Learn To Love Chapter 10: Coming Clean
Chikorita-Trainer1
T
Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.
Tim's POV
Can I really tell him this? How will this make me look? Like a petty brat, I bet. I slit my wrist because I had my heart practically extracted from my chest WHILE it was beating, all because I overheard Dick call Damian the baby brother he "never had." I was so upset that I started throwing things around my room and grabbed a birdarang from under my bed and sliced open my wrist. That's what I remember, anyway.
And now I have to explain all that to Bruce?
This sucks.
But I can't just make something up; he's already called me out. But if he knows the truth, what'll he do? Punish Damian? Tell Dick? …be disappointed in me?
"Tim," he says loudly, snapping me out of my trance.
"Bruce, I was in a lot of pain," I say, with tears in my voice. I'm pleasantly surprised when he doesn't roll his eyes at this. DUH I was in a lot of pain. People don't try to off themselves when they're happy.
But Bruce doesn't say anything. He expects me to explain myself in time.
"When I went upstairs," I begin. "To get Dick and Damian to come down for patrol…" I sniff and wipe my nose on my bandaged wrist. "I heard them talking." Ugh. This is sounding stupider and stupider the more I run it through my head. How could I have tried to kill myself over something as lame as this?
"Dick told Damian that he was-" I stop and restart my sentence. "Dick was like "Damian, you're the baby brother I never had."" Yes, that definitely sounds like a pretty weak-ass reason to kill myself now that I've said it.
"Dick said that?" Bruce asks. Can't tell if he's genuinely concerned or just saying that to get more out of me.
"Yeah. And then, like, Damian said "No, I'm not!" and Dick just goes…" I swallow, feeling tears run down my cheeks and under my chin, practically on my neck. ""Yes, you are. You're my baby brother." And I just couldn't believe he'd said that. Because if Damian's the brother he never had, what does that make me?" I look down and sob, and listening to myself do so actually does make my story sound more sympathetic. Even if it doesn't seem like such a big deal to ME now, maybe my anguish will make Bruce see it the way I did that night.
"So, Dick basically acknowledged Damian as his brother, but said nothing about you?" Bruce asks.
"I stayed there and listened for a minute, to see if he mentioned me," I explain. "But he never did."
"And that's when you ripped up all the pictures?"
"Huh?"
"In your room, among other things you'd thrown around, there was a bunch of pictures of Dick, all of which were ripped right down the middle of his face," Bruce explains.
"Oh. I don't remember doing that," I admit truthfully. I must have done that in a hasty blur. "But yeah, I was really mad at him."
"Do you remember what was going through your head right before you cut yourself?" Bruce asks. I take a deep breath and lick my lips. I look at the blankets I'm lying under, and think.
I don't recall thinking anything in particular. In fact, I don't even remember DOING this. Obviously I did do it, but I don't think it was really a conscious choice. I must have done it, like Bruce said, on the spur of the moment. But is that going to be an acceptable answer for him?
"I don't know, Bruce. I really don't remember."
"OK. That's fine," he says. "Tim, as of right now, do you want to die?"
"No," I say immediately. That must be how I really feel, if I didn't even have to think about my answer.
"Good," Bruce sighs. He leans down and hugs me tightly. "Don't ever do something like this again," he whispers.
"I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm sorry, Bruce."
"It's OK. It's OK."
We embrace for a good twenty seconds or so, and then he steps back from the bed.
"So how's everybody taking this?" I ask.
"Well, like I said, Dick is lethargic and won't eat. Damian's being an even bigger pain in the ass than usual, and I'm just…" he stops himself. "I'm just glad you're alive and that you want to BE alive." I produce a weak smile at that.
"Um…" I'm not sure what to say, so I ask a basic little question. "Have…I eaten anything?" Bruce cracks up.
"Pff HA HA HA HA HA! No, Tim. You've been getting nutrition through that IV that's sticking so handsomely into your arm," he says, pointing to the drip by my bedside.
"Um…oh yeah," I say. "I'm sorry I put everyone through this," I say again. Bruce gets up and puts a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm just glad you're OK," he says. "Excuse me, though. I've got to check on Damian."
"That's OK. I kinda want to get back to sleep," I say.
"Goodnight, Tim."
"Goodnight, Bruce." I watch my adoptive father turn out the lights in the Cave, and then view his silhouette ascend the staircase back into the manor.
Damn it, now I'm hungry. I doubt there's any food down here, so I'm going to have to fend for myself and go up to the kitchen.
I slowly peel the blankets off myself, and then I think, wait- I'm the only one here -so I screw being quiet and yank them off.
And now I'm suddenly very cold; apparently all I've been wearing under here is a tank-top and boxers.
I take a few steps and then I suddenly feel a sharp yank in my arm. Of course, the IV. Well, I obviously won't be needing this anymore since I'm going off in search of food, so I rip it out of my arm. It hurts, but I've been through worse.
Whew. It's only after that small exertion of yanking the drip out that I realize just how weak I really am. Getting nutrients through a tube is no substitute for eating solid foods. Nevertheless, I walk slowly on wobbly legs through the Cave, my feet almost going numb on the cold marble floor.
It's dark, except for the computer monitors, and that's not nearly enough light to guide my way. I take a step, reaching my arms out in random directions, trying to feel for any obstruction in my path.
I take a few more steps. So far so good. Haven't bumped into anyth-
"OW!" I cry. I think I just banged my leg on a metal cart, probably one that Alfred put his tools on while stitching me up. CRAP, that really hurt. I instinctively bend my knee to raise my shin up within my reach, but when I do, I lose my balance, and in the dark, there's nothing to hold onto.
Down I go.
"AGGHH!" I shout as I land on the floor. Shit. This is not good. I think I also might be bleeding from the IV hole in my arm, too. I'm either going to starve or bleed to death.
Man, it's so dark in here already I can't even tell if I'm blacking out.
What's happening to me?
Damian's POV
I'm back in my room, getting ready for bed. Titus is by my side; he seems to like watching me do things. He watches me change into my pajamas, watches me brush my teeth, watches me walk over to the window and look out into the yard.
He's sort of my rock, I guess. Not a rock in the sense of someone I can rely on, but more like someone I can trust to stay calm in crisis situations. He rarely even barks. People say dogs are empathic, and can pick up on the emotions of the people around them. Not this dog. If that were true, he'd be barking and howling all over the place. That's basically what Grayson has been doing for the past three days.
I'm getting really tired of him and his stupid emotions. They're sure as hell not helping anyone. He just sits in his room and cries all night, and that's supposed to help Drake?
Though I suppose crying is just his way of expressing himself. I don't have time for something frivolous like that. If one is going to express oneself, one should at least do it constructively. For instance, I have my drawings.
Whenever I desire something in my mind, or wish something could be a certain way, I draw it in my sketchbook.
I don't have the urge to draw right now, but since I've reminded myself of it, I guess flipping through a few of my previous creations wouldn't hurt.
"Come here, Titus," I mumble, sitting down on my bed with my sketchbook. "These are some of my…personal fantasies, if you will." I turn the pages and show them to my dog. I know he doesn't care, but I have no one else to talk to.
I turn a few more pages before I notice that one drawing is out of place. This drawing of me holding Drake's head in my left hand and a machete in my right, is NOT supposed to be here in the middle. I put it in the back.
Someone has been in here.
Someone has been going through my drawings. My personal belongings.
Father? No. He already knows I draw morbid shit like this. Pennyworth? No, he'd be smart enough not to put the picture in the wrong place.
Drake? Maybe he saw this and then went to kill himself? No- wait- I know he couldn't have; he was mad at Grayson for sure. That's why he ripped up all those pictures.
…right?
I slam the cover closed and set the book down on my bed. I shift my eyes around my room and I come across a coffee mug on the mantle.
It's Grayson's. I know it. He was here. HE WENT THROUGH MY PRIVATE SKETCHBOOK.
Oh…he is going to GET IT! I'm going to march right down the hall, barge into his room, and beat the living hell out of him until he's as dead as Drake wants to be!
With my shoulders raised and my fists clenched, I stomp towards my bedroom door.
Unfortunately, before I can dramatically open it, it opens, and my father stands before me.
"Damian?" he asks. I quickly lower my shoulders and put my hands innocently behind my back.
"Father," I say. Not a hello, not a question, just acknowledging him.
"How are you feeling?" he asks. I almost ask him why, and then I figure he must be referring to my getting pummeled by that gang earlier tonight.
"Fine. Just going to bed," I mumble, turning around and going back to my bed. He follows me to it and pulls the covers back for me, as if I'm incapable of doing that myself.
"Glad to hear it," he says. I lie down, and stare up at him as he smiles lovingly at me and pulls the covers up to my neck.
"Are you worried at all?" I ask softly. "About Drake?" He nods. "Well, I'm sure he'll be fine."
"Goodnight, son," he says, and then kisses me on the forehead. Ugh! I hate when people do that!
"Goodnight, Father." He turns off the light and exits my room. Titus lies down on the floor, like a tipped-over cow.
Well, I suppose I can always give Grayson the business tomorrow.
END OF CHAPTER 10
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