A/N: This chapter is really short and not nearly as long as I hoped to make it, but I'm going to leave it like this. I'm sorry for the delay; life happens.

Warnings (for the entire story): Language, violence, depression, suicidal thoughts, possible character death

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any affiliated franchise.

A week is a long time.

Two weeks is even longer.

Nightwing had next to nothing else to reflect upon, so used up were his thoughts, that this seemed like a brief salvation from the darkness of idleness. Now as the third week of his captivity reared its head he waited. It was a boring – and yet simultaneously horrifying – existence. He waited is a corner of a large room, knees drawn to chest, head held in hands, for something to happen. He tried to think constantly especially when the videos came on. He did not know how, but his greatest failures played from recording before his eyes. That was what the videos were. If he tried to look away a door was opened and light poured in to illuminate his petrified form as someone entered. Then hands grabbed his head, gripping and squeezing no matter how hard he struggled, never letting go. Failure after failure flashed before his eyes, changing from minor disobedience to offensive words spoken in moments of tension. Then the worst came, images appearing of him as he hit his brothers without being able to control himself. Damian, Tim, Jason, all lying in pools of his own blood from him. Then Bruce and Alfred ran in, picking the sibling up tenderly and shooting him glares filled with rage. When the lives of the younger were finished despite the best efforts of the two, Bruce entered with hatred burning in his eyes. Alfred stood by his side with the same expression.

"You are to leave this house." The words stung. Didn't Bruce know he wouldn't ever do such a thing? Didn't Bruce know he would rather die? But he had done it. The blood on Alfred's hands proved it even if he didn't believe it in his mind. He had beaten his brothers.

"Alfred –,"

"I believe it would be best for us all, Mister Grayson."

Alfred had alienated him. Bruce loathed him. Damian, Tim, and Jason were on their death beds because of him. Alfred was right.

Without another word, he left.

Then the screen went black and left Dick alone to cry in the dark.

The situation he had just seen played out again and again in his dreams, each time he could almost feel a surge of excitement as he watched one brother after another fall before his vicious onslaught. It sickened him to his very core and he felt tears leaking down his face as he awoke after crushing Jason's trachea.

He noticed absently that something warm – his blood. For a moment he thought it was Jason's but it was his, his, his, – was dripping down his arms. His fingers had embedded themselves there during the dream as if seeking some type of comfort. All they found was a sickening reminder that he was still alive in this Hell.

Where was Bruce? Tim? Damian? Had they abandoned him? Never had he been alone for so long, and the very air seemed to press around his head. No comforting words were spoken into his ear nor promises of everything being alright. No one was there to tell him to hang on, so he didn't.

Were the images why they had left him alone? Had he attacked them? No, it was his blood on his hands, not theirs, never theirs. He would never do anything to harm them. They were coming for him. It was just hard for them to find this place. They would come and promise the images were fake, show him they weren't hurt by him and he would check every place he remembered hurting them only to find nothing. That was it. They were coming. He just had to find something on which he could hold. So he let his fingers dig into his arms and tightened his grip.

He lost count of the days that passed this way, with his head resting upon his knees and fingers digging into arms. No matter how hard he made his grip, he continued to slip away. He had just let go when the door was opened and someone entered that forsaken room for the final time.