My name is Jason Todd. When I was a child, my father beat me and my mother relentlessly when he actually had the idea to spend time at home. See he was a drug dealer under Black Mask...a low level, bitch of a drug dealer with a violent history and mile long crime record. He was in and out of jail frequently which meant my life was more than a little unstable with his dirty income and my mother's dependency on drugs. He came home less and less and by the time I was 7, he stopped coming home at all. That's when things got bad. Really, really bad.

My mother couldn't afford rent. What little money she did make, she spent on narcotics and heroin and the like. That meant that either we had to make money fast, or...we'd be on the streets of crime alley. That was a fate we had to avoid at all costs. So, my mother told me she got a job at the bar as a 'ballerina.' I didn't find out that it meant Stripper until a buddy of mine on the streets laughed at me and called her a filthy name. I remember punching him in the mouth for it and having my mother grimace and cry as she admitted what he said was true. Eventually though, she lost her job because the drugs kept messing her up and she lost a lot of money. The bar owner wouldn't have it so he threw her out. That's when she took to the streets...which was probably the worse decision of both our lives at that point.

That's when Jonah entered our lives.

Jonah was the biggest, richest, scariest pimp in all of crime alley at that pont. He found her one day and cut her a deal after he saved her from a mugging that could have easily turned nasty. Her service to him -which meant she payed him a percentage of what she earned- in exchange for protection of her and her young son...and of course, more drugs. As time went by and money became more scarce in Gotham, her clients slowly stopped paying her. Because she wasn't giving Jonah his quota of money, he upped her percentage more and more until she almost never brought anything home but bruises and eviction notices. That's when I decided to take things into my own hands.

I started car jacking and robbing gas stations and the likes...anything to make a little cash. I would always come home at the end of the day, tired and aching, but always with a smile on my face when I showed mom all the money I made. She never smiled back, she only ever took the money with a grim look. Jonah ended up taking most of it when he found it on her the next day, so it never did do much good anyway. I went to Juvenile Detention three times for nothing. Mother kept losing weight and her hair kept falling out and she was so pale it was like she was translucent. She stopped eating the food I stole for her, she stopped coming home for days, she stopped paying attention to me all together when she was home. One day, I finally found her on the bathroom floor with a needle still stuck out of her cold, lifeless arm.

I stayed there holding her until I heard police sirens. That's when I ran.

I was only 10 years old. And I was on my own in Crime Alley.

I found a squat in an alley by a warehouse with tarp and cardboard that I managed to set up into some form of shelter. It didn't keep the cold out when winter came, so I used newspaper and stolen blankets and jackets, anything I could get my hands on really, just to stay warm. Well...not freezing to death anyway. I still did the robbery and car jacking gig...and pick pocketing and even begging. But I still went some days without eating anything. And I can't tell you how long I went without showering some days. That's when I finally went to the streets myself.

After seeing what happened to my mom, I wasn't stupid enough to let myself make a deal with a pimp. And I definitely vowed to stay away from the drug dealers. I was dead set to take care of myself or die trying.

The first few times, I cried afterward. The pain and humiliation and the guilt and disgust in myself...it was excruciating. After a while I became numb to it, but... I tried not to do that particular business if I could help it, but sometimes...it was the only thing I could do. Most of the time though, I was able to avoid it. I was lucky as hell I didn't catch anything...I was lucky as hell I wasn't dead in a gutter.

I lived like that for two years. Two years. I wasn't even a teenager yet.

A few weeks after I turned 11, I found the sleekest, shiniest, wicked looking car I have ever seen. It was expensive and absolutely mouth watering to behold. I had to have it. I was going to make big bucks off of that baby. So I got my tire iron and set to work. Everything went well until I was halfway through the last tire.

The shadow fell over me so quickly that I had barely looked up before he had me by the throat against the wall. Him. The Dark Knight himself. Batman.

"You're...just a child," he had growled. I don't remember what I snapped back, but it was something along the lines of "I'm old enough. Fuck off!" The Batman had scowled before turning to observe the damage to his car. The Batmobile. He shook his head almost in awe and let out a chuckle. I had never met the Bat before that, but of all the dark, terrifying stories I had heard whispered on the streets I never once heard one where he had laughed. I had almost thought I was in a dream. "Unbelievable," he had muttered before turning back around.

"Who are you, kid?" he had asked. I had almost spit in his face before deciding that I was probably already fucked over anyway and didn't want to make things worse. He would probably try to report me to foster care, or so I thought at the time. I was not going to Gotham City Foster Care. Not on my life. So I thought, maybe if I cooperated and told a few white lies, he'd just let me go.

"I'm Jason Todd," I had replied, sticking my chin out defiantly.

"Jason Todd," he grunted. "Where are your parents, Jason?"

"My mom is at work. She works night shift," I lied. Well...she had worked night shift when she was still alive.

"And your father?"

"Don't have one." I hadn't considered that man my father in a long, long time.

The Batman nodded and had turned away from me. "Wait here," he had ordered firmly.

If I had any sense, I would have ran...as far and as fast as I could. But fear that he would catch me as well as intense curiosity kept me rooted to the spot as he opened the door to his beautiful car. I remember groaning when I saw the smooth interior. Batman didn't even give me a side glance, he just sat down and started typing on his computer -a computer system in his car. What I would have given to sell that car before getting caught-. After a few minutes he had finally looked back up at me and just...stared...for a long time.

"Your mom's not at work, is she Jason?"

It was a long time before I had finally replied. "No. She's-"

"Dead. You've been on the streets for two years." It wasn't a question. If anything, it had sounded...stern. Worried, if I hadn't known any better.

I remember freezing in fear. I was sure then that he would cart me off and shove me into the system and then all I did was scream at him. "I'm not going to the orphanage! I won't! Do you know what they do to kids in there?! I'll run away if you take me, you can't make me-"

"Jason!" he had barked. That was the first time I had ever shut up on command...without even being told. The power in his voice...it had sent chills right down to my bones. It still does to this day, though I'll never tell him that. "I'm not going to take you to the system."

I didn't believe him at first, but I couldn't say anything. I think I was in shock for a while actually. I couldn't even ask Why, as he made me put the wheels back on and ushered me into the car without another word. I was suspicious of him for a while...I thought he might be another pervert at first, like the old men I had serviced on the streets. Then after my first few weeks at the manor when nothing ever happened, I thought he had been kind and merciful to me. He trained me to fight for justice, to channel my rage and be...amazing. To be Robin.

I was never as good as his Golden Boy...my older 'brother,' Dick Grayson. He would always chastise me for being too outrageous on the field or too violent or too sloppy. I messed up a lot. A lot. But we fought together, we grew together, we became a team, we protected each other... he sent me to school, he fathered me, he adopted me and he and Alfred took care of me. Those were the best...and now the most painful years of my life.

I didn't realize he only did all of that to eliminate a potential threat and make me an ally before I was completely lost. That's what he told me years later, anyway. Not that it mattered. Not that any of it mattered. He never knew how much he meant to me. I was a fool for thinking I ever meant anything to him. I was never a son to him, only a ward that needed to be watched. On my grave stone, it said Trusted Ally And Friend. Not son. Not family. Not anything.

The one and only time my life ever meant anything really meant nothing all along. Forgive me for being furious...hell, traumatized by that. It's like the universe dragged me back from the dead just to rub it in my face that I meant nothing. Hell, I was god damn replaceable. Who did that new Robin think he was, taking my place in Bruce's life like that? Who did Bruce think he was to bring another child soldier into his selfish, pathetic game of Justice after he already let a 15 year old walk to his violent death?!

...

I'm getting angry again. I swear I'm trying not to. Not until I finish this. Because this needs to be read. It needs to be understood why you're going to find the note like this, whoever you are.

I realize you probably think me selfish for taking the easy way out. Or a coward. But it's nothing like that. I can live with the pain. The pain fueled my fire, my need for revenge, for my own personal justice. Who would avenge my death if I wouldn't? That was my sole purpose for existing after the pit shoved my tattered soul back into my body. I realized I was pretty much exactly like Bruce, in a fucked up kind of way.

God forbid that.

So then I tried to just live for myself, do whatever I wanted, kill the wicked and steal from the rich and give to the poor type shit. But none of it meant anything. None of it. I was empty.

Then when Bruce died, something in me...broke. I really did become psychotic this time. I thought becoming batman and stealing everything from him, even in his death would give me some sort of satisfaction...fulfill my vengeful purpose as well as give birth to a whole new kind of Justice for Gotham. Again. So much for giving that up. Of course, I was beaten by Dick, who took the cowl for himself, and his new Robin -would they ever stop recruiting child soldiers?- Damian something-or-other. The last one had been turned away by Dick in favor of Damian. After that, I decided I didn't hate the kid as much since he knew the pain of being forgotten and replaced as if he were nothing. In fact, I actually felt kind of sorry for him. As much as I had hated him before, I'm not sadistic enough to wish my own pain on someone else. Not someone who really didn't deserve it, anyway. Tim Drake didn't deserve it. It was Bruce's fault for everything, after all. I left 'Red Robin' alone after that.

Now Bruce is back. The real batman is back. My revenge still isn't known -not that I had much of one to begin with. Bruce's death had done nothing for me. Maybe it never would. Maybe nothing ever will. And now I've been thinking. Why am I still here?

Nothing means anything. I'll never...ever know peace again. Or happiness, or love. Only hate and rage and pain and numbness. I'm just like him. I'm just like you, Bruce. And I'd rather die again than live like you.

I wanted to be good. I wanted to make you proud...of me. I wanted to be your family. That's all I ever wanted. But it was stolen from me. Hell, I never had it to begin with, did I? Not really.

Anyway, now you know what you did. What my sad little life has amounted to. So keep me locked away in your files, eat yourself up with guilt again, and keep my glass memorial up and post my suicide note on it like you did years ago with my report card on the fridge for everyone to see. At least pretend I was your son, like you loved me. Not like I was some tragic failure.

Or not. Whatever. Your call. It's not like I'll care after I'm gone.

Goodbye, Bruce.

Goodbye, Alfred.

Goodbye.