Dick sat at his desk, doing his homework. On the outside, his face was blank, and the homework was no trouble to him. A boring nessecity. On the inside though, voices were screaming.
Circus trash
The blood stained his hands, the flash of cameras as the rush of people closed in to document his dead parents, his tear streaked face. A woman grabbed his arm roughly, dragging him away from his entire life. Chaos, hands reaching out to grab a piece of the Last Flying Grayson until he was stripped of skin, clothes and hair.
Gypsy boy
Their gazes tracked him as he walked through the dining hall. His breath hiccuped and he struggled to control it. Everybody he saw tonight kept out of arm's reach, keeping their valuables away from him. They eyed him as though they expected him to steal it, steal their fancy bling that only decorated their cold, pearled hearts and soulless bodies, their heads just as empty. He hated that he couldn't tell them he stopped the very people who did just that, no way he would do it himself.
Whore.
The tapping of the clock ticked on and on, Richard counting every tick until double digits reach triple, triple reach quadruple and so forth. Bruce had dumped him here, running off to do some big business meeting or something for the Justice League. He didn't say. All Dick knew was that he spent less time with Bruce or Alfred than he was alone. And he hated it.
Stupid, probably can't even write..
It was true; his handwriting was terrible. He had spent too much time growing up practicing or training or pleasing those who could not be pleased to learn how to hold a pencil correctly. His mother had taught him who to write in Russian, and he learnt the rest of the languages(with the exception of few) by himself. It was a wonder he was able to write in English at all. Besides, he knew ten languages. How many did men twice his age know? And stupid? He spent all night keeping up with the world's greatest detective and still managed to keep an above average grade. He was still stupid?
Charity case
When he first came to live with Wayne, it was only a way of gaining publicity. Hey, look, Wayne's taken in a poor orphaned boy he must be a great guy! He was a tool, only pulled out and used to make a better image of his user. He was a trapped bird, cameras cowing him in, a roar of CHARITY CASE slashing at his delicate ears. It could only be beat into him so many times before he started believing it. He believed it all right. It was true, the vultures cried true..
Manipulative, cold hearted bastard..
He was crying, and Bruce just sat there. Watched. Blinked a little, but didn't do anything. His stomach pulsed and tears streaked from his eyes in his pain, and what did Bruce do? Pat his back. And leave. He left, goddamnit! Left him laying on the floor, crying his eyes out undifinifyingly, and didn't even feel an ounce of remorse or less! Zucco had hummed a tune when his parents' fell, he had seen the footage, hummed a happy little tune while a life was destroyed while two others ended! He never wanted to turn out like them.
Chuh, you're not Batman!
He wasn't, was he? Not as good as , look there's Batman- and what's that? Robin, is it? Oh, nice name. Batman just threw a batarang! Always second best. Shadowed by the long shadow of the bat, tethered to it's ankle by an unbreakable chain, never could get out no matter how much he tried.. And from his best friend, too(more than that)! He had trusted Wally enough to tell him everything, only to get it thrown back into his face. That was the lesson, though? Don't trust anybody, keep everything bottled up inside until it just bursts. Pop. Crack, tinkle tinkle.
Worthless, pathetic, never going to-
"Shut up." Dick whispered, hands pressed against the sides of his head. He was like one of the crazies he fought as Robin, talking to the voices in his head. He had meant to scream, scream at them, but it came out as a whisper. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Dick chanted. But they never did.
It was the voices inside his head, and they were all screaming at him and pushing around and images flashed by, violent and blurred with fear and altered by drugs and adrenalin. He wanted them to shut up, for them to be quiet but they just wouldn't. He wanted peace, he wanted quiet, he wanted-
Dick caught sight of the hidden knife under his pillow(just in case he was attacked during the night)and grinned. Perfect. Blood spattered onto the unfinished homework as the voices were quieted.
What happened there is up to interpertation.