It's raining in Gotham.
He is vaguely aware of the way the sheets of water bear down on his body, how the droplets bathe him and dust him with water, cleaning the shallow impurities. He hardly notices how the roads are slick, or how his own reflection stares up at him, sad but unwavering. He doesn't see that the grime of the city remains despite the cleansing rain, but, then again, he didn't need to see that to understand.
He now knows that nothing can wash away a grime so entrenched in something, so acutely embedded, that nothing can ever truly clean Gotham.
Not even the Batman.
And, like the city, he can never be clean; a sin so deeply etched into the soul forever mars him, forever makes him imperfect and unworthy.
He has no time for that now, he thinks. He has no time to think of how much Father abhorred him, how much Father wished he would be someone else's problem, how much Father saw him only as a delinquent to be fixed, a freak to be scrutinized, an object to be scrubbed cleaned.
His vision blurs. Damian puts a hand out to steady himself as he trudges, slowly, down the alley, toward the place that started everything. He thinks that if he goes there, if he ends up in the place where Father's life truly started, it will mean something, to someone.
Blood drips unsteadily from his mouth, but is washed away quickly by the heavy rains, as is the blood dripping from the hole in his stomach.
A blade had rested there, struck into him by an enemy of Father, whilst Damian was out patrolling on his own. He disobeyed orders and broke rules by leaving the cave in Father's absence, had committed one last travesty for his Father to add to the list of sins. Death, he reasons, is the only way to receive forgiveness for the mistakes he had made. Death for someone like him is the only way, in Father's eyes, to ever be clean.
He stumbles, but catches himself, determined to make it to his destination. He must get there; he must survive for just long enough. He pushes a hand against the painful wound, willing it to slow as he forces himself to continue walking.
The rain will remove all traces of his death, will wash away the bright red soaking his clothes, littering the street, marking his journey. By tomorrow he will be nothing more than another blood soaked victim of Gotham. He will be just another reason for Father to fight, for Grayson to work, for Todd to kill, for Drake to frown, for Brown to persevere.
He falls down at the tip of Crime Alley, bathed in light from a street lamp, the last remaining pints of his blood pooling around him.
A small smile forms on his face as his consciousness fades. His final thought makes him so happy, even if he knows it won't be true; at least, not in the way he wants, desires, needs.
Maybe now, he thinks, maybe now Father will care.