Gotham's industrial district is Joker territory. I don't know what I was thinking at the time, but whatever. I have a safe house. It isn't really safe, but the time I actually cared for my own well being has passed. Hell, I'm usually out in the streets most of the time anyways. I smile humorlessly. Out of the four safe houses I visit, the one in Joker territory I prefer to avoid. Nobody could really blame me, but they sure could raise eyebrows and send suspicious glares my way for it. I am out to kill the homicidal clown, after all. So it is suspicious.
Especially for the Bat. Not that I care, of course. He's made it perfectly clear that I'm nothing if not worse than the clown, or the Mask, fuck, any of them are better. They're worth saving. Well fuck that horse shit. The scar on my neck is like a mark, that between the two of us, I'm still dead to him. Jason Todd isn't under no red hood. Nobody is. The hood is an ideology, kinda like the cowl Bruce hides under. Except, it's Joker's mark on the system. It terrifies me, really.
Not just the Red Hood, but all of the symbols these so called "super heroes" don. Yeah, the Red Hood scares me, but that's not the point. That's just a personal issue. Well, in the grand scheme of things it is all sorta personal, but don't I have a right to be passionate about it? Yeah, I do. Tonight just isn't my night. I was actually gonna take advantage of tonight for a stake out, but my damned thoughts kept distracting me.
My helmet hisses open and I finally taste the crisp fresh air. My helmet clatters to the ground when I drop it carelessly at my boots. Damn, it just feels so good to just breathe. I wriggle out of my jacket, pull my shirt over my head, and toss them to the floor. My mop of hair was probably sticking out at out angles, but what do you expect? I wear a fucking helmet over these gorgeous raven locks.
I kick off my boots, change into some sweatpants, and dive into my muscle shirt. As I make my way to my messy bed, I cannot help but frown. Tonight was gonna be a bad night. I sat at the side of my bed, legs hanging overpaid side, elbows to knees, and head in hands. What do I do? I sniffle. It was about time for a good cry, but I never have a good cry. Mostly silent tears or something. Stress does this kinda shit. But hanging around emotionally stunted freaks for a good duration of your first life? That does more of this shit.
What this shit is, exactly, I cannot exactly be sure. Some sort of cataclysm of anger, apathy, pain, agony, and most embarrassingly, longing. I sigh as the last tear trickles down my features, that are most likely contorted in pain. My head is pounding, and I feel as if my own brain could break out of my skull and hop off somewhere. I wouldn't know where, because my imagination just sort of dies at that point, but its kind of silly and nauseating to think about in the first place, so I unexpectedly gag and break into a choking sob.
All the while, I feel a chill shoot through my head, as if my brain is splitting in half. My entire frame shivers violently, and I'm reduced to whimpering. I squeeze my eyes shut tight. I'm also squeezing and hugging myself in desperation. I need to know that I'm alive, that I'm real. I need to know that I'm not trapped in a coffin, that I'm not locked in a warehouse. There it is-the longing. I want someone else to confirm my doubts, to tell me I'm really there, I'm alive, I'm free.
I shift to the middle of the bed, hugging my knees-no, clawing at my knees with my fingernails. I just need to feel. I need to indulge myself further. I've become so out of it, so numb to my own turmoil that I can't tell if I really exist or not. Which is silly, because I know I was prowling the rooftops just an hour ago. Fuck, I just-goddamn.
My painful grimace shifts to a rueful smile. Pull yourself together, Todd. Fucking deal. Then, I let go. My grip loosens and my tense muscles roll until I push myself into a sitting position. The next thing I know, I feel this warm sorrow, this tingle shooting into my body like an injection. I'm nothing but a fucking symbol to him. I'm nothing but an ideology. Hell, even when I was Robin I was only an ideology. I couldn't ever be Jason Todd. Because Jason Todd was a bad little shit with issues. Jason Todd was a sick little street rat that didn't know how to fucking heal.
I scratch at my scalp, because the tingling is now itching. I just can't shake the irritation, and brief ripples of fear bubble inside my skull, and I'm suddenly afraid of digging into my skin. I'm afraid that scratching this itch would not only make it itch more, but kill me-somehow. The worst thing about it is I know it's irrational and I don't know why I'm suddenly so scared, so touchy. Then, I feel this resentment towards myself, and before I can catch myself, I end up fantasizing about my head being bashed in by a blunt object, hell, I crave it.
Then I fear it. My hands are shaking, my breath is hitching, and suddenly feel like I'm in that warehouse again. I scold myself, because my imagination is getting out of hand. Tentatively, I run a hand through my sweaty hair and sigh shakily. My eyes dart to my helmet, long discarded on the floor. Its hollow eyes stare back at me, and I feel the fear eating me alive.
"Irony is fucking gold," I breathe in a humorless laugh. And I'm right. Irony is gold. Hell, maybe when I'm out on patrol I'll start wearing something with the bat symbol on my chest. It would make the Red Hood persona perfect. The thought of getting under the Bat's skin sends this bittersweet satisfaction into my being. I finally forget the painful claustrophobia and how thankful I am that the helmet's off.
In this moment of weakness, I realize I do care, and to be honest, it is the most painful realization yet. It's more painful than the realization that legal and illegal is not the same as right and wrong. I care, and I long for Bruce to understand that the world isn't just black and white, but shades of grey. He thinks he knows, but he doesn't. He's still biased. Usually that wouldn't be a problem, but it gets in the way of everything.
It's what drives him to push everyone away. Well, wouldn't he just love to be in my situation. He wants to be left alone so bad. I've seen it. Why else would he and precious Dickie-bird get so estranged? Fucking Dickhead. He doesn't know shit about being estranged from Daddybats. He doesn't know what it's like to rely on Daddybats for stability. He never needed that. That's why Dick was smart enough to make a man outta himself. I won't deny I'm bitter towards Dick. I've been jealous of him too. Not because he gets all of daddy's attention, no. But because he has all the right qualities. He's the man that could be the better person. He has everything that can rouse good impressions and respect.
What do I have? Nothing. I damn well tried to please Bruce. It's fucking impossible. I'm happy to be done with it. Looking back, I've always wondered why Dickhead seems to think he understands how hard it is to please Bruce. Then, I reason with myself, push aside my bitterness, and admit that Bruce is fucking boob enough to treat everybody that way. When you're no longer of any use to him, he throws you aside like you're garbage.
I swear if I see that rodent again, next time I'm so sickened by him I won't hold back any projectile vomit that I might just happen to belch out. The thought is comforting, but doesn't make the distinct taste of bile any better. I wish he would care enough to be hurt by the thought of me being sickened by his existence, but no such luck. Then again, I don't believe in luck. I've been given shit all my life even when things started looking up.
When Bruce took me in, I started having delusions about family and people actually caring for me. Then it becomes apparent that I'm being stupid, Bruce is only my mentor, not my father. My father wasn't even my father, why would Bruce be any different? I was a dumbass. Then I find out who my biological mother is, and I haul my butthurt ass to Ethiopia in hopes to have a real fucking family. Then she sells me to the Joker without remorse.
Everybody just likes to chastise me for being reckless. Guess getting myself killed never delved the lesson into my brain. Nobody ever tells me how brave I was for enduring all that shit, nobody tells me how noble I was for trying to save dear old mommy despite the shit she put me through, and nobody tries to console me. That's just goddamn fine. Tell me my faults and give me your bigoted shit. Just don't expect me to be all sunshine and morals when you can't even spread some much needed empathy.
Fuck, I even give myself shit. Even now, looking at my moment of weakness I scold myself because I was acting like a fucking teenage girl. I should have been staking out, but no, I go to the safe house and weep. Boo fucking hoo. Tough. Life is tough, get over it and deal!
Then my episode is over. Usually these episodes only happen when I'm in a safe house, but I was dangerously close to lashing out earlier. Hence, my reasons for being in a fetal position whilst atop my bed. Look at me now, attempting to justify showing emotion. Fucking Bruce. Keep pushing me and everybody else away, that's fucking healthy. I forgive you for not saving me, but why can't you save me now? If I'm just like the Joker, put me down. Fucking kill me, just something-kill me. But not until I off that death worshipping garbage.