History
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I witnessed a tragedy when I was ten years old. The words, though--they don't capture what really happened.
They don't capture the fear, the terror, I felt, as I stared into that barrel--into that grin. The smell of blood mixed with a recent rain will haunt me for the rest of my life.
"Tell me, kid--you ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"
Those words took everything from me--some have argued they took my soul. I don't disagree.
I still hate the smell of rain.
I don't remember much of the funeral. I remember the near-endless wave of people offering condolences. I remember running. I ran until my legs ached, and I kept running. I ran until I could barely breathe, and I kept running. I ran until the ground gave way beneath my feet.
I tumbled into a cave, and the only thing that saved my life was the entrance was sloped. It saved my life, but that was the only thing it saved.
I tumbled down over rocks, and by the time I stopped I was battered and bruised, my clothes in tatters. I lay on my back so when I opened my eyes I was staring at the ceiling--and at every square inch covered in bats.
I hadn't cried, not until that moment. Everything I'd been holding back was let go in that moment. I screamed as the bats swirled around me, my ears filled with their squeals, my nose filled with their scent. When I calmed down, I felt--at peace. I watched them fly around, chittering their irritation at my disturbing them. I heard their fluttering wings--and I felt calm. The pain didn't go away, the rage and terror were still there, but I felt--something different. A drive.
Ten years later, I was in China. I'd spent as much money as I needed to, to get whatever information I could, and finally I learned of the secret City of the Sì Shòu, the four guardians of the four compass directions. The city was hidden deep in the mountains; some said the myth of Shangri-La started there. What mattered was that they weren't a city open to tourists. They had one of the last temples that didn't rely on the tourists' yuan. I needed to go there, and I didn't let anyone stop me. 
I spent the next fifteen years there, learning the arts of combat, studying scrolls written millennia ago and books written only months previous.
Then it was time to return home.
I don't know what I expected when I returned to Gotham City. My memories of it were dark, hazy, filled with shadows, screeches, and blood.
I found a city that wasn't much different than my nightmares. I knew that pouring all the money in the world into Gotham City wasn't going to be enough. It was necessary, but not enough. There needed to be more. The criminals operated by fear--they needed to be afraid. They leapt from the shadows to prey on the weak. There needed to be someone to leap out of the shadows and prey on them. Someone--or something.
It was one thing on which I'd never wavered--the sort of symbol that was needed. Bats terrified me, both in the moment of my falling into their cave, and as a concept of shadows moving in the darkness.
I knew that what terrified me could terrify them. I made the bats' home my home; living with them, sharing it with them--it helped me control my fear. It helped me understand how to use fear as a tool.
It was surprisingly easy, becoming the symbol. Purchase components in bulk, assemble everything myself.
In no time at all, I became the symbol of vengeance. I became the symbol of justice.
I became Batman. -
Gallery for Screen Readers
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