This story takes place about 4 months after Damian is killed.
I don't own any of DC or their characters
Enjoy!
Jason P. Todd
They used to say that my coming back to life was a miracle, they've long since abandoned the word. More like a curse you mean? It's one of those things you want so badly you could do anything imaginable for it, but once you have it… it's not what you expected. I don't need a fucking pity party. I'm not weak, I don't want someone to come talk me off the ledge. This isn't a cry for attention, this is simple math. It's just… simple math.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror staring at my bare chest. The Lazarus pit washed the scars of that night from my skin, but I can still see them clear as day. I see the large Y shaped incision from my autopsy, the fractured cheekbone, broken pelvis, shattered femur, the fractured skull, the shattered sternum, and the other thirty-seven fractures. I see the burns on my skin from the explosion. Tick...tick...tick. Cuts, shrapnel, a dislocated shoulder bulging from the socket. Bullet holes lingering like the burn of ginger in your throat. Tired bruises, dark circles, those are real. Exhaustion, spreading like vines though my body, rooting itself in my face.
I sleep less than Tim now, if that's even possible. I'm not a big fan of the memories it invites, but then again it's not like I can run forever. Speaking of the Red Robin, I tried to stay in touch after what happened. I thought maybe I'd try the whole brother thing out. Eventually he stopped answering. I would worry if I didn't know how well looked after he his. He'll be alright, he has friends, a team, a family. The word bile in my mouth. Not like he's my responsibility anyway. I tried to get in touch with Dick last week, the ass didn't talk long before blurting out that no way in hell was he ever coming back to the "death city", and with that he hung up. It's not like they're actually my family, they've tried to make it that way, but it never really turns out how they expected. It's weird how you don't think you need anyone until you're completely alone.
I turn my gaze to the Gotham streets below my window, a dark, dangerous maze of rotting buildings. I'm sure they will be fine without me. No doubt Bruce will find a replacement soon and be back to his old self. Then again, Damian was his real son so maybe not that soon. But who knows? It's not like he's human after all. I look deep into my reflection once more, my once bulky frame whittled to a ghost of a man. Skin and bones, laced with strained muscles. Weak, pathetic, worthless. The voice whispers, igniting the anger in my gut. "I'm fine… I'm fine." the small words scream volumes, dripping with despair. No, you're dying again Jason, and just like last time no one is going to save you.
Gaunt hands in my hair, pulling, pulling, pulling myself away from sanity's edge, holding me from the brink. Hands turn to stone, heavy, uncontrollable. They drop back to the sink, and I brace myself, fighting the turmoil in my skull. But I can't, the voice is chanting, laughing with blood soaked smiles. Failure failure failure failure… The muscles in my jaw go rigid. I'm losing my grip of the ledge, I'm slipping, finger by finger, I try to hold on, I'm fighting but the voices over power me. FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE. Something's rising up my throat. Something I can't control. It tumbles from my lips, somersaulting in the poisoned air.
I put a fist through the glass in front of me. The voice in my head speaks once again. They used to say you were welcome back at the manor, that you were still their brother, but not anymore Jason. I walk to the far wall, anger boils through my already aching bones. I try to force it down, but what's the point? I give in and pound my knuckles into the wall, destroying the plaster fist by fist. This is why you can't be around them Jason, you're out of control. A small heated voice from what started as a harmless brotherly argument screams: You were better off dead Jason! For everyone's sake! Well Damian, you weren't wrong.
Dizziness overtakes me and the pain in my abdomen is prominent. I feel the rattle in my chest as I try to regain my composure, I try to breathe deep but my lungs protest and fight against me. I cough once, twice, blood filling my mouth. Damaged fingers claw at my chest as I cough, heave. There are knives in my body, poison in my brain. It feels like someone is beating my back with a sledgehammer and I lean against the wall for support. Pain, blindsiding me from every escape. When the coughing subsides I stumble back to the bathroom sink, angrily snatching the pill bottle from the counter and empty the last few tablets into my mouth, washing them down with tap water.
I drop my hands and blood slinks to the floor. I always tried to fight the uphill battle, but what happens when I reach the top? I stop for a second searching the ground through foggy vision, I grab the whiskey bottle at my feet and drain it. In my frustration I shatter the bottle against the sink and it dances into a million pieces. Nothing seems to dull the pain, nothing
seems to keep the voices at bay. Useless, the voice says. Useless, that's what you are Jason. The ghosts fight through the fragile tissue in my mind, forcing themselves to be seen. I want to fight them but I feel them coming. I collapse into myself and fall onto my knees. Glass digs into the soft tissue of my shins. I sit back on my heels. Fighting, trying to push the memories away, but they are stronger than me. Better off dead Jason. You are, and will always be my greatest
failure. Which hurts more, forehand or backhand? I clasp my hands over my ears and shut my eyes, like I was back in my old house and Dad had just come home and needed something to take his anger out on.
Someone's screaming my name, a young man maybe? The words dripping in hatred, in anger. I curl into myself, away from the sound. Feet walk around me, kicking me in passing. Something cold comes down hard on my shoulders, breaking my spirit into a thousand pieces. I open my eyes desperately searching for the fragments of who I was. The metal comes down on my back again and I force my eyelids shut once more. The feeling all too familiar.
Laughing echoes through my ears burning my eardrums like toxic waste. Wow! That looked like it really hurt! I grind my teeth, trying to force him away. Which hurts more? A? WHAM! Breath, taken from the hollow space in my chest. Falling on all fours, I try to crawl away but his manic voice ensnares me. Or B? WHAM! Nothing like the cracking of your own bones to force you to accept that you're alive. The world is spinning, spinning in nauseating ellipses, tilting, there is blood in my eyes. The pain burns like a brand on my face. "You aren't real!" The sound but a mere wheeze. A little louder lamb chop I think you might have a collapsed lung! I cower, prepare for the worst, prepare for the ticking, for the crunching of shattered bones and forgotten promises underfoot.
But the next blow isn't the same as the last, no, it's from a beer bottle, shattering over my head. Get your worthless ass up and do something for a change! Dad. I retreat into the wall behind me, trying to staunch the blood pouring from my scalp. "I'm sorry!" The words, instinct. I'm 8 again squeaking the words out between blows. I throw my hands up to block my face from the angry ghosts, wondering what I could have possibly done to upset them. But when I open my eyes to face them I'm met with Batman instead.
My body relaxes, "Bruce." I let the air escape me. Begging on my life that he's real, that he's here. I never thought I would think that, but I want him to make the nightmares go away. I start to make my way up to my feet when he kicks me down again, grabbing my shoulders and slamming me back against the cheap wallpaper. I'm again struggling for breath, blood forcing its way up my windpipe choking me. Already fragile iconoclasm shattering and raining down on me. Bruce is slamming me against the floral design again and again. I hurl my fists at him, kicking and clawing with all of my might, but his grip on my shoulders are so tight I hear tendons snap. "Bruce what are you doing?" I manage to tremble, trying to understand. He holds me like a ragdoll pinning me, his face inches from mine. Then he says something to me I would never expect. I can handle insults with snarky comments but the bluntness of this certain blade caught me off guard. "I never loved you Jason." That's it, that one fear you always expect but it never really comes to life. Now it has, waking slowly, like a dark dragon, there's nowhere to run. "You were expendable to me. Just another failed experiment. You should've stayed dead." he stands and drops me back to the unforgiving tiles below.
I close my eyes, not real, not real, and when I open them again I'm met with damp white cushions and unforgiving wood enclosing me from all sides. Darkness suffocating me to no end. Panic races through me, I begin to tremble, banging on the unrelenting prison. "No. No. No. NO!" I'm pounding on the door to my coffin, digging into the fabric, ripping the skin from my finger tips on the cold wood. I scream again, throat dry with ash. What is happening to me? I force my hands through the door, drag myself out of the rot only to be faced with my mother, lying dead on the floor. A needle protrudes from the nook of her elbow. No! Not real! This is not real! I scramble away from her lifeless body back to the wall. Breath hitching as I try to convince myself. Cruel mind, playing tricks I couldn't think of if I tried. Pulling my knees to my chest and putting my hands firmly over my eyes I wait. Wait for the drugs to kick in, to chase the nightmares away like the light does the dark. Someone's laughing again but I stay still, refusing to face the ghosts of my past.
The sounds stop and I open my eyes, only to be met with a dark empty apartment. I bring my hands shakily to my head, there is no blood. My shoulders no longer ache. Once broken bones healed. I relax my muscles, and let my head rest gently against the wall. I bring a trembling hand to my face and try to wipe away the tears that make their way down my cheeks. I try to breathe steadily, in and out, in and out. My breaths shaky at best. Not real, it's not real. Body and mind trying to rebuild their walls.
I stand and walk wearily to the kitchen table, defeated. Glancing back at the corner of the bathroom floor, there is no evidence of my torments. I'm so… tired. I just want it all to go away. I snag a pen and paper and collapse into the cheap furniture. My whole being hurts. I scrawl out a note, explaining everything. I finish messily and fold it into an envelope, making my way to the door, stopping as paranoia rears its head at me. I open it gently and drop it in the mailbox, slamming the door behind me and locking it fast. I let myself lean against the wood grain, trying to reassemble the puzzle that is Jason Todd, but there are too many pieces missing to complete it. Helpless to do anything for the next several hours, as my body still trembles violently. I make my way painstakingly back through the apartment. I think of the letter that will make its way to Chicago, think of how it's not on me to be okay anymore, not like I ever was. Then I realize how easy it is to breathe without the weight of the world on my shoulders.