Disclaimer: I own nothing, just the plot.
Authors Note:
This is an AU where Dick Grayson was killed by the Joker, not Jason Todd. Dick is going to bat-shit slightly crazy. Read at your own risk. This is also Reverse Bat-family fic meaning Dick is the youngest and Terry (yes Terry McGinnis is in this story) is the oldest.
Warnings:
Slight gore, swearing, violence, character death. Rating may go up.
He sits, perched on the chair like a bird. A little bird a pretty bird, rocking back and forth and back and-
I have to go in town he thinks, I need to get…he looks towards the wall. Sickly white clumps, peeling and cracked like shredded wheat. Green stains and mold crawling up the wall like his-
Vivid colours of red, orange and yellow flare behind his eyes mixing with the laughter; cruel, high- pitched laughter. Pain. So much pain. A clock. Four, three, two-
No one. Nothing. It was the weightlessness he always wished for. There was no gravity, he was flying, but he was on the ground. Crumpled. Lost. The mantra filled his mind incessantly, never ending. His pale fingers grabbed at raven locks slowly tugging. No. No. No. The laughter got louder and louder, an ugly crescendo.
"Stop…please."
He begged and pleaded on the floor crumpled. To what? To whom? Little broken bird, where are your wings?
A Bat, black leathery wings surround him, cradle him. They mean safety, they mean home. What is home? They mean nothing now. The Bat left him, and he's drowning. Choking and coughing on the water, the life-giving liquid, it gives and it takes. Takes his soul? Takes his mind? He has nothing more to give. He wants the darkness back, the weightlessness.
His pretty blues flutter open. When had they closed? His head leans to the side ears open, listening to the beautiful composition of his neighbours. Screams, crying, broken glass and thumping. A wife getting beaten by her husband, a daughter slapped by her mother, a child shooting her father through the chest…Beautiful pieces, all an artwork in their own way…
They belong to him as well. He doesn't like sharing and they're his, all of them. The hero and the demon. The silent and the merry, the observer and the brash. And him. He was perched on a chair rocking back and forth and back, staring at the little pictures pinned with bloody crimson tacks, on his wall. His peeling, cracked wall. Like him? Pretty little picture they make. He giggled, reminiscent of another's own mad little gasps.
Time to go to town, he thinks as he flies of the chair.