Learn To Love Chapter 02: Scattered
Chikorita-Trainer1
T
Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.
Tim's POV
I walk down the halls in Wayne Manor, towards my bedroom. I hear voices talking softly, and I stop in my tracks.
"You're so cute, Damian," I hear Dick say. "You're like the baby brother I never had."
I literally feel my heart stop when I hear that. I can't hear it beat after that. I might have even stopped breathing. He couldn't have said that. He couldn't have actually said that.
I exhale, and I'm scared by how scared and feeble it sounds. My breath is shaky, like I'm crying. But I'm not crying, am I?
I listen, hoping that I heard wrong, or that he'll say something else, correcting himself. But I don't hear anything of the sort.
"I am not!" grumbles Damian. Good. Maybe the demon will set him straight, and remind him that he already has a baby brother. ME.
"Yes you are, you're my baby brother!" Dick teases again. OK, I'll give them some time. He's bound to mention me in the next few seconds, right? He has to.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
He doesn't. Dick doesn't mention me. He just called Damian his baby brother, the brother he never had, and he didn't mention me.
I inhale once more, slowly, and shakily. There's no way in hell I'm not going to start crying. I don't feel any tears yet, but they must be coming. I continue on my way to my room, and shut the door slowly. I don't want anyone finding me right now.
I look around my room; at the framed picture of me and my parents at a ball game. At the framed picture beside my bed of me and Conner. At my computer, which is turned off, but I know my desktop background is a picture of me, when I was little, sitting on Dick's knee when I met him for the first time at Haley's Circus. Reminds me of the times we've shared.
I sink to my knees, feeling like someone tied a 600 pound lead weight to my heart. I feel my nose start to prickle and itch on the inside, which means I'm about to cry. The corners of my mouth feel like they're being pulled down, and my vision blurs with tears. I try to sob, but there's no sound. I feel like I'm going to choke; I can't seem to pass any air through my throat. I grasp at my head and sob silently to myself and try to reassess the situation.
I thought that Dick and I were brothers. Forget the technical and legal terms…I thought he loved my like a brother. Even when Damian became part of the family, some part of me still believed that he cared for me. But now I know for sure; Dick does not love me. He never did. Damian is the only one he sees as his little brother.
Clearly he didn't know I was listening to that, and surely he never meant for me to hear it, but why else would he say it? It all makes sense: he replaced me with Damian as Robin, he defends Damian when he and I fight; always telling ME to back off. It's so obvious. Dick doesn't love me.
He doesn't love me.
He doesn't love me.
Dick doesn't love me.
I keep repeating the words in my head, trying to see if I think them over and over enough, they'll eventually lose all meaning, but it doesn't work. Every time I think those words it feels like someone is squeezing my heart in a vice.
I can't feel anything but pain. Actual, physical pain in my chest.
My throat feels like it's closing up, and my vision is already as blurry as hell because of my tears.
I need action.
I need to get this pain out somehow. I need to exercise, or hit something, or someone. I have all this pent-up rage in my body and I need to exert it somehow.
I know where to start.
I shakily pick myself up from the floor and wobble over to my bookshelf. From there I take my photo album; full of pictures of my friends and family. I go through it page by page, and every three or so pages, I find a picture of Dick. Every time I find one, I remove it from its slot and rip it up, making sure that the first tear goes right through Dick's face.
This still isn't enough. This isn't helping at all. I pick up the album and hurl it across the room. Its pages are so glossy that the force causes a bunch more photos to slip out of the pages and flutter down all over my room. And now I've got some scattered pictures lying on my bedroom floor.
I still need release from this pain. What more can I do? What more can I destroy? My room is full of valuables; books, electronics, even some old toys from when I was little. There's no point in destroying anything that doesn't remind me of Dick, so I can't trash those.
I crawl over to my bed and reach under it, hoping to find some insignificant object to take out my frustration on. I manage to find a combat boot; something I probably haven't worn since I was like 15. I throw that at my bookshelf as hard as I can. It collides with the shelf so hard that it dislodges it and an entire row of books slides diagonally off and onto the floor. This still does nothing to ease my pain.
I reach back under my bed, hoping to find the other boot, but instead my hand brushes something cold and metal.
It's a birdarang of mine. Sharp. Metal. Cool to the touch. The contrasting temperature is relief against my hot skin, and I clutch it close to my chest, still breathing heavily.
I don't allow myself to think for very long. If I think about it, I'll just find a reason not to do this;
I dig the sharp edge of the weapon into my wrist, and yank it back towards me. The blood appears instantly, and starts flowing much quicker than I had expected.
The pain is still nothing compared to what I'm feeling in my heart. However, if I bleed enough, eventually my heart will stop beating. And if my heart stops beating, it won't feel pain anymore.
I lean back against my bed and clutch at my upper forearm, instinctively trying to cut off the circulation to my wrist. I know it won't work; my hand won't work as a tourniquet, and the blood is just going to keep flowing.
If I turn out to regret this decision…it'll probably be too late and I won't even know that I'm regretting it.
Right now, dying is the only thing I can think of doing that I could even remotely enjoy.
Damian's POV
I'm sure I heard some suspicious noises coming from Drake's room. The loser is probably throwing some kind of temper-tantrum. Father said he sent Drake up to get Grayson and me, but Drake never returned. Now I am to fetch him.
There's light coming from underneath his bedroom door, so I know he must be in here. I open the door.
Drake is lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood, which seems to be pouring out of his left wrist.
There is a bloody birdarang on the floor a few inches away from his right hand; obviously after he cut himself with it he couldn't hold onto it anymore.
The blood on his wrist is beginning to dry and clot, but he's still lost enough of it to lose consciousness.
I stand there, torn between happiness and horror, for a good ten seconds before I realize what I'm looking at.
Drake has committed suicide.
This is not good.
"GRAYSON!" I scream. And I sound like a scared little girl as I do it; I'm surprised that I could sound so terrified.
"WHAT? What is it?" cries Grayson, running up the hallway. "AAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!"
"I found him like this," I say, my voice shaking. Why the hell is my voice quivering? That's not me. I don't get emotional.
"Oh, my gosh!" Grayson sobs, scooping Drake up in his arms. "Why, Timmy? Why?" I back away towards the door. "Don't just stand there! Get Alfred! Get Bruce! Tell them to prepare the ER in the Cave!"
I sort-of stumble over my own feet, and next thing I know, I'm speeding down the hall and down into the Cave.
"Father! Pennyworth!" I cry. Again, I sound hysterical even though I don't really care. Why is my voice betraying me?
"What?" asked my father.
"Drake's tried to kill himself!" I scream, running towards him. He reaches out slowly and takes my hands in his, as if he knew exactly where I was going to reach even before I got to him.
"What?" he gasps.
"I found him in his room. He slit his wrist with a birdarang," I explain, Father still clutching my hands.
"HE NEEDS HELP! NOW!" screams Grayson, running into the cave with Drake in his arms. He has managed to stop the bleeding by taking off his t-shirt and tying it tightly around Drake's elbow. Pennyworth immediately takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves as Grayson lays Drake down on the medical table.
"Get the IV!" Pennyworth demands. Grayson acquires the drip to give Drake a transfusion while my father gets a packet of blood out of the cooler, and hooks it up.
"He's going to need about 3 pints, quick!" Dick declares, unwrapping the tourniquet that he hastily tied.
"Get me the first-aid kit," said Pennyworth.
I back away, knowing that I'll only be a hindrance if I try to observe. Pennyworth works diligently, disinfecting Drake's wrist and bandaging it up, while Grayson is a nervous wreck. He's collapsed to his knees at the foot of the medical table, my father hunched over and embracing him as he sobs.
"Why would he do this?" Grayson cries. "What did I do? What did I do?"
"Shh. It's alright, Dick. It's alright. Alfred will fix him right up. He's going to be OK," my father says calmly.
I reach up to wipe some sweat off of my forehead, and as I do, I realize that my arm is shaking. Why should I be shaking? This is not traumatic for me. I don't care if Drake dies.
It's been over an hour and Grayson shows no signs of regaining his dignity. Drake is still unconscious, receiving a blood transfusion, and Grayson is on his knees beside the bed, with his arms folded and his head in them, crying while holding Drake's other hand.
I've never seen Grayson such a mess before. He's been reduced to a helpless, sobbing heap of a man. Father and Pennyworth are sitting in chairs beside each other on the other side of the bed, neither of them crying, and neither speaking. The only sound in the cave is the beep of the heart monitor, and the loud, anguished cries of my mentor.
"Why?" he sobs, squeezing Drake's hand. "Why, Timmy? Why would you do this? Why would you do this to me?"
"What makes you think he had you in mind when he made this decision?" I ask.
"Damian," says Father. "Not now."
"I was merely asking why Grayson thinks that Drake's decision even included him," I say.
"Would you STOP CALLING HIM DRAKE?" screams Grayson. "For gosh's sake, he's your brother! Call him by his first name!" And he returns to his hysterical mourning.
"Father, I-"
"Damian, come here," says Father. I slowly approach him, and he grabs my arm, and almost violently pulls be into his grasp. Hugging me tightly, he guides me to sit on his lap, even though I don't want to.
"Father, why must I be here?" I whisper, so as not to anger Grayson.
"Shh," Father hushes me. He obviously thinks I'm as freaked out about this as they are, but I'm not. I could really take it or leave it. I understand that they will all be sad if Drake dies, but surely they know that I won't be. Why is Father, like, trying to comfort me?
After another 20 minutes or so, Grayson seems to have cried himself to sleep, and Drake has received all 3 pints of blood that were needed. Now all we have to do is wait for him to either die or wake up.
I can't really tell if Father is asleep, as he hasn't said anything since he last tried to calm me down, and he hasn't released me from his embrace on his lap either.
Pennyworth has finished cleaning up his medical supplies, and gotten out new, clean ones should he need them.
What are they expecting me to do? Are they waiting for me to start crying? 'cause that's not going to happen.
I listen for a minute and am able to hear a very soft buzzing sound, and I realize that it's Father, softly snoring, which means he's asleep.
I carefully extract myself from his arms, and slink out of the cave. Pennyworth doesn't seem to notice me sneak out.
Where am I going?
What am I going to do with this situation?
I can't seem to plan out my next move, but somehow I end up in Drake's room again.
The blood on the carpet has turned almost brown by now, and it's only now that I realize just how much of it he'd lost. Looking around the room, I notice that he had been throwing some kind of temper-tantrum as I'd suspected; shoes tossed across the room; books falling off the shelves; photos scattered around the room. Some in tact, some in pieces.
I walk over to the corner of the room where the torn-up pictures are. I crouch down and start picking them up, hoping that they will serve as clues as to why Drake decided to take his own life.
I can't really tell what's what yet, as they've been ripped several times. I sit down cross-legged on the floor and try to piece them together like a puzzle. I don't expect it to take less than all night long, but I have nothing better to do.
END OF CHAPTER 02
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