Broken(DC)

Here began my school days. Every day, I woke up at 6:30 AM, washed up, had breakfast, and got on the bus to arrive in time for classes.

The first lesson was reading, followed by handwriting. These subjects came easily to me, and learning to write was a simple task—just tracing the required letters. People quickly started considering me a smart boy. However, "smart" often comes with the teasing nickname "nerd," which became another reason for my classmates to mock me.

The bullying deeply hurt me, and I genuinely couldn't understand why they were so angry with me. It wasn't until much later that I learned to ignore it. As long as they didn't hurt me physically, I paid no attention to anything else.

Our third lesson was Environmental Studies. We learned about our country, its nature, and its animals.

The fourth, and by far my least favorite class, was Physical Education. I simply couldn't perform any of the exercises. So, I would sit on the bench, watching the others play football, basketball, and other games. I wanted to play with them, but unfortunately, I couldn't.

After four lessons, we had a lunch break. We were allowed to bring our own food or go to the cafeteria. I didn't have much money, so I couldn't afford the cafeteria. Instead, I brought my own lunch and quietly ate it with Alice. She also brought her own food.

The fifth lesson, my favorite, was Art. Here, we could think creatively and draw whatever we wanted. I drew various landscapes calmly, and they turned out quite well—fairly realistic, in fact.

The sixth and final lesson of the day was homeroom. During this time, we played different educational games and solved logic puzzles. We could ask the teacher anything.

At the end of the school day, we rode the bus home. Until my mom got back, I would practice throwing knives, using ones I had bought specifically for this purpose. Where did I get them?

When I first became interested in knife throwing, I didn't have any knives. So, I asked Alice about it, and she suggested we visit the flea market, where people sold all sorts of things at low prices.

Many people had laid out their goods on tables, and I wandered through this improvised market. My eyes fell on handles wrapped in fabric. I approached the seller and asked what they were. He said they were sports throwing knives, and the price for them was ten dollars.

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I only had five dollars in my pocket, and I couldn't afford the knives. So, I decided to haggle, telling the seller that I really wanted to buy a gift for my father, who loved knives. The man hesitated, but eventually, he sold them to me for five bucks.

And that's how I got my knives. I began practicing by throwing them at a vertically placed wooden board. For the first few weeks, I couldn't even get them to stick despite countless attempts. But over time, something clicked, and the knives began to hit the target and stick in with their tips.

I trained like this until 5 PM each day and then moved on to physical exercises. My muscles started to grow, and my strength increased proportionally. However, the changes were barely noticeable under my clothes. Despite my progress, I still had to use a crutch to get around because my left leg refused to cooperate.

This routine defined my life for two months, until a few unexpected events happened.

As usual, I was throwing knives at the wooden board. I decided to practice quickly drawing a knife from my pocket and throwing it at the target. I shoved the knives into my inner pockets and prepared myself. Grabbing one, I threw it. The movement was quick, but suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my hand.

A long gash had opened on my palm, and blood began flowing rapidly from it. I immediately felt dizzy as the blood dripped onto the ground. In the haze, I heard a voice calling my name.

When I came to, I found myself lying on a couch. I raised my hand to see it wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, though the pain had dulled significantly.

Alice walked into the room carrying a basin of water. When she saw I was awake, she rushed over and hugged me tightly.

"I was so scared for you! You were covered in blood," she said hysterically, tears streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry. I was careless," I admitted, realizing how reckless I'd been and how much I'd worried her.

"Please, stop playing with those knives! I didn't like your new hobby from the start," she scolded, her voice breaking as she sniffled.

"You know how dangerous our city is. I just need to be able to protect myself—and you," I tried to explain, hoping she'd understand.

Alice gradually calmed down, but her eyes were still filled with worry. Then, suddenly, her expression shifted to one of determination.

"You don't need to protect me. I'll protect us!" she declared, trying to look fierce as she waved her fists in the air. "I'll join a class and learn how to fight, but you have to give up the knives."

"I promise I'll be more careful. Nothing like this will happen again," I assured her.

"Really?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Just... be careful," Alice said, her voice softening as she gave me a small smile and hugged me again.

The pain in my palm had subsided, so we decided to remove the bandages and check its condition. Underneath the unwrapped bandages, we discovered that the wound had already scabbed over, and the bleeding had completely stopped.

"Incredible, it's healed so fast. It's only been two hours," Alice said in astonishment as she examined my hand.

"Two hours?" I quickly glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that the hands were almost at six. "You didn't clean up the blood?"

"No, I stayed here with you," she replied. Rising to my feet, I noticed traces of blood on the floor leading to the couch.

"We need to clean up before Mom gets back."

Together, we swiftly took care of the mess. To hide the bloodstains on the couch, we covered it with a blanket, and the used bandages were thrown in the trash. I changed out of my bloody clothes into something clean.

We finished the cleanup just in time. As we wrapped up, our mother walked in.

"Kids, get to the kitchen, now!" Elizabeth called out.

Fearing we'd forgotten to hide something, we rushed to the kitchen. But instead of an angry mother, we were met with bags of groceries.

"Today, I decided to treat us a little and buy some goodies—I got a promotion!" Mom said as she began unpacking the bags.

She rarely allowed herself such indulgences, as her income was usually swallowed up by large loan payments.

Mom always tried to save wherever she could, buying only essentials. She barely made ends meet, relying on her paycheck and the disability allowance I received—though I didn't know the exact amount.

As we unpacked the groceries, a delightful array of baked goods, sweets, and even a cake appeared before us. I helped sort everything, being careful not to show the inside of my hand and reveal the wound.

For the first time in my life, I tasted food like this. I couldn't believe that something as simple as food could be so varied and delicious. The cake especially left an impression—its soft sponge and rich filling melted in my mouth.

During the meal, Mom coughed lightly to get our attention.

"So, kids, how's school going?" she asked. It was surprising—her recent promotion must have truly lifted her mood, as she rarely showed this level of interest, even in Alice's studies.

"Everything's fine," Alice replied. "I've decided to join a martial arts class. I want to learn to defend myself. Will you let me go?"

"Of course," Mom said hesitantly. "Girls shouldn't have to fight, but considering Gotham is such a dangerous place, I agree."

"Yay, thank you!" Alice cheered. She couldn't contain her excitement and started babbling happily about all sorts of things. It was clear she craved her mother's attention.

I quietly continued eating, not getting too involved in the conversation. Instead, I reflected on what had happened earlier. Judging by the trail of blood, I had lost quite a lot, yet I felt fine now, aside from a slight weakness. What really puzzled me was how quickly the wound had healed. Scratches usually took two or three days, but this deeper cut had closed up in just a few hours.

The thought of testing this phenomenon crossed my mind, but I had no desire to cut myself on purpose.

The conversation at the table quieted, and I noticed they were both looking at me.

"Ahem, I asked how things are going at school, Brian," Elizabeth repeated, her tone expectant.

"Sorry, I got a little lost in thought," I replied. What could I say about school? Other than boring lessons and teasing from classmates, there wasn't much to report. "Not much to tell, really. I'm managing the coursework easily, but I haven't made any friends yet."

"Well, it's good that you're doing well academically. Friends will come with time," she said, as if asking and answering out of obligation, before shifting her focus back to Alice.

Dinner soon ended, and we cleared the dirty dishes into the sink. Mom insisted on washing them herself, even though that was usually our job.

Despite my injury, I decided not to skip my physical training. At the same flea market where I got the knives, I had managed to snag a pair of dumbbells for free. After warming up my joints, I started with some push-ups. My hands trembled slightly, but the exercise felt manageable, even if my control was lacking. Afterward, I worked on my shoulders with the dumbbells, moved on to my arms, and finally focused on my legs.

By the end of the workout, I felt a bit tired, so I took a shower. Feeling refreshed, I tackled my homework, which was simple and didn't take long. By 8 PM, everything was done. I pondered what to do next, but nothing came to mind, so I decided to go to bed early.

Sleep came quickly. Usually, I'd lie awake thinking for a while, but tonight I was too exhausted for deep reflection.

Darkness stretched out before me, but suddenly it was as if a light switched on, revealing an open doorway. Through it, images began to flash—familiar ones. They felt oddly known, as if I'd seen them before, and an unpleasant itch of recognition crawled through my mind.

Scenes from a life flashed before me, fragmented and chaotic, never forming a complete picture. But one moment stood out vividly. I looked down and saw streams of blood flowing from my stomach, the pain and suffering of the wound hitting me with gut-wrenching intensity.

This vision pierced through me to my core. I awoke with a jolt, lifting my shirt in panic to check my stomach. To my relief, there were no injuries.

Struggling to calm myself and catch my breath, I looked out the window. Dawn was breaking. I rose, went to the bathroom, and splashed water on my face.

That's when I noticed my hand. Where the wound had been, there was only a scar.

What's happening to me? I stared hard at my reflection, searching for any visible changes, but saw nothing unusual. Eventually, I convinced myself it had all been a nightmare and that my hand had just healed quickly due to good regeneration. I reassured myself, giving my face a light slap to ground myself in reality.

It was time to get ready for school. I headed downstairs to find the house still quiet. The clock read 5:30 AM—no one else was awake yet. Deciding to make use of the time, I thought I'd try baking something.

I mixed up some dough to make cookies. Placing them on a baking sheet, I slid them into the oven and waited.

After about 20 minutes, the cookies were almost done, and the house was filled with a delicious aroma.

From upstairs, I heard hurried footsteps and the bathroom door slam shut. A few moments later, there was a loud thudding as someone came running down the stairs.

Alice burst into the kitchen, her eyes lighting up when she saw me by the oven. She pressed her face against the oven door, peering in at the cookies baking inside, and inhaled deeply.

"I love your cooking! I don't understand how you manage to make everything taste so good," she said.

"I don't know—it just happens," I replied. It was true. It was as if I instinctively knew what to do to enhance the flavors, and with each attempt, I seemed to get better.

Glancing at the clock, I realized it was time to take the cookies out. Donning oven mitts, I carefully pulled the tray out and set it on a board to cool.

Alice immediately tried to grab one, but they were too hot, and she ended up tossing the cookie from hand to hand.

"Wait for them to cool unless you want to burn yourself," I said, amused by her impatience.

As soon as they cooled a little, she eagerly bit into one, huffing and puffing as she chewed the still-warm treat. She managed to finish it and patted her stomach contentedly.

"Mmm, so good," she said with a grin.

Our breakfast was joined by Mom, and with my cookies and the leftovers from yesterday's treats, we had a hearty meal. After such a satisfying breakfast, we headed off to school in a good mood, catching the bus as usual. The ride to school went by like any other day.

As we were about to enter the school, we noticed the murmurs of students and their curious gazes directed toward the school gates. A luxurious car had pulled up, and an older man stepped out. He walked to the rear right door and opened it.

A boy with black hair, dressed in expensive clothes, stepped out. He looked stylish and strikingly handsome.

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After exchanging a few words with the man, the boy, carrying a sleek briefcase, made his way toward the school. I overheard some students murmuring that it was Bruce Wayne. My mind flashed to recent news where his name had been mentioned.

He walked with a confident posture, seemingly oblivious to the stares around him. At the entrance, the school principal greeted him, and after a brief exchange, they both went inside.

The children quickly scattered, hurrying to their classes. For me, the arrival of a new student wasn't particularly extraordinary.

Classes went on as usual, without anything noteworthy happening. However, during lunch, I found myself sitting alone at a table, as Alice had been asked to help with rehearsals for the upcoming holiday concert. It was early November, and Christmas was drawing closer every day.

Sitting by myself, I suddenly heard a voice addressing me.

"May I sit here?" asked Bruce Wayne politely.

Looking around, I realized this was the only empty spot in the cafeteria.

"Yes, of course," I replied. With my permission, he set his tray down across from me and sat.

"I'm Bruce Wayne," he introduced himself.

"Oh, uh, I'm Brian Foreman," I responded, slightly taken aback.

The conversation stalled there, and we quietly continued eating. After a while, I noticed him glancing at my lunchbox. Meeting his gaze with a questioning look, he simply waved his hand, as if to say it was nothing.

"Why do you bring your own food? Don't you like what they serve here?" he asked, gesturing toward the cafeteria counter.

"No, it's just cheaper this way," I replied, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Bruce said apologetically. "But your food looks even better—probably because your parents put effort into making it," he added, nodding toward my container filled with a variety of dishes.

"No, I made it myself," I replied proudly.

"Really? That's impressive. Aren't you a bit young to be cooking?" he asked, sounding skeptical yet intrigued.

"Age doesn't matter—what truly matters is the desire to do something. Here, try my signature cookies," I said, sliding the bag of treats toward him.

At first, he hesitated but eventually decided to give them a try. Taking a small bite, his expression quickly shifted to surprise. Moments later, he finished the rest of the cookie in one go, then proceeded to eat the remaining cookies one by one until they were gone.

When he realized he'd eaten all the cookies, he looked sheepish.

"Oh, sorry—I ate all of them. They were just so good," he said apologetically.

"It's fine; I can always make more," I replied, though I felt a bit regretful that I didn't get to have any myself.

For the remainder of lunch, we chatted cheerfully about various topics. I noticed how knowledgeable he was, and we quickly found common interests to discuss. Time flew by, and soon it was time to return to class. We said our goodbyes and headed to our respective lessons.

The rest of the school day passed uneventfully. As I waited for Alice outside, I bumped into Bruce again, and we ended up chatting once more. Before long, his ride arrived.

"Let's talk more tomorrow. My butler's here. Goodbye," he said with a wave as he got into the car.

Moments later, I felt someone grab me from behind, accompanied by a squeal of delight.

"Finally, you made a friend, Brian!" It was Alice.

"Well, you could say that," I replied with a shrug. "Shall we head home?"

"Let's go."

Once home, I finished the day like usual—practicing knife-throwing and engaging in physical exercise. Curious about my recent experiences, I decided to run a little test. Taking a knife, I made a small cut on my finger. Blood trickled out briefly but stopped very quickly. By nightfall, the wound had healed completely, leaving no trace—except for the scar still lingering on the palm of my right hand.

Perhaps it was a reminder of my carelessness.

I realized my regeneration was far from ordinary. I would need to conduct more tests to understand its limits. Satisfied for now, I let my thoughts rest and drifted off to sleep, leaving tomorrow's questions for another day.