Man or Monster?

Residence of the Barlows, June 30th, 11:21 p.m.

 

He had lied.

 

It hadn’t been the first time he had used the leather bound police badge to get his way around matters, and it wouldn’t be the last. His uncle had given it to him shortly after he had retired, telling him that it would make a great addition for when he played cops and robbers with his friends. If he had any, it surely would have.

 

The badge had acted as his ID for a quick, no questions asked rental of a four-door sedan the color of a dolphin. He had been directed by the man behind the registration counter to the left rear of the parking lot where the car waited for him. The very second he sat in the driver’s seat, he was impressed by the cleanliness of it. It started effortlessly and guided with superior ease, unlike his former mode of transportation, which required a bit of skill. He didn’t have to worry about that anymore. He steered out of the lot, turned left and set out for Rockledge.

 

Towards the only place he had ever felt safe in his entire life.

 

It had been two years since he had last taken an impulsive drive to the house he had spent the first six years of his life in. And then it had been Christmas, and the house had looked as magnificent as ever. It was up for sale, and he almost considered buying it. And if he had the funding, he surely would have.

 

Taking the same route he had earlier that week, he was able to pass by the muddy ditch where he had taken the last one. It was all cleaned up and there was hardly any sign of the accident or his actions. While driving, he slowed his speed slightly, a part of him actually wanting to stop all together. His mind would not allow him the pleasure for there were more important matters that needed to be tended to.

 

Shortly after, he was turning onto the road he had learned how to ride his bike on. He even saw the large tree he had climbed up as a child when a group of third graders had chased him home from school. Shouting out a rainbow of foul words and names. Queer. Peepee. Shitface.

 

His lip curled in a dark smile as he remembered that afternoon. That had been one of the worst days of his life, one where he had no control or power. Things had most definitely changed. He was nothing but power and could control anyone he wished.

 

“Welcome home, Peter,” his mother’s voice said softly in his ear. As he looked up he recognized the slate blue paneled house, the worn shingles and paved driveway of his home. He noticed that there was something different, now that the snow had melted away. The flowerbeds he had meticulously tended as a young child had been replaced with small hedges and Japanese Yew. As he scanned the lawn, he did not see a for sale sign, but in instead, a mailbox with the name Barlow printed on the side.

 

“Someone’s inside the house, Peter. Trespassers. Vandals. Strangers.”

 

Before pulling into the small driveway that was half covered by a dark green mini-van, he flicked off the headlights and went into neutral. He parked, exited the vehicle and proceeded to walk up the drive. Of the windows he could see, two emitted lights. One was the kitchen and the other was the master bedroom on the other end of the house. He walked up next to the house and looked up at the kitchen window. At first he wondered if there was actually any one home, but as he saw a shadow pass through the window, he realized his mother was right.

 

He stepped back, leaning against the minivan. As he felt a shiver race down his spine, he realized how vulnerable he was. Then again, he thought to himself, this is my home, why should I be the one kept out? Why should I be the one that is afraid?

 

Carefully, he climbed the four cement steps up to the side door that lead into the mudroom in the rear of the kitchen. He touched the doorknob, turned his wrist and let loose a half-smile as the knob gave and the door opened. His parents had never locked the doors when they had lived there, such a safe neighborhood.

 

Upon entering the house, the first sensation that hit him was the odor of popcorn, followed shortly by the homey atmosphere he had missed for years. Within three steps, he was just inside the kitchen and standing on a worn blue tiled floor and able to see every inch of the room. On the far wall, was a large counter and standing before it was a short, sandy haired man pouring the contents of a popcorn bag into a glass bowl.

 

Despite the noise as popped kernels chimed on glass, he heard his mother clearly, “He doesn’t belong here.”

 

Having not come prepared for anything extravagant, he had nothing on him to defend his home from this intruder. A quick glance to the kitchen sink offered a sight of a drying dish rack that had a large cutting knife in one of its slots. In the police academy, his advising officer had offered him only one useful piece of advice: in the midst of an impossible situation, a resolution will reveal itself if you look for it.

 

Palming the knife, he crossed the floor of the kitchen and approached the stranger that dared to enter his mother’s house. The sole of his shoe squeaked softly on the floor just as he stopped, mere inches from the man. It was just enough though, for the man tilted his head and turned to stare directly at him, “Who in the--.”

 

In one quick move, he slashed the knife at the man, and then red sprayed from his neck. The man flailed backwards, his hands uselessly pressing against the gushing wound. His elbow caught the popcorn bowl and pushed it off of the counter and onto the floor. It shattered on impact, spewing glass shards and popcorn across the floor’s smooth surface.

 

“Bring him to me, Peter”

 

He looked towards the hall, where his mother’s voice seemed to be coming from. Putting the knife between his teeth, he grabbed the bleeding man as he began to fall to the floor, tasting iron-sweet blood and cool steel. It wasn’t difficult to move the man, but he ended up half-carrying him and half-dragging him simply because the body had begun to jerk slightly. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall and he had to pass not only his old room, but the bathroom and the small office his father had kept as well. To keep back the sudden flood of memories, he focused on his task, to do as his mother told him.

 

Just as he reached the open door, he heard the scream. Female, shrill and frightened. He dropped the man and pressed himself flush against the inside wall of the bedroom, his eyes towards the door. He listened carefully as running footsteps echoed down the hall as she followed the trail he had left on the beige carpet. Then a soft moan before another cry, “HENRY!!”

 

The second she passed through the door, he reached out and grabbed her, his eyes dark and unwavering. She tried to scream but he backhanded her and she simply gasped instead. The knife still clamped between his incisors, he shoved her down on the bed, his glare settling on her face. Her one cheek was bright red and her eyes had already begun to shed tears of fear and pain. Even as he punched her temple, he couldn’t help but flash back to the day his father had slapped his mother, and how she had cried in bed for so long that night

 

“No!” she screamed, her hands coming up to claw his face. She gouged a chunk of flesh from his cheek and tried to aim at his eyes. To retaliate, he simultaneously hit her again, hard in the face, while chopping sharply at her side. After two more similar blows, her eyes rolled back and her breath became labored.

He went into automatic at that point, crouching above her with his legs to either side of his. The blood in his veins was hot and quick, just like so many times before. As he looked down at the bleeding face before him, it wasn’t at all difficult to visualize the W***e, that he had finally gotten to her and that he was then able to rid her of the world for good.

 

He slowly removed the blade from his mouth and wiped it on his shirtsleeve, eyeing his reflection carefully. A blurry image reflected as well, something by the door. He turned and saw a small boy, clad in green pajamas with his hair mused from sleep. The child eyed the bloody remains of his father and then slowly looked up to him as he kneeled upon his mother, the small lower lip quivering.

 

He saw himself.

 

^V^

 

Residence of the Barlows, June 30th, 11:29 p.m.

 

Traveling twenty miles over the speed limit, I navigated the back roads towards Rockledge with a bad feeling in my gut. Then again, I had never been optimistic, especially when it involved deranged murderers.

Just after I had left Gotham, I had checked up on the status of the former Placido residence, only to find it currently occupied by a family of three. All the while, I had pondered as to what lengths he would go to in handling these “trespassers” when he had butchered an innocent woman who had caused a fender bender. And as I pulled up to the near darkened house, I expected the worst.

 

After stepping out of the ‘Mobile, I set it to park itself a few blocks down the road. No need to alert everyone of my arrival. Using the darkness of the drive, I walked quickly up along the outside of the house and towards a side door. The door was unlocked, showing no sign of forced entry. Had Placido gained entrance on false pretense of amiability or had the residents trusted the safety of their neighborhood?

 

As I made my way into the kitchen, I spotted popcorn all over the floor as well as arterial spray of blood on the floor, counter and even ceiling. I crouched and touched the blood and was surprised that it was still uncongealed. Looking to the right, I noticed a rubbed in path of blood droplets leading down a narrow tan hall. A sliver of light could be seen towards the end, but not much more.

 

I moved soundlessly towards the light, doing my best to avert my eyes from the family portraits that were on the walls. Smiling faces. Ten feet short of the end of the hall, I saw a pair of limp legs in dark flannel pants. The door was partially opened and soft lamplight spilled into the corridor. I squatted beside the foot of the leg, searched for a pulse and found none.

 

My tardiness. Another casualty.

 

After standing upright against the wall, I eased closer to the door and peered inside.

 

Lying unconscious was the dark haired woman from the pictures, sprawled awkwardly on the bedspread. A good portion of the room was hidden from my viewpoint and I had to move closer to search for any sign of Placido. I expected him to be long gone, and to find the filleted body of the young boy in the corner of the room.

 

What I hadn’t expected was to see Peter Placido, the killer that had plagued Gotham City for months, kneeling before a pajama clad child, both of them crying silently.

 

Keeping out of sight, I inched further, so that I was just at the door jam. I listened as Placido apologized, “I’m sorry. I can’t do it...”

 

The boy seemed to be all right, shocked, and I wondered if he had witnessed his father's death. For his sake, I hoped not. I watched out of the corner of my eye as the child backed away from Placido and moved towards the bed. The woman’s arm twitched slightly, then shivered before going still. Alive. But for how long?

 

Placido stood, hunched over to maintain eye contact with the child. I noticed the knife in his left hand, hanging loosely from his fingertips. I could have thrown a bola, or even charged in, but was unsure if I could take him down before he got to the boy. A risk I was unwilling to take. I watched on, noticed Placido jerk his head slightly to the right, and then he spoke, “But you told me€ I can’t hurt him”

 

Talking to himself. The voices in his diseased mind had controlled him all this time and yet with the task of taking the life of a child he is standing his ground? Taking a risk, I called out, “Peter.”

 

He looked towards the door and stammered, “Who? Dad?”

 

“Peter, listen to me. Come towards me.”

 

He glanced to his right once more and then back in my direction, no doubt an internal argument bouncing off the walls of his mind. I was partially relieved when he stepped towards the door, only in part because his grip on the knife tightened. “Dad, is that you?”

 

I stepped back further into the darkness of the hall and waited for him to fill the doorway. Over six feet, built with strong muscle, but no bulk to slow him down. If we hadn’t gotten as lucky as we had in finding him, I wondered how long he would have gone on.

 

Before he could recognize my presence, I lunged forward, striking his knife bearing hand hard as to stun the nerves in his wrist. He cried out, the features of his face changing in an instant, from confusion to outrage. The child on the bed screamed as the both us tumbled into the room. I did my best to guide Placido back into the hall, still chopping away at his arm. I felt bones crunch and yet still he had a steel grip on the knife.

 

With a final blow, he dropped it and fell to the carpet briefly before scrambling to his feet, “Where’s my father?!” he cried as he charged at my midsection. His forehead connected solidly with my diaphragm and I felt my breath rush out of my mouth. As he tried to push me down, I sidestepped and allowed him to run into the wall so hard that it gave and left a dome shaped indent.

 

When he turned to face me, his brow bloodied, he let out a low growl of frustration and came at me again. I moved out of the way just in time and tripped him with my foot while landing a blow to the back of his head with the heel of my hand. He tumbled shoulder first onto the floor and collided with a small end table. The lamp crashed and the illumination of the room disappeared. I activated my night lenses and watched as Placido slowly made his way to his feet. I took the spare moment to glance at the bed and noticed the boy had vanished. I looked towards the corner and spotted him, huddled in the closet.

 

Sooner than I suspected, Placido came back at me, the snarl on his lips growing. He had given up on the bull and matador routine and tried to punch my midsection. I blocked two consecutive hits and then struck out myself, hitting him square in the jaw.

 

“Monster,” he muttered, “Where is he?”

 

I didn’t have time to offer an answer for he swung out again, this time, my lenses picked up the glimmer of steel, he had retrieved the knife. I dodged the assault easily by stepping back and then to the side. I thought the dark would have been my advantage, but as I felt a hot pain in my arm as Placido slashed blindly, I realized my error. I blocked the next two slashes, and then chopped his swollen wrist. The knife fell again and I used the distraction to hit him in the back of the head once more. He stumbled to the carpet, eyes rolled in the back of his head.

 

After watching him breathe slowly for a moment, I checked his pulse and rolled him over after binding his wrists. I then stepped over his form to check on the boy. He was rocking slowly, arms pulled tight around his bent legs. I told him he was all right and that help was on the way. I feared to touch him, for in the dark, it would most likely frighten him. The boy looked up with glassy eyes and searched for my face in the dark. I stood and reached for the pull string on the light in the closet.

 

Just as my fingers touched it, I felt a blade enter my back.

 

I stumbled forward and caught myself on the wall so not to fall on the boy. Before I could reach the knife to pull it out, I heard Placido laugh quietly, “Darts at Mimi’s.” I didn’t have time to find meaning in it before he was behind me, twisting the blade. I felt a white hot blaze flare in my back and suddenly wondered if he had hit a kidney, or even my spleen. He quickly removed the knife and kneed me in the back, feeding the pain there. I spun around, doing my best to ignore the unbearable burning. Despite two solid blows to his side Placido only doubled over slightly but was able to avoid the third one I dealt.

 

As I drew my arm back to prepare for a forth, he reached forward, thrusting the knife into my side, catching in between two ribs. I growled and struck out at him quickly, not giving him the satisfaction. A nerve block to his left arm rendered it useless and caused him to stagger sideways two steps. I kicked at him and toppled him back to the ground just as I felt the pressure build in my chest and as the rich coppery taste of blood settled in the back of my mouth. I spat and looked down at the embedded knife, doing my best to conserve oxygen by regulating my breathing.

 

Before I could attempt to remove it, I noticed Placido rising once more.

 

If we hadn’t gotten as lucky as we had in finding him, I wondered how long he would have gone on...

 

I felt my luck slipping as I lost the ability to stand while my head went light. The tightness in my side was unbearable, easily drowning out the pain in my lower back. Before I knew it, he was kneeling in front of me, taking a hold of the knife. While my breaths came ragged he knelt above me, leaning his torso over me so we were face to face. All I had to do was hit him, kick him, anything and it would be over. Too bad I couldn’t even breathe.

 

He pushed the knife deeper and I cried out involuntarily.

 

“You bleed, you’re not a monster after all. Just a man. A foolish man.”

 

I took a weak hold on his hand that was over the knife, doing my best to pull it out. My hand was too slick and I couldn’t keep a hold of him. With his free hand, he grabbed mine and pinned it to the floor, using the slightest effort considering my inability to fight him. I watched as his grin widened just before he pulled on the blade, lengthening the wound as he pulled up, guiding the blade on my rib. Despite the fact that pain was over whelming, I couldn’t manage anything more than a quiet gasp.

 

He was right, foolish man, foolish way to die. Selina’s face flashed before my eyes and I suddenly wished I hadn’t pushed her away. That I had spent more time with her. That we hadn’t wasted all of those years

He pulled up more on the blade and whispered, “If you are a man, than you must have a mother. Did she teach you the Golden Rule? Mine did, right before she was taken from me.”

 

I finally got a hold of his wrist, but was still unable to find the energy to do anything. Months of little rest, hardly no sleep, all adding up to that very moment. What I wouldn’t give to go back and to get a full night’s sleep and a nice hot meal before venturing out that night

 

“No child should grow up without his mother,” he growled, forcing the blade up towards my sternum, “Yours will have to learn to live without you”

 

At that very second, it happened.

 

I used my last ounce of reserves to pull the knife out and to then turn it against him, landing it deep into his side. He sat up, howling in pain. The weight relieved off of my chest, I was able to draw in a shaky breath, enough to keep the fog out of my head. With my then freed hand, I fetched a gas capsule from my belt and threw it at Placido’s chest. It exploded on contact, enveloping him in an azure haze. After a few coughs, he collapsed forward, his full weight landing on me.

 

The shock was settling in and I could already feel my feet growing cold. I did manage to shove his form off of me before contacting Oracle and calling in for an ambulance and a pickup for Placido. She easily sensed the strain in my voice, and asked what happened. I told her to just put in the requests and to keep track of things in Gotham for the night.

 

While still laid out on the floor, I activated the remote control and summoned the ‘Mobile to come retrieve me. And also for an alert to be sent to Alfred.

 

Using the bed, I sat up, carefully, and used the mattress to support my back. Through what meditation I could manage, I was able to settle my vitals and to control the pain to a bearable level. As soon as I could, I glanced towards the closet. The boy had begun to creep out and paused as he noticed my gaze. The tears had slowed and genuine childish concern flooded his face.

 

Just as we locked eyes, his mother moaned and he looked towards her. In a flash, he bounded towards her and crawled onto the bed, jarring it enough to aggravate my back. I winced slightly, but he didn’t notice. Not sure if I could stand quite yet, I moved to my knees and then reached over to Placido. After binding him as securely as I could manage, I used the wall as a brace to stand. I took a moment to look back as the boy hugged the now moving form of his mother.

 

Then the faint sound of sirens and the rumble of my car grabbed my attention.

 

I slipped out unnoticed and made my way home.

 

^V^

 

Wayne Manor, July 4th, 10:18 a.m.

 

The day after Placido was arrested, every state newspaper and even a few national ones broadcasted his capture on the front page. Local news stations reported live from the scene, interviewed people of his past and did there best to make sense on how such a bright young man could have done so much harm.

It turned out that he had documented all of his activities in the journals found in his garage. He had even gone as far as listing aliases that matched up with several bank accounts, gym memberships and magazine subscriptions. Everyone associated with him had the same thing to say: a nice, quiet man, very polite and mannered, never would hurt a fly. Even his newspaper boy vouched for his good nature.

 

Since Caffery had no hand in his arrest, he was not only ignored by the reporters, he was joked about by the entire Gotham City Police force as well as a few of his own agents. GCPD Homicide even went as far as to Photoshop an FBI identification card with Batman’s picture and signature, and put it in a cheap leather wallet in Caffery’s car. Robin said that when Gordon told him, he had never laughed so hard in his life.

 

June Barlow, the widow of Henry Barlow, suffered a minor concussion and a fracture in her jaw. The boy was fine, nothing that years of therapy wouldn’t solve. Odds were that the second she was out of the hospital and after burying her husband, she and her son would by leaving the former Placido residence without hesitation.

 

I watched the morning news in bed, doing my best to sit up against a mountain of pillows. For the fourth day in a row, Placido was the lead story. He had been released from the secure ward of Mercy General and was transported to city lockup until his preliminary hearing. His path seemed to be headed towards Arkham, or hopefully, to a state mental institution as far from my city as possible.

 

As the anchor moved on to discuss the highlights of that night’s Fourth of July Festival at Robinson Park, I shut the television off and closed my eyes. Alfred had taken the chest tube out the night before and it felt much better to breath without my lung collapsing.

 

By the time the car had pulled in on autopilot to the Cave that night, I had lost consciousness and Alfred claimed that I had nearly died. Then again, it was his word against mine. He and Leslie concurred that forced bed rest would prevent an imminent demise as well as a course of antibiotics and analgesics.

 

The Penicillin I took, the painkillers, I think not.

 

There had been no word from Selina, and I truly doubted that there would be for some time. Even though Placido was in custody, the problems that had arisen between us were not over. Not for the first time and surely not for the last, I had let my work interfere with my life, driving away someone I cared about.

 

Then again, the safest place for anyone was to be as far away as I could push them.

 

A tone sounded from the phone on the nightstand, then Alfred’s voice, “Sir?”

 

“What?” I grumbled, my eyes still shut.

 

“If you are up to it, I have a lovely dish of poached eggs just begging to be devoured.”

 

I sighed, “No thanks.”

 

“Is there anything I can get you?” the sincerity in his voice coming out more so than usual.

 

“No.”

 

He paused and then signed off, “Very well then, Master Bruce.”

 

As silence returned to the room, I shifted carefully and winced as my weight fell on the wound on my lower back. With an injury on my back and on my side, it had been rather difficult to find a somewhat comfortable position to lie in for a period longer than five minutes. I adjusted the pillow just at the small of my back and reclined more on my left side and sighed at the discovery of comfort.

 

Just short of falling asleep, I heard the door open and I smelt strong coffee and eggs. I kept my eyes closed and growled, “Alfred, I thought I told you I didn’t want anything.”

 

My eyes flew open when I heard a female voice reply, “Hmm, definitely not Alfred and I really don’t care what you want.”

 

I stared in disbelief as Selina casually set the tray on my dresser before walking over and sitting beside me on the bed, her eyes never meeting mine. She wore a knee length black skirt and a midnight blue silk blouse. Make up had been applied, but I could still see dark smudges beneath her eyes. I sat up, did my best to hide the pain.

 

She cleared her throat and then said, “You know, I usually love Independence Day. I don’t celebrate in much of a patriotic sense, more like my own personal independence. But this morning, when I woke up and stepped out onto the terrace, I didn’t feel independent at all. Then I realized that I haven’t felt it in some time now.”

 

She took a deep breath and paused before continuing, “And I actually don’t mind as much as I thought I would.”

 

Selina shrugged and kept her gaze settled on the floor. Then she shifted on the bed so that she sat beside me and looked down at my bandaged side. Before I could even begin to plan out what to say to her, she reached up and turned my head so I faced her. She kissed my forehead and then rested her brow against mine. “Are you okay?”

 

Slowly, I nodded against her head. I felt her hand carefully touch the bandages on my back and then traced her fingers up to my chest, resting her hand over my heart. She paused and then asked, her voice softer, “Are we okay?”

 

I didn’t nod. Instead, I put my hand over hers and looked into a pair of emerald eyes as if for the first time.

 

I didn’t shake my head either. Instead, I kissed her as if it was going to be the last time.

 

^V^