Not Just Another Story

Have you ever desperately wanted to stop something from happening? To just run into danger with your arms spread wide and shout "stop it!" as the top of your voice? To stop everything and drag everyone to safety? Well, that's how I feel so often. Gotham is a battel field every night; and for me, a doctor, I just want to end the battles so everyone can be safe. So everyone can live.

Last night there were bombs. Too many bombs. They kept exploding into the early dawn. There was no sign they were going to stop. I feel guilty that I was safe in bed while another part of the city was torn apart yet again.

I wish I had been out there. I wish I could have gotten everyone to safety. Or if I couldn't do that, at least I could gather the children and protect them. A two-year-old can't run from a bomb like an adult. Or if I couldn't do that, I could grab all the babies because they can't run at all. But I couldn't. I can't.

My name is Doctor Leslie Tompkins and I'm writing this story on a scrap of paper in my kitchen. My hands are shaking. My handwriting is almost illegible. But I have to write this story. If I don't, the story of Dick Grayson, Nightwing, will fade from memory. No one will ever know what he did or how he died except for a small number of those closest to him. He died a hero, and if not for the mask he wore, the whole world would know it. He was a hero who died trying to do what I cannot; keep people safe. I wish I could have kept him safe.

It was two O'clock in the morning when the phone by my bed rang. It was Batman. I wasn't surprised. He told me to get to my clinic as soon as possible. Nightwing was injured. Badly.

I jumped out of bed and pulled on my clothes. My fingers were numb with the cold. They shook. I tried several times to pull my hair back, but I couldn't make the damn clip close. I gave it up and ran to my car. It felt like traffic had it in for me. The drivers were slow, the lights were longer (I ran more than one), and Gothomites ran into the streets in terror as Black Mask's bombs exploded around the city.

It felt like ages had passed by the time I reached the clinic. I raced inside. I had no idea what I would be dealing with. I heard the roar of a powerful engine outside the window. The Batmobile was here. I screwed up my face and prepared myself for anything. Or so I thought.

Batman walked in. I could hardly believe what he was carrying was a person. Bombs have a way of mangling people apparently, and seeing it in real life is nothing like seeing it in the movies. You can see blood like this in the movies sometimes. You can read about it. You can see it news reals and pictures. But I guarantee, it's nothing like seeing it in person. Nothing like standing right there and really looking at it. No matter how prepared I thought I was, I gasped and took a step back from the horrible sight.

Batman carried Nightwing inside cradled against his chest. The boy's hair was tangled with blood and sweat. His skin was feverish, or what I could see of it through the dirt and blood. His costume was shredded and the once bright blue accent had bled into a deep purple and red. He hung there limply like a doll in Batman's muscular arms. He looked so small in comparison.

Robin walked in behind them and pealed of his mask. I could see he was in bad shape too. He looked at me with scared eyes. "Help him, Tompkins. Please."

Robin never says please. He never looks scared. Now I was scared, or more than I had been. "I'll do everything I can," I promised.

Batman laid Nightwing down on the table. I peeled off his mask and saw the face of Richard Grayson. He was just a kid in my eyes. I'm 69 years old now so, to me, he's just a baby. I brushed my fingers through his raven hair and whispered, "it's going to alright. I've got you." I don't know which of us I was trying to comfort. Looking back, I was probably trying to comfort myself because he was unconscious.

I can't really describe what I saw when I stripped the costume away from his broken chest or, at least, I won't. I can't really talk about it yet. So for now, it will suffice to say that there was a lot of blood. There were pieces of shrapnel buried in the mess. Looking at it, I hardly knew where to start. My heart leapt for joy when Alfred showed up to help me. Lords knows I needed him.

Together, we began to help Dick fight for his life. I knew that whatever we did would only be patchwork until we could get him to a hospital where surgeons could deal with everything properly. We were just trying to buy him time. I knew that. From the phone call from Batman till now, it had been only twenty minutes, but with injuries like these, that's twenty minutes too long. Alfred and I worked as quickly and as carefully as we could, but my heart sank farther with every passing minute.

I was losing him. The fight hadn't gone out of him; it simply wasn't enough this time. Why? Why? WHY? Unfortunately, sometimes you don't get answers.

Dimly aware that we were losing this battle, my mind started to drift. I think I was shouting to Alfred and Damien. But I can't be sure. My mind was focused on Richard. I was thinking about all the good he had done for people. I thought about how his smile lights up a room. I thought about the time he took care of me when I was sick. And I thought about all the times he made us laugh when we needed it most. I think that if one person could ignite the stars with their passion for life, that person would be Dick Grayson.

Even as I knew he was dying, I was thinking about how full of life he always was. The world is so unfair. Dick was such a lively caring person. I could always see the fire in his soul, the laughter in his breath, and the love in his heart mirrored in his perfect blue eyes. It felt so wrong that the universe had chosen him to die. So wrong. How could someone so good just die?

More moments passed. The monitors were beeping. We worked harder. We were losing. There was nothing more that could be done. Alfred looked at me with shocked mournful eyes. He knew too.

I put down my instruments and stared at the monitors. For once, in Dick's short life, there was no more hope.

Batman glared at me. "You can't give up!" he growled.

I knew how he felt. He felt like we were betraying Dick. Just letting him die. I hadn't given up. But there was no way around it. Not this time.

I looked up at him helplessly. "I'm sorry," I said.

My face contorted with pain. I felt a lump in my throat. It hurt. My eyes burned with tears behind my glasses. I felt like my heart would burst but it didn't. The stupid thing went right on beating. Why? Why was my heart beating when Dick's was going to stop? It wasn't fair.

Once again, I looked at Bruce. Not at Batman; at Bruce. "You should say your goodbyes. Call Barbra and Tim." It was perhaps the hardest thing I have ever had to say. Could I accept it? No. I don't think I ever will.

Bruce glared at Alfred and me again. Then he looked down at the mess on Dick's chest. He saw it too. No hope. "No," he whispered. He sounded defeated. The next few moments were too heartbreaking for paper.

Batman removed his cowl. He ran his hand through Dick's tangled hair. "Well old chum," he said. He tried to smile but he choked on it. Or maybe he choked on a tear; I couldn't tell. "I guess this is it. I never imagined it would go down like this. I'm not very good at expressing my feelings, but there are things I wish I told you sooner. I wish…" he squeezed his eyes shut, "I wish I told you how much I really love you. I wish I told you every day how proud I am of you. And I wish I told you how much light you brought into my life."

My heart clenched. My stomach flipped. I saw a single tear escape Bruce's eye. I never thought I'd see Batman cry. Once again, Dick had done the impossible.

Then Damien took his brother's hand. "Grayson…no Richard… if you can hear me, I just want you to know that you're the best brother I could have asked for. I didn't know that I needed one till I met you. So, thank you. Thanks for always being there for me. I wish I was there…for you…tonight." He hung his head.

Oh Damien. He has a heart after all.

I wanted to tell them that I had made a mistake. I wanted to tell them he would live. I wanted to stop the end from coming. But I couldn't. So I stood back against the wall and let them say their goodbyes.

Alfred put his hand on Dick's shoulder. "Master Dick, it has been an honor and a privilege to know you. You brought joy and laughter into our lives. The old manor was a better place because of you. You made it a home. And for that, I will always be grateful. I love you my boy. Like a grandson but much more. Thank you, and goodbye Master Dick." The old man looked broken and helpless.

By some miracle, his Dick's eyes opened. He didn't have the strength to talk but his eyes said he understood them and he was saying goodbye too. He smiled faintly and a little diamond tear rolled down his cheek. Saying goodbye isn't a luxury everyone gets, but I'm glad they did.

Then his eyes closed again.

The others were too late.

The battle was over.

It was lost.

I looked away from the monitors. I heard Damien sobbing. Alfred sniffed. Bruce let out an agonizing scream and gripped Dick's body in a last desperate attempt to bring him back. I couldn't look.

There are some people with fire in their hearts and wings on their souls. Dick Grayson was one of those people. He had a passion for life; and he shared it with everyone around him. He was the sunshine in the rain and the moonlight at night. He was the flame burning in the window that made this world a home for so many. He was hope. And I'm sure those wings on his soul took flight and carried him home. Dick Grayson was an angel in disguise. I'm sure of it.

Now I've come to the end. I guess it's not a very happy ending for a story; but then, no death is a story.

Author's Dedication:

I'd like to dedicate this short piece to my brother, his friend (a former ICU nurse), and all the other men and women serving in the Samaritan's Purse Mobile Field Hospital in Iraq. Some of the words used in this story are not my own but rather the thoughts and reflections of real men and women serving civilian war casualties out-side Mosul. They treat people, many of them children, who have been torn apart and broken; and yet have resilient spirits (like Dick's). Many of the people treated at the hospital don't get the chance to say goodbye.

Although this is a very fictionalized piece of writing about fictional characters, I hope I have moved you in a real way. If you have a God, or even if you don't, please pray for the people around the world suffering very real pain. Because, really, what could it hurt to try?

After all…

Pain and loss are too real to be just another story.

If you want to know more about the mobile relief hospital in Iraq, look up: Samaritan's Purse and heartbreak-and-healing-in-iraq/

Thanks for reading. Best wished and love to you all, AshenAngel2