If I owned Jason Todd, he'd have his own ongoing series. So, I think it's quite obvious that I don't own him or anything else that belongs to DC Comics…no matter how much I wish I did.
Sitting here in the dingy kitchen of my worn-down old apartment, I watch the early-morning sunlight leak into the room in shafts that catch and illuminate the dust fluttering through the air all around me. I can see the little grayish clouds blow in every direction as I breathe, but I don't really pay attention to them. I've got my mind on other things right now.
The sudden sting of the warmth in my hands reminds me of why I'm sitting here in the first place. Most normal people don't make coffee like I do, but that's because most normal people don't have to deal with the same things I do. Most normal people—hell, even most abnormal people—would probably ask me why I make my coffee the wrong way, meaning way too freaking strong. I have creamer (at least, I think I have creamer; I'm not sure because I hardly ever use it), but I don't make a move to get up and go get it or even look for it. I have tons of sugar, but I don't mix any into the coffee. I even have a few packets of that gross lo-cal sweetener, but even that doesn't make its way into my coffee. And there's a reason for it, a legitimate reason.
You see, I've been through a plethora of crap in my lifetime, all short twenty-five years of it. A lot of things have happened to me that would never, ever happen to a normal person, things that anybody else would've already died or gone crazy from. I've done both, but I made it back to mostly-okay with most of the bruises only being on my psyche. Memories like that, memories of the things I've experiences, they scar you, and I won't even say they hurt like hell because they hurt worse than that. So, I've got a few choices on what I can do. I can let it get to me, which I don't plan on, because that'll just get me a one-way ticket back into the grave that I crawled out of all those years ago. Or, number two, I can get addicted to something to distract me, and rather than start popping painkillers, I chose super-concentrated coffee to keep my mind off of it.
I bring the steaming cup to my lips and take a sip. The coffee is strong-tasting, bitter, like liquefying the beans without grinding them first. It makes me shudder, sends a chill down my spine, but I savor the sensation. This is the reason why I make my coffee so strong. This is what I've got to gain from it.
As I sit here, just like always, the memories begin to resurface, some wonderful and others horrific. I remember Catherine Todd, the only mother I ever knew. (Well, the only mother I ever knew who didn't hand me over to a psychopath and stand there, watching, while I was beaten to death.) I remember Bruce taking me in, meeting Dick, and training to be Robin.
I remember that first night out on the town, the glory of gliding through the air in arguably the most recognizable costume in the state, even more so than Batman's. Thinking back on it now, I probably looked stupid in those shorts, but I didn't care then. It was all just fun and games and the grandeur of being Robin.
Then, I got really into that "teenage rebellion" thing. I couldn't help it. I guess you could say it was just in my nature. I'd taken care of myself, all by myself, for long enough that my mind was just pushing me to keep doing what I thought was best for me and ignoring what Bruce thought was best for me. Hey, like it or not, I'm a rebel at heart, and nothing can change that. It ended up leading me on a search to find my birth mother. And when I finally tracked her down to Sarajevo, she let the Joker kill me. And she just…watched. She didn't even make a move to stop it, she just…stood there.
The resurrection hurt, but not as much as dying had. I never really can remember exactly what happened; I've kind of blotted out the memories as best I can, the ones that I'd really rather not think about. But no matter how hard I try, I can't erase those horrible moments of banging on the coffin lid, clawing my hands bloody and ignoring the cuts as I tore my way out of my grave.
And then…then came Tim Drake.
I didn't know about him, not at first. I'd never seen the kid before in my life, not until after I came back from the dead. I wonder if Bruce even thought about the betrayal of putting a total stranger in the Robin suit, the suit I'd loved to death—literally. I wonder if it ever crossed his mind, what he was doing. The kid was just some spoiled rich brat who only got to be Robin because he pestered Bruce and Dick long enough. He didn't need it. He didn't earn it. So, why does he get to flaunt it, even now? Why does he still have that costume?
It's not that I hate the kid, per se. It's not that he had the life I never got, parents who gave a damn about him, friends, and a perfect world to live in, to call his own. It's just that…with all the times that people have come back to life in the hero business, why didn't Bruce take a second chance to look with me? Why didn't he risk it? He just let Tim waltz right in and stake his claim in the family without another thought. He just let the kid turn Robin into a grand play date with the coolest guys in Gotham. That's all it is to him, him and his flawless life. He doesn't get it, how nasty the streets can get, and he'll never really get it, no matter how many times I try and show him.
All the memories that come back to me, the flashbacks, they hurt. They're painful as ever right now, today, and I need these moments of calm to sort them all out. It's okay if you don't understand. Bruce never did.
It still stings, despite everything being "in the past." But, for me, it's never too far behind to forget completely, especially when it concerns the people who deserve to have a score kept against them, people like the Joker. If I don't, who will? That's probably what feels the worst, knowing that the only thing I have left to call a family, the hodgepodge little group of crime-fighters that all look after one another every day and every night, has abandoned me, and all because I think it's not worth it to lock the bad guys away someplace they'll just break out of in a month when you can take care of the problem permanently. Is it so criminal, wanting them to be in a position where they can't harm people ever again? Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm just like them, but it's called fighting fire with fire. You have to kill sometimes to stop them from killing.
All of it, every last bit of it, hurts tremendously. So, I sit here, all alone in my kitchen, drinking my bitter coffee, because the taste distracts me from the memories.
I sit here, drinking my bitter coffee, because it's the only way I know of to deal with the pain.