A/N: This is what happens when you see a sad piece of artwork-"Why" by xxjust-a-nobodyxx on deviantart-and listen to The Amazing Spider-Man 2 soundtrack. Warning: this was my first attempt at hardcore sadness. Enjoy!

Wally was numb. Not the good kind where his feet would tingle from not moving, and he'd get pins and needles. He was empty, a pit of despair and dread forming in his stomach, consuming his entire being. He walked towards the fallen hero, his surroundings muted like an old timey black-and-white silent film. He bent down to his hero's crumpled form, his hands shaking.

"Flash?" His voice was shaky and scared as he gently prodded his uncle's shoulder. "C'mon, you gotta get up." His voice was barely a whisper. He was vaguely aware of things happening around him, other heroes running towards him, the wind beating down on his face, the rubble beneath his feet, the fires that danced in the destroyed buildings. He knew what was happening, but he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel the wind or the rubble or the slight chill in the air. The sensations flitted across his skin, barely perceived by his nerves.

He could hear some people moving behind him, but he didn't care. He needed Uncle Barry to wake up. Then they'd go get ice cream and laugh and everything would be okay. Everything had to be okay.

"C'mon Flash, now's not the time to be sleeping on the job. You have to get up." He kept his tone light, almost jokingly so, because it was a joke wasn't it? It wasn't real and if he treated it like a joke, then Uncle Barry would wake up and laugh and then everything would be okay. Everything was fine and he was just overreacting. Right?

He cradled his uncle's head in his lap, trying to gently shake him awake. "You're okay. You're fine," he whispered softly. His uncle was okay. The League would come and fix him up and everything would be okay. Uncle Barry was the Flash, of course he was okay. Nothing could hurt him, he was too fast.

He moved his hands to grab the front of his uncle's costume only he felt something wet. What-? He froze. Blood. It was blood. He didn't see it before, the red blending with the red fabric of the Flash costume, but now he could clearly see puddles of blood surrounding and covering the hero. His uncle was covered in blood, and was kneeling in it. Oh God he was kneeling in it. Panic surged through his body like ice water in his veins. Wally's pleas became louder and more desperate.

"Uncle Barry you have to get up! C'mon, get up! Please don't go!" Wally's voice broke as he desperately tried to find a pulse. He couldn't feel a heartbeat. There-there was nothing. There couldn't be nothing! Wally held onto his uncle's body shaking him, begging him to wake up, to do something-anything please! He couldn't move, every molecule of his being frozen in shock. Please God no. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't-no!

"Wally," someone behind him moved forward, their hand resting in his shoulder. They sounded pained, but Wally didn't care. He ignored the voice, shrugging the hand off his shoulder, and hugged Uncle Barry's body to his chest, blood smearing on his costume, turning it from bright vibrant yellow to a burnt rusty orange. His uncle felt cold, his limbs drooped on the ground lifelessly. He wouldn't accept it-no it wasn't real! Wally pressed his face into his uncle's chest searching for any ounce of comfort.

"C'mon Uncle Barry. Don't go!" His distress was overwhelming, causing his body to vibrate with stress. This couldn't be real. It...it didn't feel real. It felt fake-surreal, like he was in a movie theater watching it all happen and not living it. The voice behind him got louder, the hand returning to his shoulder this time with more force. He couldn't make out the words, the sound of static and blood rushing to his head drowning out his surroundings. Wally violently shook the hand off his shoulder, once again ignoring the voice behind him and tightening his hold on the prone form of his uncle.

Arms-big strong arms-suddenly grabbed him, pinning his arms behind his back, dragging him away from Uncle Barry. Wally panicked, throwing kicks, punches, and obscenities in every direction. Wally screamed his throat raw, though he had no idea what he was shouting. Not that he even cared at this point. They were taking him away from Uncle Barry! He needed to be there! He needed to wake him up! They had to understand.

He struggled harder, though the arms didn't budge. He faintly heard someone talking softly-probably to him-though he couldn't make it any words over the buzzing in his ears. He's dead he's dead he's dead he'sdeadhe'sdeadhe'sdead.

His struggles died down after a while, his limbs hanging loosely from their sockets exhausted. He vaguely registered the change of scenery, no longer seeing rubble and concrete but houses and colors other than harsh greys and blacks. Suddenly the arms stopped moving in front of a house. Wally tiredly raised his head, recognizing the red door in front of him as his aunt's.

He shouldn't be going to his aunt's. He's still in costume. Obviously the arms didn't care, throwing Wally over one shoulder to open the door with his new free hand. The arms-who Wally identified belonged to Green Lantern Hal Jordan, set him down on the couch and walked over to his aunt. Words were exchanged, though they were warped and twisted, sounding more like noises than words.

Wally stared at the carpet, having lost the energy and will to get up. His mind wandered, replaying every excruciating moment of the battle in his head. Every mistake, every fault, every imperfection. It was his fault. He'sdeadhe'sdeadhe'sdeadhe'sdead. It's all your fault. HE'S DEAD.

His thoughts dissipated when he heard his aunt break down, her sobs overwhelming the buzzing, deafening silence in his ears. Aunt Iris. He glanced up to see Hal holding Aunt Iris as she sobbed. Oh God Aunt Iris. He forced his vocal cords to work, straining his voice even more.

"Aunt Iris?" He croaked, his throat-ripped raw from screaming-burning painfully in protest. He slowly forced his head off the couch pillow to look at his aunt directly.

Aunt Iris let go of Hal and bent down to Wally, tears streaming down her face. "Oh Wally baby," she sniffed, gently cupping his face. It was an old nickname she gave him when he was younger. She glanced down at his costume, her eyes welling up with tears at the orange smears. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?" She wiped her eyes, brushing her hair back to try and look strong for her nephew.

Wally didn't trust his voice enough to speak so he nodded, the movement making his head spin, momentarily causing dizziness. Aunt I helped him get up-though he was acting more like dead weight so she probably did all the lifting-, slowly guiding him to the bathroom.

She laid him down in the tub-with Hal's help-, the task of taking care of her nephew offering a distraction from the tragedy of her husband's death. She felt like her heart was ripped out of her chest when Hal knocked on her door. At first she thought Wally was injured due to the fact his costume was soaked in blood, and he was being carried. But...Barry wasn't there, then she knew. Her world came crashing down in a fiery explosion that left no one unscathed. Her heart died, shriveling up like a grape in the sun leaving behind only a dried husk of what it used to be.

She held her nephew-no her son. She was the one who he came to when he was upset. She was the one who held him when he cried. She was the one who he came running to when he accomplished something. She was always there for him. Ever since his parent's divorce when he was ten, Wally practically lived with her and Barry. Her heart clenched. Barry. She wanted to break down-to cry and beg the world why?-but she couldn't. She had to be there for Wally. She would be strong for him. For Barry.

She and Hal helped Wally out of his costume, her nephew limply trying remove the ripped and stained garment. Her heart ached watching her usually vibrant and lively nephew act so dead. His eyes were blank and glossy, his bright kelly green irises subdued to a dull muddled color. His entire body was shaking, whether from grief or exhaustion, Iris didn't know. Probably both.

Her own hands shook, holding the costume that was covered in her husband's blood. She pushed the rising misery down. Focus Iris.

"Oh Wally," she cooed. Her baby was silent, probably in shock. She feared the day when everything caught up to him. He would be a wreck. She smoothed back his hair gently, though more for her own comfort than for his.

After then washed him down, Hal carried Wally back to his room. She kissed his forehead, telling him to get some rest, though doubted he could actually hear her.

"Will you be okay?" Hal looked just as weary as Iris felt. He dealt with his best friend's death in complete silence, being there for both Iris and Wally. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes, full of pain and sorrow, had large bags underneath.

"I'll-I'll be fine." It was a blatant lie and both knew it, but it was ignored. Okay wasn't even part of the equation right now. She would get by for now. She'd think about okay later. "Take care of yourself Hal. "

He gave her a weary smile-more of a grimace-that didn't belong and left. Iris took a deep breath. Her husband was dead. Her nephew was traumatized. She was not okay. She exhaled. She would get through this. She'd be there for her boy. She'd live. She would never be okay.

It was raining. It was probably the most cliché funeral ever. The sky was grey, cumulonimbus clouds blocking out the sun to make the day even more depressing. Wally and Aunt Iris had to go to two separate funerals. One for Barry Allen, beloved husband/uncle and CCPD forensic scientist, and one for Flash, beloved hero of Central City. Both were horribly depressing and occurred within the same week.

Barry Allen's funeral was bare, Aunt Iris and Uncle Barry not having planned ahead for a funeral-well who does?-and lacked the funds for an ornate one. Not many people showed, which made it all the more depressing. About thirty people showed up. They stood outside in the pouring rain while the local pastor gave some half-hearted prayer, and the casket was lowered into the ground. Aunt Iris gave the eulogy. She tried to remain strong, her voice only cracking a few times, which made her speech even more depressing. A lot of people cried-except Wally.

Wally couldn't bring himself to cry. Shock was what they called it. The events hadn't fully caught up to his mind yet, so he hadn't broken down. Wally didn't think they understood, which was stupid. He was there. His mind fully grasped the situation-UNCLE BARRY WAS DEAD! He kept turning around, expecting him to be there, but he wasn't. And he'd never be there again. Wally felt empty. His uncle, his idol, his hero, was gone. How was he supposed to go on from there? Nothing would be the same ever again. He wanted to be sad, to be angry, to feel something, but there was nothing but shock and a numbness he couldn't shake. Aunt Iris understood. She didn't say anything, but she'd just look at him like she knew. She knew the hurt, the pain, the emptiness. She understood. And she would hold him and whisper soft nothings in his ear, rubbing his shoulders as he laid his head on hers. She understood.

Wally refused to speak at both funerals. He had no words to describe the kind of man his uncle was. He was...he wasn't just good he was great in all sense of the word. He was kind and sincere and an amazing human being. He did good things because he felt they were right, not because of any feelings of obligation or guilt. He was a great hero and an even greater uncle. Uncle Barry inspired Wally to be Kid Flash, to be a scientist. Uncle Barry was the first person in Wally's life who told him that he could do anything he set his mind to. He believed in him and held him when he was scared and made him laugh when he was sad. Uncle Barry was his role model. Wally modeled his entire life after him. He became Kid Flash because of him, he loved science because of him, he even told corny jokes because of him. Uncle Barry wasn't supposed to di-to leave.

Wally barely remembered the rest of the week, only retaining blurry colors and sounds from each procession. He couldn't sleep at night and when he did, he had nightmares. He'd wake up in the dead of morning in a cold sweat, rushing into the bathroom to scrub phantom blood off of his arms. Aunt I would walk into the bathroom with a clean towel to clean up the mess he'd make and gently usher him back to bed. If he didn't know better, he'd feel bad about waking her up, however she didn't get much sleep either.

He didn't touch his phone, which has been buzzing constantly for the passed week. He didn't go to the Cave, despite hearing from Hal that the team missed him-even Arty. Black Canary offered her counsel to both him and Aunt Iris. Wally politely declined. He couldn't even get himself to think about...it, how would he be able to talk about it? Aunt Iris accepted. She needed someone to talk to. Someone that wasn't currently acting like the walking dead. Wally knew Aunt I was trying to be strong for him, but she couldn't pretend to be okay all the time-at least not like Wally could.

Rob and Roy tried to talk to him, but he couldn't. He could pretend everything is fine-fake a laugh, force a smile-but he could not show them how broken he really was. They didn't push him and let him build his little façade. Wally was fine that. Wally could live in denial. He could. For some reason it felt like he was building a straw house in Tornado Alley.

He ran. Digging his heels into the earth, he pushed off, sprinting across the country in a few minutes. He had no destination in mind. He just wanted to run-to have the rhythm of his feet touching the ground and the rush of wind suffocate his thoughts. He needed to get away. Away from the pitying glances and the sympathetic tones. Away from the expectant stares that demanded he step up and take on the mantle-to become the one person he could never hope to be no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't be Uncle Barry. He couldn't. He wasn't good enough, he wasn't fast enough, he just wasn't enough. That all-consuming feeling came back, squeezing his heart so hard he thought it would burst. A strangled sound came from the back of his throat, all the air leaving his lungs like he was punched in the gut. Wally stumbled but quickly regained his balance. He couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't pretend everything was fine. It wasn't, and it would never be okay.

He ignored the voices in his ear telling him to stop and calm down, his minding working on autopilot taking him towards Central City while his head was spinning in circles. He skidded to a stop. Central City Cemetery. The graveyard was empty-it was 1:17 AM after all-except for the field of tombstones. Wally walked over to the end of the third row, his knees shaking from both physical and emotional exhaustion. The shouts from his comm faded into the background like white noise. He couldn't run from it anymore. He couldn't pretend he was fine. He stopped at the second grave from the end. The epitaph read:

Bartholomew Henry Allen

March 19, 1984-February 7, 2014

Loving Husband and Uncle

He could barely make out the inscription his eyesight was so blurry. He rubbed at his eyes only to realize that those were tears. A bitter chuckled forced its way out of his chest and suddenly he was laughing. Crazy, unrestrained, hysterical laughter that would make the Joker jealous. He fell onto his knees as the deranged laughs wracked his frame, tears streaming down his face. He knelt down further, resting his forehead on the damp ground. The grass was wet. He was going to get grass stains on his new pants. At some point, his crazy laughter morphed into horrible painful sobs, and he was crying. Ugly burning hot tears flooded his face like twin rivers as he cried. And he couldn't stop because now he was alone, and there was no one to pretend to. He couldn't pretend in front of Uncle Barry. He crawled closer to the tombstone, needing to be closer somehow. He leaned against the stone, resting his head against the cold marble.

It started to rain again. Each drop that hit Wally's skin was a reminder. Each chill that wracked his body screamed he's gone he's gone he's gone. The cold wind nipped his arms and legs, not enough to become numb, but just enough to ground him. Each bite anchored him, an unrelenting constant that wouldn't change.

Wally figured hours must have passed by, though he was indifferent. While his anguished wails mellowed down to soul-wrenching whimpers, shudders and uncontrollable convulsions plagued his body continuously. He probably looked pathetic, blubbering like a baby while clinging onto his uncle's gravestone. He couldn't stop crying. No matter what he did, tears still poured down his cheeks like a faucet.

He curled closer to the stone, desperately searching for some form of familiar comfort. Wild gasps and hiccups torturously clawed their way out of his throat, ripped raw from his bawling. In short, he was a mess. God he was a mess. A dry chuckle-though it sounded more like a sob-ground out of his chest. He dragged a frozen hand across his face, the sensation uncomfortable but bearable. Sniffing his nose, he willed his broken voice to work, whispering to no one, "Why did you have to go?"

At some point, his tears dried, and he felt used up. He was empty. Not like before where he stood in black over a hole in the ground. Before there was something. There was grief, there was anger, there was shock, there was pain. Now, now there was nothing left inside of him-no sadness, no rage, just nothing. All his emotion drained out of his body through his eyes to the point where there was nothing left to feel. He was a grape in the sun: a dried up husk. He didn't reach some magical catharsis and feel better. There was nothing. That pit of despair in his stomach that had manifested itself as apart of his anatomy since...since it happened imploded into a black void of emptiness. He was used up-a shell of the kid who would smile so big, his face would hurt.

A sheet of ice encased the his heart, preventing warmth from breaching its the fragile organ. Warmth was deceptive and far more destructive than the cold. The warmth would make you feel like a fire, blazing and brilliant. Then before you knew it, it was extinguished, and you're only left with ashes and burns. The cold was far kinder.

The darkness eventually faded into light. If Wally cared, he would've guessed it was about 4 AM. He heard footsteps sloshing through the muddy isles towards him. He didn't bother moving his head. He knew who it was-well he had an idea of who it was. They stopped in front of the stone, Wally's face blocked from their view, but they could tell he was crying. Wally stared at the dew covered grass blades with a lazy fascination. His gaze shifted in and out of focus, the switch from clear to blurry distracting him from his unwanted guests.

"...Wally," Black Canary's voice was softer-far softer than any tone she ever used with him before. Wally hated it. He didn't make any sign of recognizing her presence, though lowly replied in a gravely voice sounding foreign coming from Wally's mouth, "Funeral's over."

"We know, we were there. Wally, you didn't answer your comm. What do you need?" Robin's voice was low, thick with understanding. Something inside Wally cracked. No 'are you alright'. He knew. Rob's been here before. Robin crouched down and put a hand under Wally's chin lifting it so slightly.

"Wally...please talk to me." The crack spiderwebbed into a billion more, small pieces fragmenting off into the hollow void in Wally's chest. Wally's gaze flicked up to Robin's. Robin's eyebrows were drawn together in a pained expression. His eyes were uncovered-absent of any mask or sunglasses-and brimmed with tears. The ice-glass inside Wally's chest groaned under the emotional pressure, the cracks multiplying with each second. Robin doesn't cry. Robin can't-he shouldn't...Wally couldn't handle Robin crying.

Arms wrapped around his torso and his heart hurt. "Nothing to talk about," he croaked. He really needed to stop talking. It was painful. His voice was far too hoarse and raw to even attempt talking today. "Leave me alone."

The arms didn't leave. Figures. Rob never listened to him anyway. Small hands rubbed circles into his back like he used to and Rob sat next to him. "C'mon Wally, we both know that's the last thing you need. You're always there for me, let me be here for you." Sincerity flooded Robin's voice, thick with emotion.

Wally couldn't do this.

Something shattered. Fragile ice-glass smashed into deadly sharp needles that pierced Wally's lungs and punctured his heart. His breaths that had just finally regained a normal rhythm were suddenly too short-too small. His lungs screamed for more oxygen as he choked down another ugly emotion. The feeling lodged itself in his throat, the only thing coming out of his mouth being a cross between a gasp and a gag. This was different from the unrestrained grief from before. Less wild and more grounded. His grip on the headstone turned to iron. He was sure to have bruises tomorrow, not that it mattered. He shook his head into the marble. He couldn't talk to Robin like this. He was supposed to be the happy-go-lucky speedster, full of jokes and always happy. He couldn't. He couldn't.

Wally felt all eyes on him as each piece of his icy shroud fell into the black void in his stomach. Corpse hands pulled his hair-red, red like his blood-painfully, digging his nails into his scalp. Arms gently tried to stop them, but the zombie hands were relentless. They needed his insides to match his outsides, so the others could see-see the half-dead rotting cadaver he was. Grief had feasted off his flesh, leaving nothing but yellowed bones and half-eaten sinews. He covered his face, trying to hide his shame as horrible gasps once again ripped apart his larynx. The arms squeezed tighter in reassurance. He vaguely heard someone saying soft words of hope and comfort. Other arms joined until he was surrounded by the others in a warm embrace.

"He's gone. He's gone Rob," Wally choked out in between hiccups. He refused to let go of the gravestone, the rough marble digging into his palms. His grip was steel, the rock cutting into his hands, leaving bloody handprints on the stone. A gentle but firm hand tried to remove Wally's hands from their hold, which sent Wally into a small panic.

"Wally, you're hurting yourself." Roy. Roy was there. He tore his unfocused stare from Rob to Roy. Roy's eyes lacked their usual steel. His shoulders were slumped and his usual loud and stern voice was filled with grief. The fight drained from Wally's shoulders, letting Roy take his hands from the stone.

After ten minutes of sobbing and being held, Wally fell asleep, and for the first time in a solid week, he slept soundly.

"Rob, does it ever...does it ever not hurt?" Wally woke up the next morning in his room next to Robin. Roy was sitting in a chair on the foot of his bed. Wally was currently lying his head on Rob's shoulder with his feet in Roy's lap as they sat on the couch watching "Modern Family". Aunt I had gone out with Joan Garrick. After Uncle Barry….the Flashes became closer. Both families saw each other at least twice a week, which helped a lot. Wally was eternally gratefully for Jay. Jay was a speedster. He understood Wally better than Joan or Iris. He knew how slowly time could move-how hard it was to let go.

Robin looked down at Wally, an indecipherable gleam in his eye. He sighed. "No. It will always hurt. You will never stop hurting, but I promise it will get better. It won't hurt as much. No, you will never forget them-they will always be apart of you-, but it won't hurt every time you think of them. You will be okay. I promise you, one day, you'll be okay."

Wally shifted closer to Rob, clutching the hand that weaved through his hair. He sent him a sad, shaky grin, his hands shaking slightly. He was broken, shattered like his ice-glass shield, but he was piecing himself back together. He wasn't okay. But maybe he would be.

"One day."