Torturous Grief
By Half an Inch
The asphalt dug painfully into his knees as he was pushed down by the after-shock of the bomb.
The building behind him violently erupted in flames. Smoke lifted into the air, as red and yellow blaze licked the structure, rising into the sky and giving a grotesque imitation of an ombré.
...Everything was quiet one second.
The next, it was in ruins.
Chaos.
Everywhere.
Mission failed.
Because of him, so many had died.
He felt sick.
He didn't have a right to be here, not while everybody else was dead. Not while he had the knowledge that no one else could make it out. He should have done more. He should have helped...
He also should have died a long time ago.
Over the ringing on his ear, Robin could hear the police sirens. His brain sluggishly told him to run before he got arrested, before he got killed, before he got other people killed, but his body just wouldn't cooperate.
The past few days of exhaustion and injuries had caught up with him.
He dimly heard the yells of the police officers, distant shouts of, "He's over here!" and the thundering, hectic footfalls.
The last thing he felt before he fell into blissful unconsciousness was the cool feel of handcuffs over his already chaffed skin.