He's coming.
The pain was ceasing; well, until the next blow landed roughly onto his abused, limp body. He desperately tried to brace himself for each impact, all the while trying to conceal his rising cries of pain with mere grunts. His teeth dug into his already bloody lip, breathing out heavily in an attempt to gather the gradually escaping air, stiffly sucking it in, his body writhing in pain with each inhale.
He idly wondered how long he had been in here, suffering hits from the demented man cackling above him. He had already grown used to the wince-inducing crunch as the bar connected to his bruising, inflamed skin. His head throbbed faintly; yet all these injuries were in the back of his mind as he involuntarily focused his thoughts on Bruce.
He's coming.
Fingers searched and then grabbed at his hair, yanking him upwards off of the cold, hard cement ground. His body offered no resistance.
Like a puppet.
A gloved palm cupped his chin, the fingers pinching against his swelling cheeks. Realizing that his eyes were closed, he reluctantly opened them to be met with the face of his tormentor.
Rage once again coursed through his veins, his own fingers clenching together in a fist locked into handcuffs behind his back. His split lower lip met his upper as they formed into a tight line, his eyes evenly staring at the man adorned in make-up. Hiding behind the white powder that masked himself, only offering laughter that curled out of his throat.
He stared—or, rather, glared—at the clown, offering a challenge. A challenge that simply read across his face; maybe you should make the next one hurt. Of course, sarcasm was only in that unofficial offer. He wouldn't—couldn't—let the man see he was faltering. Even though it was obvious with his barely concealed grunts of pain.
His eyes could barely trace the bar as it smacked into his face, the only thought registering was pain. He collapsed onto the ground, coughs wracking through him as he expelled blood, his vision edging onto blackness.
"Wow, that looked like it really hurt." The calm, baritone voice rang distantly in his ears. Even his voice brought on a sense of pain; his head throbbing harder.
He struggled to collect his breathing, his eyes closing once more as he focused. In, out. In, out. He repeated slowly. Sharp stings in his abdomen only made him focus more on his flailing air supply.
The almost inaudible whoosh of air alerted him that another strike was coming; yet he was much to dazed to try and brace himself.
He's coming. He assured himself, tightening his eyes as the crowbar struck into his stomach, legs, head.
The next blow had him rolling two feet from his position, a low grunt escaping his lips before he had a chance to bite it back. He landed in his own blood stains once more.
Opening his eyes, he forced himself to concentrate as his vision eventually returned to a bit of a blur.
He swallowed, his heart hammering wildly—not to mention painfully—against his chest as his eyes flickered to the shadow above him.
Pain was such an underestimated word.
"...that looked like it hurt a lot more."
You have no idea.
"So, let's try to clear some things up, okay, pumpkin?"
His words faded into the back of his mind as he spoke, the boy's main focus was to stay alive, to stay breathing.
"What hurts more?" The distinctive sound of the crowbar gently patting against the gloved hands indecisively made the bloodied body drag his eyes back to him. "Point A?"
He's coming.
"Or B?"
He's coming.
"Forehand?"
A cry of pain managed past his clenched teeth as pain exploded in his face, making him bite the inside of his cheek.
"Or backhand?"
He wanted to curl up into a ball, to try to push away the overcoming waves of pain and anger.
He wanted to kick the ass of the man standing over him, dissolving into his own wicked laughter.
"Many types of sick men live in our world. The Joker is just one of the particularly sick kind—he thrives on pain and the death of others."
The quote his father, and mentor, told him months ago echoed in the back of his mind.
Pushing away the screaming discomfort and pain, he turned his face off the cement to the ceiling, searching and easily finding the purple-and-green clad man.
"...you're a sick man." he rasped, his words barely leaving his tongue.
The clown glanced at him in surprise, and then leaned down to his level, almost touching his face and the blood tainting the gray ground, "Aah, a little louder, lamb-chop." he hissed, "I think you may have a collapsed lung." he was vaguely aware of the hand once again grasping at his tussled hair.
Weakly, he managed to gather some strength to stain the clown's white make-up with a spit of blood. This small gesture offered some comfort to him, not to mention satisfaction.
The grasp on his hair tightened and his face abruptly greeted the ground, a sharp intake of breath following that.
He ignored the disgruntled words of the man wielding the crowbar.
He offered a toothy grin once he picked up the words, "...the last Boy Blunder had some manners..."
He ignored the crowbar's sting.
He ignored the pain.
He ignored the doubt that he wasn't coming.
He ignored the blackness fighting for his vision.
He ignored the hate clawing for attention—for revenge.
He ignored the pain.
He ignored the blood smoothly dripping down his chin onto the cement.
He ignored the sharp pains in his chest as he breath in the humid, pain filled air.
He ignored the annoying laughter.
He ignored the pain as he rolled on his stomach, moving his hands towards his front.
He ignored the stinging panic rising as the door was found locked.
He ignored the ticking until it became too late.
He's coming.
He's coming.
He's coming.
He's coming.
He wasn't coming.
A/N: This was from The Red Hood. I just recently re-watched it, and was found, once again, covered in feelings. This is my first attempt at Batman fanfiction. I hoped you enjoyed. :)