The revolver smelled dank. That’s what I remembered; Not what my father was whispering, seated and hunched over, his back against a wall.

I ran the opposite direction, through the courtyard, and though it was strewn with autumn leaves, they were not freshly fallen, and there were no crunches beneath my steps.

As I rounded the bend, I saw, for the first time, the hulking frame of a big, bad wolf, clawing and shredding the red fabric of a hooded figure… but it was a deception, for I also saw my mother, beyond, her face uncovered, looking back at me. I kept running, silently, past the wolf who seemed not to notice me, and joined her, as she closed the gate behind us.

After the resonating clang, I could no longer hear the scratching.

We ran on, her stern gaze ushering me forward, unnecessarily, for I too desperately wanted to enter the sanctity of our home. The few times I looked back, I saw her looking only forward, scanning the tall brush ahead of us. But I knew she warded the trail behind us; I heard the twang of her bowstring, and a howl echoing all around us. “The towers would protect us”, I thought.

I stopped only to open our front door. But after I had ran inside and turned around, I was stunned to see my mother shut the door behind me, blocking my view of all but a sliver of brown fur in the crevice between the frame and the latch stile before the door had shut.

Before I could blink, the door opened again and my mother stepped inside, calmly, her face unreadable, but somber. There was a deep, primordial sound, half-growl, half-moan, that faded out into the distance outside, cut off by the door sealing shut again.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“A parent’s worst nightmare,” mother said, “is that her child will grow up to be unhappy. A parent would give up anything to ensure that this does not happen.”

I looked out into the gardenpath through the window, but saw no one.

She stepped up the right wing of stairs and I behind her to the second level until she entered the master office. When an adult enters an office, it is an invitation for a child not to follow; The invitation punctuated by the door gently clicking shut. She was not alone.

…

After supper, Alfred hoped onto my plate and squawked “Would master Wayne like the schedule?”

“Yes, please” I assented as I picked up a sizable stray breadcrumb and fed it to the parakeet.

“Waaaaark, it’s time to churn the worms!”

Somehow, it had grown very quiet at the dinner table. I had noticed too late, when I was already playfully imitating Alfred’s intonation: “churn the woooorms?” my voice cracking out of nervousness for what I was sure was undue attention upon myself. Everyone laughed. I thought they were laughing at me.

…

Mother came into the bedroom, kissing me on the forehead and told me that she loved me, as per our nightly routine. This time, she lingered a little longer than usual, then took off her cape and wrapped it around me, telling me that I would be strong. I thought she was consoling my embarrassment. The fire went out and I was alone. A dark night; I resolved not to let my voice squeak again.

—-

This story was based on a dream I had. I don’t want to say too much about it, except to point out the obvious (if you’re familiar with them) inspirations from Batman, Little Red Riding Hood, League of Legends, and even, to a word from Metal Gear Awesome, though it detracts from the tone to admit so.

As is often the case with my dreams, the logic of the plot is not always self-evident, and the “intended experience” is more a series of scenes and emotions than a consistent narrative. One of the sentiments that was too difficult for me to elegantly express in the writeup is that the narrator Wayne has become habituated to the multitude of adults that joins the family for dinner. The adults are anonymous to him, the child, though surely they must be business partners and friends of the parents. Had I the artistic talent to draw illustrations to accompany this story, some of the laughing faces would be reminiscent of the joker (green disentangled hair, purple suit, pale face contrasted with crimson lips), the penguin (top hat, pointed nose, round figure), and so on.

Had I complete control over the typesetting, I would have drawn the text such that in the last sentence, “A dark night; I resolved not to let my voice squeak again.”, it would be ambiguous as to whether a comma or a period separated “night” and “I”, which I only managed to approximate here by using a semicolon.