A/N- This was a short story that I did for my college Creative Writing I class. It also has the possibility for being published in our college’s Art/Literature Journal, called Lights and Shadows. So, please keep your fingers crossed for me! Also, as for a disclaimer of sorts, I know Batman comes up a lot in this, but it’s not a fan fiction. But I still don’t own Batman and all his and his related character rights belong to Bob Kane and DC Comics. The story, however, is all mine.

Batman vs. the Eighth Commandment

Ian felt like a thief in the night. The lights were off in his bedroom, and he was hunched over the third drawer in his pale-brown wooden dresser. His mop of dark hair was his mask, falling just down to his nose. He shook it away as he glanced over his shoulder, noticing how the black clad Batman stared accusingly back at him from his place above Ian’s neatly made—and also Batman-decorated—bed. He turned back, catching the look from his Joker action figure from atop the dresser whose still closed drawer he clung to. The dark purple and acid green painted clown smiled approvingly at Ian, who shook his head. He pulled open the drawer, causing a loud wood-on-wood scraping noise to fill the air. His clothes—worn jeans and t-shirts for playtime—lay neatly folded within the drawer. He shoved his hands under them and found what he searched for there.

Liberated from its hiding spot was the pale pink, rounded bank that his mother called a pig. The bank did indeed look like a pig—with its short rounded snout, rounded behind, and the bump in the porcelain that imitated a curly tail—but it looked nothing close to the real pigs he’d seen on T.V. or in books. Leaving the drawer open, Ian moved to sit in the middle of his bedroom floor, setting the pig in front of him. The thick beige carpet did nothing to cushion his seat, but he ignored it and surveyed the pig.

He would have to smash it, this pig that had been his since birth—thirteen years. But he had to have that comic. The Killing Joke was not just any Batman comic that he could buy in the local bookstore. It was the Batman comic, and none of the local stores had it. Slowly, with this in mind, Ian lifted the pig up. He looked away when he noticed that he held it with its face towards him. The indention that served as its mouth was pulled back into a smile, and its painted eyes seemed to twinkle with life. It was too innocent. With his own eyes shut, he hurled the pig at the open drawer, shattering it into painted porcelain pieces.

The money within it lay among the wreckage now, but Ian could not reach for it right away. He could only stare at this destruction he had caused. His mother might be angry. After all, she had insisted that he use this pig—a precious childhood memento, she had called it—instead of his hard plastic Batman bank. And now the memento was gone. He pushed away any guilt he might feel and gathered the money to him. Before he could begin to count it, a knock on his door caused him to jump.

“Come in.”

“What was that noise?” Ian’s sister, Morganna, asked.

He said nothing. However, Morg followed his eyes to the porcelain remains. Her brown eyes seemed to double in size then reduce themselves to slits.

“Your pig! Mom’s gonna be mad.” she whispered. “Couldn’t you have just unplugged it?”

“No! The stupid thing didn’t have a plug. It was one way only.”

Morg shook her head. “Mom’s still gonna be mad,” she said.

“I don’t care. I need the money. Now go away.”

“Make me,” Morg said, leaning in the doorway.

Ian sighed. “Fine. Whatever.”

Morg shrugged, and Ian counted through the six bills before him. Five one dollar bills and a five.

“Ten dollars. I need to do my chores more often…” Ian sighed, crushing the bills in his hand.

“Can’t argue.”

“Do you think Mom and Dad will pay me extra if I do your chores as well as mine?”

“Maybe. But then, I’ll have no money. I could pay you half of my allowance, if you do my chores for me and let me take the credit.”

“Why would I do that? I should just ask Mom about that extra thing instead.”

“She won’t do it.”

“How would you know?”

“Ian, I do your chores all the time, and I never get paid extra for it. That’s how I know.”

“Then lend me the money. I need about twenty dollars more.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m your brother?”

“And we have sisters too, but I wouldn’t lend them money.”

“I’ll pay you back. I’ll do my chores and give you my allowance.”

“You never do your chores.”

“I’ll start.”

“What is it that you want the money for anyway?” Morganna sighed.

“It’s this Batman comic called The Killing Joke…”

Morg shook her head. “Why are you so hung up on this? They’ll just re-issue it.”

“No, they won’t. It’s limited edition!”

“Whatever. Well, I’m not lendin’ you the money. Mom so should have never given you that Batman movie when you were little. This is all her fault.” And with that, Morg left the room.

Instinctually, Ian cast his eyes up at the very movie his sister had mentioned. It sat snuggly between two DVD season sets—both Batman related—on the highest shelf above his small, cluttered desk. The movie was called Mask of the Phantasm, and it was one of the few movies he still owned on VHS. He had been ten when it had become his, and it had been his first Batman…anything.

It had been three days before his tenth birthday, and he was attempting to persuade his mother into giving him his presents early. He had been bouncing around her, occasionally pulling on the simple red shirt she wore as she was bent over reading the family recipe book. Finally, she gave him the movie, which she said had once been hers. After that, she left him to the old VCR-DVD combo player and television at the front of the green carpeted den. With much apprehension, he had placed the tape in the VCR and sat down on the floor, cross-legged, to watch the film. He glanced at the cover as the age old commercials—his mother called them “trailers” when they were on or about a movie—played. It had a background of purple clouds as two figures—a person dressed in a black-hooded cloak and a metal-looking mask and Batman himself—surrounded the title. Ian looked up at the television as the movie began. Two minutes and one death later, Ian was hooked. After that, Batman was the only superhero. None other had mattered.

Sitting in his bedroom staring at the VHS he now proudly declared was his, Ian found it hard to believe he had ever doubted the quality of the movie because it was old. He stretched and realized that now it was too dark to see in his room. He found his light switch with little trouble and flicked it on. The Batman covered room came screaming into eyesight as Ian had to close his eyes from the sudden brightness. As soon as he could open them again, he heard his name from the living room below. His mother’s voice rang around the house, followed by the pounding of several footsteps barreling down a staircase.

Ian and his siblings met in the kitchen, where their mother—a short, thin-ish woman with a perfectly oval face—was placing groceries on the counter. She smiled at her children. She then replaced the look with one of mock confusion. “Hungry?”

“Yes!” Ian, Morganna, and their other two sisters said in unison.

Their mother laughed. “Then clear out, and I’ll start dinner.”

After the youngest sister, at the age of eight and the pushiest of the whole family, interrogated her mother on everything from the name of the meal to the smallest ingredient, she—along with everyone else—was ushered into the living room. The pretense was that they were waiting for their father. Only Ian remained behind. His mother bent to retrieve a pot from a cabinet while he shuffled his feet.

“Yes?” his mother asked, without even turning around. She really creeped him out when she did that.

“Um…Can I ask a favor, Mom?”

“Shoot.”

“Well…I wanted to know…could I…borrow twenty dollars from you?”

“What?” His mother whirled around to face him. “Why in the world would you want twenty dollars?”

“There’s a Batman comic I want, and it’s only available for a short time. And all I got is ten dollars. Please? I’ll start doing my chores, and you don’t even have to pay me until I get all caught up!”

Ian clasped his hands together and, short of being on his knees, looked like he was pleading for his life. His mother put her hands on her hips and shook her head. She looked down in a way that already gave Ian his answer.

“Now, honey, that wouldn’t be fair to your sisters. I can’t do it. But, maybe if you start doing your chores regularly, you could make enough money in enough time to get it.”

“At five dollars a week? No way. There’s only six copies left. Can I at least have a raise?”

She gave a short laugh. “Ian, you barely do your chores as it is. Sorry, but you wouldn’t be my first choice to give a raise to, hon.”

Ian sighed and fought a very strong urge to kick the nearest chair. Their house had a very large kitchen and no dining room, so the family table was inside the kitchen. New hope arose as he heard the front door open. His father had arrived home. Saying no goodbyes, he ran to greet him at the door.

Ian was a firm believer that his mother had some sort of mind control over his father. Whatever she said, went usually. It was rare that that worked in the opposite direction. However, this was his only chance.

Just as Ian’s mother was short, with dark hair, Ian’s father with tall with light brown hair. He towered over every member of his family; a fact that he often used to his advantage when any of his children misbehaved. Ian allowed his father to make his way into the living room before he asked to borrow the money. When “no” was his only answer, he made no argument and left. After all, he was not completely out of options yet.

…………………

Sunday afternoon. Surely Alex would be out of church now. Ian, who had spent his Sunday morning warmly in his bed, now mounted his rusting blue bike and shouted to his mother that he’d “be right back.” He pushed off, propelling himself up the sidewalk in front of his house. Keeping himself at a moderate pace, he covered the two-block distance in no time. He arrived in front of Alex Wright’s—Ian’s best friend and fellow Batman follower—white, one story home. His family’s car was not parked in front of the single car garage. Ian dismounted and rolled his bike up to the red painted front door. He punched his thumb into the doorbell button to the right and listened to it chime within the house. He waited a few moments after it had ended to see if he could hear movement. There was none. Sighing, he put his kickstand down and sat on the step, facing the road. He propped his face in his hands and his elbows on his knees.

Minutes, Ian wasn’t sure how many, passed. Unconsciously, his hand found Mrs. Wright’s well-kept rose bush beside him. Without turning his head, he plucked a leaf off and began to tear it. Twenty-one leaves and a half-hour later, Alex’s parents’ car pulled in the driveway, and Alex leapt out. Ian could hear his mother chiding him from inside the car, telling him to wait until they had stopped next time. Alex paid no mind. He strode up to Ian and high-fived him. They exchanged their usual greetings.

Meanwhile, Alex’s parents were taking their time getting out of the car. It looked like they had gone grocery shopping. Ian shuffled his feet and refused to meet Alex’s eyes. Finally, he looked up at his friend and broached the subject of a favor.

“What’s the favor?” Alex asked.

“Well, it’s like this:” Borrowing money from family was one thing, but this was something else completely. It made him feel wrong, almost selfish. “I want to buy The Killing Joke, you know?”

Now Alex looked away. “Yeah.”

“It’s like thirty some dollars. All I’ve got is ten. Can I borrow, like, twenty from you?”

Alex still hadn’t looked back. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can loan you that.”

“Come on. I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

“My parents would kill me, Ian.”

“But I will pay it back. Just call it a belated birthday gift.”

“Man, I told you I was sorry.”

“It was the only birthday you’ve ever missed since I’ve met you. And it’s the only time I haven’t gotten the exact thing that you’ve promised to give me. Which was The Killing Joke. Please? You’re getting off ten bucks cheaper this way.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Alex! I’ve got nothing else. There’s no other way. It’s limited edition! Limited edition.”

“I can’t.” Alex finally looked back at Ian, and his eyes looked as if they should’ve been crimson. “No. I can’t. Besides, mentioning that I missed your birthday was low. I’m going in. See you.”

Seeing that his parents’ had still not made it to the door—and he had no key—Alex could only put his back to him. Growling, Ian kicked his bike over, causing Mr. And Mrs. Wright to jump and look over. Ian’s face burned and he pulled up his bike.

“See you,” he muttered, jumping on and pushing off.

…………………

Sunday night was family night at Ian’s house, which either meant a home-cooked meal and a movie or pizza and board games. Luckily for Ian and his own plans tonight, it meant the latter. He shoved down a couple of pieces of pepperoni pizza down his throat, and then pronounced himself sick. When he asked to be excused, his mother and father gave him “poor Ian” looks and nodded. When he arrived outside his bedroom, he paused until he heard the sounds of the DVD trivia game start up. He then threw two cautionary looks back and forth, and crept into Morganna’s bedroom.

Ian was not a thief, by any means. He had never so much as stolen a cookie before dinner, let alone money. But he had no other choice. He carefully pushed open Morg’s door and glimpsed inside. The walls were done in lavender and a very light green. Ian groaned. He pushed his ill thoughts away and made his way over to his sister’s bank, which was simply one of those Tootsie Roll banks that came loaded with the candies at Christmas time. Looking behind himself once more, he dumped the contents of the bank onto Morg’s bed.

Without even counting, Ian knew she had more than enough to cover his needs. Cautioning himself not to be overly ambitious, he took only the twenty that he needed. He scooped the rest up, and, as he was returning it to the bank, dropped a quarter or two onto the floor. He set the bank on the nightstand and bent to locate the missing quarters. A loud eruption of noise from the living gave him a start, and, giving up, he left the room.

Once in his room, he closed the door and shoved the money into his Batman bank. He stared at the bank, certain that it was anger that he saw in its painted eyes. When he set it back down, he flipped it around backwards. But Batman’s disapproving countenance blanketed Ian’s room.

“I had to do it, okay?” he said, throwing himself onto his bed and shutting his eyes. He sighed and told himself that it would all be over tomorrow. After all, his plan was to go to his mother—after spending the day at school with Alex—and tell her that Alex had loaned him the money. Then, she would take it, put it onto her bank card, and order The Killing Joke for him. He would make up for his dirty deed by doing his chores and slowly slipping his allowance into Morg’s bank. And no one would be the wiser.

Ian’s stomach knotted as he pulled himself under the covers. He went to sleep that night telling himself that it was the pizza, not guilt, causing him this pain.

…………………

Three days after stealing Morganna’s money from her bank, and he still couldn’t find it in his heart to spend it. It was still holed up in his plastic Batman bank. He climbed off the school bus with his three sisters in tow and trudged his way into the house. He dropped his backpack on the floor beneath the coat rack and heard Morg scoff. He paid no mind and entered the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator. He scanned it for a moment, hunting for he-didn’t-know-what. Shutting it a bit more forcefully than needed, he turned away from it.

There, on the kitchen table, was a birthday card, propped open. He approached it—his own birthday the only one close enough to merit a card (even though it had passed). Picking it up, he noticed a small, thin, brightly wrapped package underneath it. The card was addressed to him and indicated the package below.

“Happy belated birthday,” Morg said from behind him.

Ian did not turn to see his sister. He knew what this package was, and he did not deserve it. “I can’t accept this, Morg. I—”

“Stole my money? Yeah, I know. International spy, you’re not. But you didn’t spend it either. You were going to give it back eventually; I know that. So, there’s your comic. Happy birthday.”

Ian whispered his thanks as he slowly picked up the package containing The Killing Joke. He did not open it, and probably would not for a while. His own personal punishment for taking the money. He heard his sister start to leave and then stop.

“Oh, and, Ian, if you so much as even look at my bank again…”

Still not turning, Ian smiled. “Hot fiery torture and death?”

She laughed. “Well, I was just going to threaten your Batman stuff, but that works too.”