he had no mouth. No voice that could speak up for him.
No matter what he did, the gun would be fired. And, as the bullet shot towards his chest, he could wake up abruptly from his bed, heaving and panting as if he had run the whole manor without a break.
He woke up the same tonight, too. It was still dark outside, meaning it was before 4 AM. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand onto his chest, counting each heave that rattled him. Inhaling, he coughed the tension off and reached towards the drawer next to his bed.
Its light flickered into life, radiating a soft yet dull orange light into the dark room. It looked cold, empty, almost as if he were a ghost in his own space. In his own room. As if it wasn't lived in.
Closing his eyes and pushing the blanket away to get the weight off him, he sighed and sat up, supporting himself with his right arm as he did so.
It was okay, fine even. He just had to shrug it off like usual.
His scarred and irritated hand reached up to touch his shoulder, tracing the lines he had grown attached enough to memorize.
The most letters he had been using to track were the letters "g" and "y." It was nice to have his fingers trace the curves and tails of them, twirling his index finger on his skin.
Soulmate manifestation marks contained the first words your soulmate would ever say to you, the first interaction both of them would ever have. It was supposed to be a magical moment, a part of the story where everything clicked into place. At least that's what the books told him. There were a lot of books written about soulmates, such a thing filled with wonder, still not very much known in terms of science. The concept of soulmates was… eternal. Out of his world. Nobody knew how they came to be. Every explanation had been doubted by another explanation. They were magical, almost.
Bruce hated magic.
To add to the concept of soulmates, the marks would form where your soulmate touched the most on your body in their life. Where they love to be close to them. Much of the population had them on their hands, others in parts that were either unseen or on top of scars.
Bruce's mark was in the perfect place. He could hide it easily, but still wear short sleeves. He didn't need to wear a turtleneck. He didn't need gloves or concealer. It was on his shoulder. Just a little bit up on his clavicle. There was a scar just below the text mark, and for once, Bruce was glad he hadn't gotten it scratched. He didn't know how he would react if his soulmate's mark was anywhere else. If it was on his scar, it meant his soulmate cherished his scars, maybe pitied them. Bruce hated both. If it were anywhere else, it would feel invasive.
But on his shoulder, it was grounding. It was innocent. It was support.
Tracing the letter "o" with his finger, he slumped into the bed, replaying the words written on his skin over and over in his mind.
They were comforting, safe, and gave him a lot to think about. Normally, his thoughts would border on the paranormal, chaotic. But with his soulmate's words etched onto his very being, knowing that there was someone who would love and cherish the very thing he thought could never see the light of day, knowing his soulmate's first words were about asking how he was…
Bruce answered the question every time, never getting bored. It helped him anchor himself to reality, even when it seemed like he was slipping away to no man's land.
He hadn't met his soulmate, no. But he already knew that he needed them by his side.
