You sit in the headmaster's office, but you do not slouch. Your uniform is rumpled, tie askew, and tomorrow there will be a ring of blue and black around your right eye, yet you sit straight, as though your spine is made of steel. He watches you, disapproving, and begins to lecture you about violence, about proper problem solving alternatives, but you don't listen. You could tell him that the older boys attacked first, that the younger one might have suffered a great deal more had you not intervened, but you keep quiet. He will not believe you, even if you do tell him the truth. Adults never do. Needless to say, you are not overly fond of authority figures, and you wonder how much longer he will keep you here as he rambles on.
Perhaps he notices your lack of attention, for his chastisement cuts off mid-sentence and he leans forward on his desk, rich mahogany, and raises his eyebrows. "Your father would be disappointed in you, Bruce."
The words are like ice digging beneath your skin. Your gaze snaps up, and in that moment you are nearly blinded by anger, so much so that it scares you. He looks pleased with himself for getting a reaction, the headmaster, and that only makes you angrier. You rise from your chair, knocking it over in the process, and turn to leave his office. You ignore his shouts for you to sit down, your hands clenched into fists, breathing heavy and controlled, and you pause just outside, where the rest of the office has stopped to stare. There is a paperweight on a nearby desk, a glass apple, and without thinking you grasp it in your hand and turn, throwing it through his office window. You are still young, only twelve, and so there is no real force behind it, but the glass still shatters, and you break into a run as gasps and shouts fill the air.
The memory skips ahead, then, like an old videotape. You are seated in the back of a sleek black car, while Alfred sits in the drivers seat, and you watch the scenery pass by as you count the minutes until you're home. He looks at you in the rearview mirror, Alfred, and you know what he's thinking, but you remain sullenly quiet for a long, long time before speaking.
"I'm sorry, Alfred." And you are, sort of. Not for throwing the paperweight, but for disappointing him, because you know you have. Defending the boy was one thing, but that act of anger, it was something else entirely. "I'm not the one you need to apologize to, Master Wayne," he tells you, and he reminds you of your father in the way that he never really gets angry with you. He never yells. Your mother didn't either, you realize.
You huff and sink down into your seat, but you know he's right.
Finally, you are home, and you have the car door halfway open before the vehicle slows to a stop on the gravel. "Master Wayne." Alfred's voice makes you stop, half in the car and half out, and you look up at him.
He meets your gaze in the mirror. "Your father was always very proud of you. Never forget that."
Your throat feels tight all of a sudden, and you nod, managing a smile. He smiles back, and then you're out of the car, and tears blur your vision as the memory fades.