This will probably have multiple chapters, so please tell me what you think. I have a good idea where this is going, so please tell me if it is liked and I will continue it as soon as I can humanly write it.

Chapter 1:

There were always muggings in Gotham. And more than not those muggings ended in death. Everyone knew that. It was the norm here; no one looked twice anymore. And no one responded to any cries of help that came from alleyways and dark corners anymore.

Someone should have checked this one time.

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It hurts.

Oh my goodness, it hurts so much. Is this what dying is like? This cold, this pain, this emptiness when you realize that you're alone. All the colours are bleeding out of the world, it's all turning black and white. Where do all the colours go?

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There was a boy dying in the alleyway. He was curled into himself, his legs tucked as close as possible to his chest. His hands were clutching his midsection, and with all the limbs in the way you could hardly see the red seeping in between the fingers.

The ground, on the other hand, was covered in it. A pool surrounded the boy, staining his clothes and matting in his hair.

A closer look at him showed that he was crying. Tears streaked down his face to mingle and mix with the blood on the concrete. Sobs and gasps were wrenched from his mouth, and those movements aggravated his wounds even further. It was a vicious cycle, with the aggravations causing him to cry out in pain even more, which aggravated his wounds…and so on. All in all, it ended with the boy even more out of breath and even more in pain.

He was whispering something fervently as well. It was so quiet that one would only hear it if they were inches from his face. So no one heard his pleas.

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Dying alone is the worst. There's no one to comfort you when you know the end is coming, and you can feel everything fading away. There's no one holding your hand or trying to keep you alive. You're just utterly alone.

The world closes in on you and you feel like you're suffocating. It's all you can do to just keep breathing. A lot of the time it just seems easier and less painful to stop.

I don't want to die alone. It doesn't matter; just a random stranger is fine. I just want someone with me. Even my killer. I don't want to be alone. Please? Oh, it's so cold. Someone? Anyone?

Bruce?

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The words that were being choked out would break anyone's heart if they heard them. It sounded like there was a little boy lost from his parents after he had woken up from a nightmare. Only this nightmare was real.

"Bruce? Bruce, I'm scared. Where are you? I'm scared, Bruce. Please? I'll do better, just please come. Where are you? I need help. Help? Help? Anyone?"

No one could hear his cries, but that didn't stop him from making them. He cried out until his voice broke, and then he mouthed words in silence. He spoke until his throat screamed in pain. But no one came.

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Is this what they felt like- when they fell? Did they want me to join them so that they wouldn't be alone? Were they upset with me when I didn't? Mami? Tati?

Bruce still mourns his parents, and he almost never smiles. I know it's because of his Mami and Tati, and what happened. Maybe that's why he and I never connected, I wasn't dead. If I was dead, he would definitely love me…

I think this is for the best.

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The blood on the ground was steadily growing all that time, and the boy was growing paler and paler. It seemed so incredible that there could be that much blood in a person's body. That we could contain so much red.

The boy was just in the shadows of the alleyway, mere inches away from lights and the bustle of evening Gotham. There was just enough distance for him to hear the high heels and dress shoes clicking on the concrete, for the high-bred conversation to waft to his ears.

That must have been more torture than anything else. More than the pain, more than the loneliness. He was so close to help. So close to people. But he was completely alone.

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Everyone's going to the opera house, there's a new show airing. It finally got refurnished earlier this year, and people are finally starting to regard it as something other than taboo. Today's opening night.

Everyone who ever matters will be there. Everyone.

Will Bruce be going? I know he doesn't like operas very much anymore after his parents, but he'd be expected to. To keep up with his billionaire playboy routine. Will he pass by the alley? I don't think I could bear that, him walking past me. I hope he's not going. I hope he's not there.

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Sure enough, everyone who ever mattered in Gotham came to the opening night of the opera house. It would be sacrilege for a certain Mr. Bruce Wayne not to. He walked on the sidewalk with a Miss Vicki Vale hung off his arm. They engaged in flirtations and rich people chatter and gossip. She insulted his ward Richard Grayson several times in only the way that shallow bimbos could, calling him a charity case, gypsy trash, and the perfect publicity stunt.

And Bruce Wayne was silent. He even laughed along with her.

In that alleyway, just a few feet away, tears started to mingle with the blood.

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I had been about to try and catch his attention. I had about to reach out to him. He would have noticed: he was Batman, he was Bruce Wayne. He would have saved me, I would have let him, even though he would have loved me more dead. But then he changed my mind.

He laughed at me. He agreed with her. He never said anything otherwise, but I always thought…

He never cared for me. It's all true, what everyone said, that I was just a way to gain support for him.

I see that now…its just…why couldn't I have been blind of that for these last few moments. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much then.

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Bruce Wayne and his date entered the opera house laughing and having a grand, old time. They were so oblivious to their surrounding, and it was their fault. A boy in the alleyway was slowly dying.

More people passed by the alleyway, and none heard the boy's soft pleas for Bruce to 'come back and tell me you were kidding', or his crying. Some would pause for a moment, saying that they thought that they heard something, and for a moment the boy would be hopeful. He would wait anxiously for them to turn into the alley, see him and gasp, and call for help. But then they'd laugh to themselves at how their imagination was running wild and continue on their way.

The sounds of the opera started to filter through the air and the sweetest and softest of oratories reached the boy's ears.

His breathing started to slow.

What do you all think? Did I right it well? Do you want me to continue? Let me know in the box below.

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