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"Thank you for coming today. I believe in Gotham. I believe in its promise. But too many have been left behind for too long, and that's why I am here today. To announce, not only my candidacy for mayor but also the creation of the Gotham Renewal Fund. Win or lose, the Wayne Foundation pledges a one billion dollar donation to start a charitable endowment for public works. I want to bypass political gridlock, and get money to people and projects who need it now, like these children behind me. Renewal is about growth. It is about planting seeds and renewing Gotham's promise."
THOMAS WAYNE.
He was a billionaire philanthropist, socialite, mayoral candidate, and former CEO of Wayne Enterprises. He was also a father. A husband.
His fate was unfortunate, but this world mustn't stay set on his death. In his honor, we must continue to build his legacy and do what he would've done. Not only for Thomas Wayne but our city as a whole.
——————
Being alive was a concept no philanthropist could understand.
His father.
Thomas Wayne.
His dad.
Some days he still hears every sound that happened that night. Sometimes in the distance or even next to his ears. When he was reliving these moments he no longer had control over his body, his eyes would unfocus, a tremor would start in his hands, his knees would feel weak, jaw tightly clenched.
In those days Alfred could see it in his eyes that he wasn't mentally on earth with him. He used to combat this with training. He'd drag Bruce to the red punching bags and let him take out all the anger and frustration he had stored in his body. After a while, Alfred would have to intervene once he saw Bruce's hands start to shake with every hit.
But this was when he was older. Grown.
When he was a teenager he felt like he had no say. The world kept spinning and he felt stationary.
He has no control. He craved control in his life.
Bruce can remember the multitude of times when he'd curl in his bed, 'I didn't stop it. If I could have just had some power over the situation. It's my fault they're dead.'
Control
Control
Control
Control
Control
(kəntroʊl)
Word forms: controls, controlling, controlled
1.
Control of an organization, place, or system is the power to make all the important decisions about the way that it is run.
"The restructuring involves Mr. Wayne giving up control of the company."
2.
If you have control of something or someone, you can make them do what you want them to do.
"He lost control of his car."
He needed control over something, anything. He thought that maybe he'd be alleviated once he gained just an ounce of control over something in his life.
So, the game began.
He kept a journal under a floorboard in his room with a red pen attached to a string. Every single day he'd write down the exact calories he's eaten for the day, anything he consumed would be added together to reach his perfect goal. He supposes he didn't start journaling his intake because he had body image issues, it gave him a larger satisfaction when at the end of the day he could look at the page and see the number 600 repeated for every day of the week.
Monday: 600
Tuesday: 600
Wednesday: 600
Thursday: 600
Friday: 600
Monday: 600
Tuesday: 600
Wednesday: 600
Thursday: 600
Friday: 600
Monday: 600
Tue—
Alfred didn't notice the change in behavior for a few months.
He thought that maybe, maybe, Bruce's appetite changed. But teenage boys ate everything and anything and soon enough Alfred was starting to think that it just wasn't normal anymore. So he watched closely.
The first thing he noticed was how long Bruce eyed his food. He watched as his blue eyes scanned anything Alfred had set in front of him and he wished that he could see inside the boy's mind. When he finally picked up the utensils to eat, it took him incredibly long to even chew his food. It looked like Bruce was thinking hard as he slowly ate his supper.
"Bruce, my boy, are you alright?"
That seemed to snap him out of his thoughts. He quickly set down the spoon and wiped the corners of his mouth that weren't dirty in the first place.
"Yeah Alfred." There wasn't much emotion in the response, which wasn't abnormal. After his parents had passed away after he saw everything. His brain has completely shut off everything possible so he could survive the next day.
Alfred had become accustomed to his tone. He no longer scolded him for 'being rude', now he looked for his body language to tell what the boy was feeling. Alfred could hear Bruce's knee bouncing up and down, he saw the sweat that started to form on his forehead, the lump in his throat that Bruce desperately tried to get rid of by swallowing saliva.
He drank more water and left half his food untouched that night.
Another thing he noticed was how late he'd leave his room.
Once Bruce had woken up it'd be long past breakfast and anytime Alfred would ask if he was hungry he'd get quickly dismissed.
He decided to stage an intervention. Alfred arose from his room at his standard time and got set on making breakfast for them both. Nothing too big so he didn't overwhelm Bruce. He had a variety of options to choose from but he decided to take a more simplistic route.
It was 8:16 am when Alfred knocked softly at the teen's door. Then again, and again, and one last final time-
"Yes, Alfred?"
"Master Bruce I've made us both breakfast."
"Could it wait?"
"It will get cold by the time you leave your room."
Bruce's face seemed to pale once he realized that if he put up any more protests he'd look suspicious.
"Okay, give me a sec to brush my teeth."
"Of course! Don't take too long now!" Alfred was delighted at this, Bruce hadn't had breakfast in months. Maybe he'd be more awake for the day and they could start to do something more productive.
He shut the door.
Bruce could breathe.
He couldn't.
Control
Control
Control
He needs control.
He walked quickly to the bathroom but with light steps to not cause Alfred to become alarmed.
He turned the faucet on and quickly splashed some onto his face. He didn't know what had overcome him. He dug his fingers into his eye sockets and tried to steady his breathing, 'I'm okay … everything's okay … don't be a disappointment to Alfred.'
Bruce washed his face with cold water once his tears stopped streaming down his cheeks. Getting ready to open the bathroom door, that's when he caught sight of his arm.
It was so … thin.
He turned to face the mirror and stared at his reflection. Since when had he gotten so pale? His skin had a new shade of purple on it. His cheeks were hollow. His hand trailed up his chest. Both his hands hound themselves at the back of his shirt, and that's when he pulled the oversized shirt tight around his body. Exposing his figure.
The boy stayed still. Eyes lingering on his body. Almost burning a hole into the mirror.
He soon let go of the shirt and watched as it hid his form. Bruce then yanked up the blueish, almost grey shirt to reveal his chest.
It was like he was no longer controlling his body as he started to grin, and then a full smile smeared across his face when he realized he could see his bones.
He could count every individual rib. He could run his fingers along his collar bones. He could wrap his hand around his wrist.
He had control. He couldn't mess this up.
Eventually, he had to leave the bathroom to meet Alfred at the table where he had breakfast for him. He could see the worried glint in Alfred's eyes as he picked at his food.
Alfred quickly picked up on the showers that started to happen right after he'd eaten. After his intervention, Bruce started to eat slightly more, which made Alfred extraordinarily happy. But a new habit very quickly arose when Bruce would eat most of his food, he'd scurry off to shower for God knows how long.
Bruce knows it wasn't a good idea. He knows.
Yet the thought of losing control made his heart jump to his throat. So he tried something new. Shoving his fingers down the back of his throat until all the food came back up.
When he first started it was tedious and painful.
His nails would scratch against the inside of his throat and he didn't know how to correctly force himself to vomit. But after a while, his throat no longer hurt because of the jabbing of nails, he knew where to position his fingers, and after a while, he knew how to conceal the loud coughs.
Most of the time his nose would get runny and his eyes would tear up. But on the days that made him want to give up, he sobbed over the toilet as he dangerously shoved his long, pale lanky fingers down this throat for the thousandth time.
"God … help me."
Around 6 months later is when Alfred found it.
He was sweeping the floor. Nothing more and nothing less. The broom going back in forth in the same motions, he almost didn't realize that a floorboard shifted when the broom made contact with it.
He wasn't snooping.
He swears.
The reason why he bent down to inspect it was that it could be a danger to Bruce God damnit!
That's when he realized that the floorboard wasn't just loose, it could completely come off. Alfred didn't know what to do when he found the journal. He wanted to put it back and respect the boy's privacy, but with every waking day he looked worse and he thought maybe, just maybe, it could have the answers Alfred has been searching for all this time.
So, he placed the floorboard to the side and picked up the notebook gently, like an artifact that's been preserved for thousands of years. Anxiety clawed at him as he turned the cover to reveal the first page.
And that's when he saw it.
Pages upon pages of numbers.
It had him sick to his stomach.
It was all the same, 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600.
Until it wasn't.
On a Thursday the number changed. 651.
Alfred's eyes drifted to the page next to it and he felt acid in his throat. "Jesus."
Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control Control
For the next three pages, the word control was repeated.
"What has my boy been doing…?"
He almost had no willpower to flip the next page, terrified to see what was next. Would it be more calorie counting? Messy scribbles of the word control along with its definition?
When he finally did flip the page he had to set it down.
Two pages, side by side, with words written in blood. Blood that was most likely Bruce's.
"DON'T LOSE CONTROL." Was scribbled onto the pages in crimson red, some of it was dripping onto different pages and by God, Alfred didn't want to know what else he was going to find in the book.
Alfred didn't know what to do. He's never been trained for this. He was meant to protect the Wayne's from any trouble that came their way.
He was a British special forces veteran. As a former British intelligence officer, field medic, and trained Shakespearean actor, Alfred is uniquely suited to support the lives of masked crime fighters.
He didn't know how to handle this.
How could he protect Bruce from his mind?
The answer is that he couldn't.
When Martha became dangerously depressed he researched endlessly to find ways to help. When Thomas had started to stay up late working on his campaign, which then developed into insomnia, Alfred was there searching for the best alleviations. When Bruce was 11 years old and started to experience anxiety attacks Alfred had come to the rescue. He taught himself how to handle them and then taught Bruce how to ground himself from one of his attacks.
Now he'd have to do it again.
Alfred didn't want Bruce to continue journaling his calories but he could just vanish the notebook, Bruce would probably freak out and tear the world apart to find it. Plus that'd mean that someone, probably Alfred, found the book and discarded it.
He had to set forth a plan before he did anything. He had to research before he confronted Bruce, and he had to do it fast because he couldn't bear to look at the teen now that he knew the truth.
It didn't go well.
Alfred had picked up enough knowledge to be able to start up a conversation the next morning. He stayed up all night on dozens of websites.
'Eating disorders
'What to do when your son has an eating disorder?'
'How to treat eating disorders?'
'Anorexia Nervosa'
Most of the results made him nauseous again.
Alfred had decided to let Bruce emerge from his room when he felt ready. So, around 1 pm Bruce stalked out of his room and greeted Alfred with a good morning.
"Bruce. Sit with me, my boy."
It sounded more like a plea rather than a demand, because honestly if Bruce decided to decline and go back to his room Alfred would let him. Reluctantly, the teen sat at the table.
With a deep sigh, "Bruce you can talk to me about anything, you know that right?"
That caught him off guard, 'Whys Alfred telling me this?' he thought.
"Yeah, I know."
"Um," he cleared his throat.
"Bruce I was cleaning your room the other day, I noticed the floorboard in your room was loose, and…"
The older man looked up at Bruce to study him, his eyes were unfocused but stayed put on the wooden table in front of him. He looked visibly nervous now.
"I found the book, Bruce. The one you keep—"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I saw what was inside Master Bruce…"
"I said I don't know what you're talking about!" That made Alfred's eyes widen. Bruce rarely ever raised his voice and that's when he knew this topic was going to be harder to talk about.
"Bruce your clothes slide off you're body."
"No, they don't."
"What do you do in the shower?"
"Well obviously, bathe myself!"
"You almost fell over the other day because you stood up too fast."
"That's not true."
"Bruce please—"
"Stop it, just stop"
That also came as a shock. He hasn't heard Bruce's voice be so vulnerable since he was a young boy. He looked back up at him. Alfred had been hesitant to look at his face. Bruce had tears in his eyes.
He decided that this conversation could pause because Bruce's current state mattered more. Alfred goes up to wrap his arms around Bruce and the boy flinches away harshly. But soon relaxes into the warmth.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't know how to stop."
"I know. It's going to be okay, I promise."
Alfred didn't mind the tears that began to wet his blazer. He didn't mind the broken sobs that escaped the boy.
"I'm so tired."
He just ran his fingers through his hair as he continued to let out sobs. That's all Alfred could do for him at the moment.
Being alive was something Bruce Wayne couldn't understand.
After his breakdown, Alfred didn't know how to continue. He wanted the absolute last resort to be a mental hospital. He's read so many stories and articles about how horribly people have been treated there, but if things got too bad…
Again, the last resort.
He had to take away the journal from Bruce. He knew it wouldn't stop the boy from counting his calories somewhere else, but he had to do something.
Alfred had started to feed Bruce more often. No longer giving him one meal at certain hours, now he tried to give Bruce all sorts of snacks throughout the day. In turn that only made Bruce even more reserved. Alfred's methods weren't working and he was starting to run out of ideas.
Another thing Alfred had started doing was keeping track of the calories Bruce would consume.
It wasn't a big surprise when the number remained the same. Occasionally it would go slightly over 650, but the only real change was the time Bruce would eat. Now, he'd eat a small amount more frequently. Which somehow always added up to 600 calories.
It was only 2 weeks later when it happened.
When Bruce woke up he knew it was going to be a horrible day. His head hurt from the light that seeped through the blinds, his chest burned slightly with every breath he was forced to take, and his limbs felt weak.
But he still stood up from his bed, slowly, but he did and walked out of his room without brushing his teeth or fixing his hair.
"Master Bruce, you're up early!"
"Uh, what time is it?"
Alfred looked down to check his wristwatch.
"9:06 am, why don't you sit at the table so I can finish making us breakfast?"
That was another thing Alfred started doing. Maybe it wasn't the best idea, but he began to eat with Bruce whenever possible.
"I um…okay"
Alfred's eyebrows furrowed at that, "Is something wrong, Master Bruce?"
The boy's world started to feel fussy and the burn in his chest grew stronger. He opened his mouth to try and say something, anything. But his tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. He could vaguely see Alfred start to run up to him as his vision became blurry.
"Hey, I don't think I feel good right now." Bruce managed to mumble before black spots crowded his vision and his knees felt too weak to support his weight.
Alfred panicked.
He's never held an unconscious Bruce before.
Quickly, with shaky hands, Alfred managed to get emergency services on the line and called for an ambulance. Once the operator realized that they were talking to someone from the Wayne Manor they quickly picked up the pace and got an ambulance. 'The perks of working for rich people' Alfred thought.
Being alive was something Bruce Wayne didn't understand.
Waking up with those bright lights shining down on his face, the sharp smell of gross medicine, and the continuous loud beeping of machines made him wish that he would have died.
If he was slightly more conscious he would have stayed still with his eyes closed so he could pretend he was still resting, but he shifted in the bed with scratchy covers and he would eat Alfred's feet move quickly to his side.
"Master Wayne, are you able to speak?" The worried tone in the oldest voice gave Bruce a pang of guilt.
The boy's eyes opened to look at Alfred. He made eye contact and Alfred wanted to submerge the other in a tight hug because he gave him a look of such vulnerability that it hurt.
"I don't like it when you call me all those formal names." His voice was broken and strained, but he managed and he hated the face Alfred gave him.
"I'm not understanding."
"Alfred, just call me Bruce, okay? You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a father."
He's not sure if Alfred heard the last part but he prays to whatever God that he did.
He's not sure if many things anymore, especially not right now. But he's alright because Alfred is with him and he's with Alfred, and that's all that matters as of that moment. And when the strange men in uniforms grab his bed and wheel him to a strange-looking van and close the back doors to take him away, he's alright because Alfred's got him even from afar.