There once was a little boy named Jonathan.
Jonathan's mother was very young. She might have been beautiful, once, but it was hard to tell. Jonathan would only remember her limp, colorless hair, the scars on her face and arms from her drug-use, her thin, skeletal frame. He'll remember her eyes were always dull, the pupils dilated and blown wide.
You have your mother's eyes, people would tell him. Jonathan hated them all.
He hated her.
She was weak, disgusting, rotting away on the couch with only her drugs to concern her. She didn't care for her son, could not be bothered to wash his clothes or ensure he had food to eat. She was useless, consumed only by her own selfish desires.
Jonathan never met his father. It was impossible to know who, exactly, he was. His mother was not exactly picky when it came to men, would do anything for a wad of cash or to earn a high. Men paraded in and out of Jonathan's life, so many he lost track of names, lost count of faces.
He grew up as a bitter, angry child.
Jonathan was fourteen when he took his first life.
He never got the man's name, but he knew his intentions. Sometimes, his mother would fail to satisfy and the men would come to Jonathan, thinking him an easy target. Most of them learned quickly that this wasn't the fact. Jonathan fought like a cornered animal, with teeth and nails, biting and clawing furiously, not holding back. Most of them would retreat, leave him alone.
But He hadn't been like that. He had been determined, probably half out of his mind on some drug or another. He had been bigger, too. Stronger. He fought against Jonathan, pinning his hands down with one larger, beefy one, and backhanding Jonathan across the mouth with the other.
Jonathan fought dirty, though. He kicked him, using all his strength, right where it'd hurt the most, and when the man recoiled in pain, Jonathan pulled his switchblade –kids in the Narrows all carried blades, if they were smart. Got them young and weren't afraid to use them –from beneath his pillow and drove it into the man's great gut.
Blood ran down the blade, over Jonathan's hand. He ripped the blade up, tore open the man's stomach cavity, and blood went everywhere.
Jonathan ran outside into the streets and threw up violently into a dumpster. And then he ran away, as far and as fast as he could.
Jonathan was gone from Gotham for years, returned in his early twenties going by the name of Jack.
He fell in love. Her name was Jeannie and she was beautiful. They lived in the Narrows, to Jack's dismay, and when Jeannie fell pregnant, Jack swore he'd find a way to give her, and their baby, a better life.
Jack wasn't even the real one Red Hood. He was just meant to be a stand in, just pretend for one job. His being there was silly, stupid. It was a joke, laughable really.
The punch line is he's always laughing, now.