"Dear Diary," Damian began with a frown. The wax of the crayon dragged along the page much thicker than the ball-point pens the boy was accustomed to. But the storm that was brewing around his head and heart needed a way out, and he refused to speak a word of what happened. Wiritng it out was the only way. The crayon was difficult to hold steady. His fingers curled around it awkwardly, keeping a grasp on it gave him a headache. Concussion or no, he would keep writing.
"That is the customary opening to this sort of business, isn't it? However, a 'diary' is too feminine for me; I shall refer to you as a 'journal.' Now that I've cleared that up, I suppose I should tell you your purpose for existing. I was told mine by my mother often."
Damian paused, the crayon hovering above the page. Was it okay to mention his mother in a negative tone? He decided not and promptly scribbled over the few words. With a still-prominent frown, he continued:
"Pennyworth has instructed me to bear my emotions to your nonresponsive pages. After debating other options I have deemed this the most reasonable. I cannot speak to Grayson; he is too..." Damian paused again, searching for an adjective. His eyes softened as he finally chose one: "kind. Of course I mean that he is too much like a woman! The fool would probably start crying. Or apologize again. I don't want to hear another apology from him. He is different from anyone else I've ever met. A puzzling conundrum that drives me insane with every passing day. But, if I am to be honest with these pages, then I shall say that I am glad to know him. Not soley because he saved my life from the null void my grandfather has continually eluded, but because he is the first person to tell me he cared for me. He even hugged me. I don't know how to describe the feeling a hug brings. It is very different from my mother's arm around my shoulders though."
For a third time, Damian stopped. He'd spoken ill of his mother again. Some things should be kept off paper - even if this was meant to be private. For all Damian knew, Talia could hear every word he spoke and see every move he made. He didn't put anything beyond her capabilities now. So he blackened out the words about his mother and began to write again:
"Regardless of what happened with Richard," the name was hastily scribbled over, "Grayson, my point in writing was to explain why I have come to the demeaning task of using crayons while I remain immobile on a bed.
"I made a mistake."
The admission felt like a thousand pounds lifting from his shoulders. Never would he say it out loud but he knew he had been stupid to separate from Batman at the bank. Hindsight was said to be twenty-twenty and Damian believed it now.
"Grayson and I were tipped to a bank robery. He wanted to take a sewage route but my idea of using the bank's back entrance was far more intelligent. Seeing as how I disarmed and incapacitated every moronic robber, I stand by that statement. I don't remember any smell tipping me off to the Joker's brand of 'knock-out gas.' (Grayson calls it that. Childish.) But the next thing I do recall is regaining consciousness in a disgustingly filthy building. The Joker has poor taste in hide-outs. Back to the point: the Joker had bound my hands and taken my belt and gloves."
The crayon lifted from the paper. Damian shut his eyes. He could see the Joker in front of him; hear the metal of the crowbar scrape along the floor. It was haunting - part of him knew he would never forget. He didn't want to write anymore. The events of the past night would die with time if he let them alone. Wouldn't they? No, that wasn't true. He would continue to have nightmares if he denied what had happened. Teeth grit, Damian made up his mind to continue writing.
"He dislocated my knee with one hit of the crowbar. I could handle that pain. Mother always insisted on mind over matter. But Mother never had her ribs broken by a deranged madman. I confess: that makeshift weapon broke more of my mind than my body. The pain was overwhelming. My memory is damaged from the strikes to my head. Still, I can remember when I thought I was going to die. I remember being alone, thinking Grayson wouldn't come for me. I remember being afraid. I remember the glimpse of 'Greetings from the Joker' written in my own blood. I felt so small, so helpless. How can one man with a piece of metal break down the perfect Robin? I was supposed to be perfect. Am I not perfect? Have I wasted all that time training and doing as I was told? I want to be Robin. I wanted to be my father's Robin.
"I was so scared. I was so scared. Scared. Scared." Damian scrawled the word over and over, down the page until, in a fit of emotion, he grabbed the red crayon and repeated the word in all capital letters at the bottom of the page. He dropped the red crayon, heaving in gasps of breath as he rubbed away tears. Hands shaking, he picked up the black crayon again, turned the page, and carried on.
"I was nearly unconscious when he came. I didn't think he would; he had no reason to. All I could do to keep myself awake was focus on the pain. And his voice. Grayson kept talking like he always does. He told me he was sorry. He told me not to give up. I didn't understand why; it was hard to hear him. After that, all I remember is the pain of movement and Grayson's constant rambling. And then nothing. There's a big hole before my eyes opened. I thought I saw my father. I thought he was there, as Batman, with me. But I was wrong. It was Grayson, and he was talking. He's always talking. I like it. (I will burn every one of your pages if you tell that to anyone.) I still don't understand why they care, but I am grateful to Pennyworth and Grayson - even if they deny me the basic necessity of a pen. They are strange, happy people. I would be dead without them. I don't really know what to say. But maybe - this is only a musing - maybe it would be okay if I cared about them too. MAYBE."
Damian cracked a smile at the journal. He had nothing left to say. Everything was off his chest and on the paper, even if it wasn't as detailed as it could have been. Hopefully he'd be able to sleep now; thoug he still wasn't keen on the idea of what dreams held for him. If he asked, would Grayson hug him again?