Warning: I like to describe bloody scene in all its gory details.
Again special thanks to Fire Tears for the betaing. (P.S: I am totally looking forward to your story, it better be out soon. Write! Write! ^__^ )
Italic = Robin's thoughts
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His punches bypass the sandbag, and instead rain on the wall behind it. The drumming of his harsh breath is accompanied by loud thuds, signaling the impacts between flesh and concrete. Occasionally a muttered curse joins in the steady rhythm, premising the arrival of another crack on the already dent-decorated wall.
Robin doesn't have his gloves on, and the split edges of the broken surface slice into his skin like razors. By now his battered knuckles are nothing more than a mess of torn skin and bruised bones.
Blood, carrying flecks of white paint, drips down the wall like smeared watercolor. Their redness is concealed by the absence of light and darkened to a pessimistic shade of brown. Each droplet of crimson appends the testament, the silent accusation sprouted by this sleepless night. Those spilled blood droplets are his sins, his failures, his uncertainties, his doubts and everything he wishes to gouge out of himself. But the more he strives to be rid of them, the more they pour out of him. Their treacherous roots burrow deep and their thorny vines spread far.
He is being pulled, weighted down and immobilized by their invisible claims.
Robin stops, both palms flattened against the wall, head dropped and panting harshly. The talons of fear are clawing at his chest and boring through his weakened knees. He feels like an small animal, a small, wounded, trapped animal. An animal that lacks the courage to chew off his own leg to escape the hunter, instead is wasting time moaning pitifully against the injustice of its own downfall.
"Not.... frightened, are you?"
The implication of his previous sentiment and the reminiscent of that question clash and wrestle, while sliding, painfully slowly, down to the very pit of his soul. Their synonymity rips open a whole new channel of boiling rage and with a desperate cry, he launches his fist at the wall again.
No!
A hard punch.
Slade is wrong!
Another punch.
Slade is a liar, thus every word that comes from his mouth is poison!
And another one.
I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid.
He murmurs the sentence under his breath, over and over. The sound alone is enough to soothe him, like prayers, warding off the evil of the world. Robin leeches onto whatever strength they might offer him. The meanings of those words are no longer relevant; their significance fades into the anonymity of nothingness. The force of his hits increases as the ferocity of his rage intensifies.
Another punch, followed immediately by a snap.
Pain erupts from his wrist. Between one heartbeat and the next, the agony has traveled to the rest of his body, dancing on the tips of his fingers and probing against the base of his spine.
He gasps before grinding his teeth, but the pain is already beginning to numb his flesh, tranquilizing his senses until all he can feel is a dull strain around his arm. He raises the injured hand to his eye level.
His left wrist is twisted at an awkward angle with a ring of blacken bruises crowning the base of the joint.
Robin sighs, lowers his arm and leans his forehead against the wall, seeking the comfort radiating from the coolness of the hard material.
After an indeterminable amount of time, he grows irritated of the staling air and the oppressing quietness inside the room. The anger is dissolving, leaving behind a hollow shell woven by the threads of his conflicting emotions.
"Lights."
The overhead lamps are instantly switched on with that command. The ceilings and the floor reflect the luminous rays back and forth, creating an almost hypnotizing effect.
If only life was so easy.
If only life was so easy that the darkness can be chased away by a simple flick of switch. The darkness of heart and the darkness of mind, both are dictated by the flawed and frail foundation that is one's humanity, both sprung from one's most secret desires and basic needs, and both are so often mistaken as something else. Something elevated by better justifications; their true implication veiled until the last fatal strike.
Their blunt lies and half-told truths are gaining on him now, and Robin is confused. Confused not by his own hapless entanglements, but by the degree to which he has allowed himself to be entangled, to be directed, to be... pushed?
Has he allowed himself to be pushed into this murky pool of riotous circumstances? Or has he walked forth by himself, marched boldly forward with both eyes open?
Eyes open, yet unseeing.
Or refusing to see... blinded and distracted by his own arrogance, over-confidence and assumptions.
But... is that all? Is that all of the... explanations?
Can there be more?
Can there be something else... something else he missed, overlooked, or perhaps--
He snorts out a disgruntled groan. This training session has proven to be counter-productive, much less helpful, its purpose contorted into a pale parody of its original self. All in all, he has wasted valuable rest to pursue some elusive peace of mind.
The revelation agitates him further, his anger sparkles anew and Robin raises his fist again. Only to have it skid to a halt at the last moment. Blood trails mark the wall opposite him, streaming down like tear tracks. The sticky liquid looks shockingly bright, almost glowing eerily under the artificial light.
Enough. He's had enough for tonight.
Grey mist is starting to creep behind his half-lid eyes and he shakes his head to clear away the drowsiness. He feels like he is immersed in the midst of some kind of surreal dream, and only detachment is left after the last wisp of adrenaline flees from him.
The feeling in his left hand is gradually returning to him. He tries to flex his fingers and they protest with sharp bolts of sting. He examines the bruises closer and deems them semi-serious. Grudgingly, he decides that a trip down to the infirmary is probably advisable. He hits the door button with a little more force than necessary, and the metal block retreats into the wall with a swift whoosh.
The hallway is better lighted than the exercise room, and he turns his face slightly to avoid the magnified illuminations. He saunters toward the infirmary, booted feet pattering soundlessly against the carpeted floor. The building is quiet. The only noise is made by the soft humming of the air-conditioning system, and the outward normality of his surroundings begins to calm him.
Has he... over-reacted?
No. Robin can never be too careful, just as no situation can never be investigated too far and no riddle dismembered too thoroughly. He is the leader, after all. His constant vigilance governs not only his own well-being, but that of his friends as well. But just as that belief is set firmly in mind comes another penitent realization.
Careless! What if something happens? What if we are attacked now?
With each step, guilt climbs higher into his heart. He can still fight with a broken wrist, but it will no doubt dampen his performance and prove to be a distraction at some crucial moment. Robin swears lividly inside; he has the bad habit of forgetting his own limits and the limits of a human body.
Human.
For Robin, it's something of an old scar. Sometimes he wonders how he easily assumed the role of leadership, especially since he is what one might call the only normal one among the Teen Titans. He's a hundred percent super-power free. It hasn't bothered him that much before. He was trained by Batman after all, and he understood, from a very young age, that everyone is special in their own way. And just because he's human doesn't mean he can't kick major ass.
But he always feels that he has to push himself extra hard to earn his place among his peers. Because regardless of how much he tells himself that he doesn't care, there is always this small, nudging voice in the back of his head, constantly whispering and secretly questioning his own worth. And if he had some kind of special ability, he could perhaps... function better? Maybe even be a better leader.
This... this is ridiculous.
People don't need super powers to be strong. Batman is human, and he's one of the strongest and most intelligent people Robin knows. And even... Slade, who has appeared to be human enough and doesn't posses any special power, is somewhat--
Robin freezes, eyes widen, realizing too late that he has just put that... that... despicable criminal on the same level as his mentor.
Ack! How can I even think that!? ...Okay, from now on, no more snacking on Beastboy's tofu waffles before training!
Resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall, he quickens his pace. He can't fathom what has brought up that comparison. In his mind, even just the barest hint of that kind of thought is filed away as an insult to his teacher. And why Slade of all people? It almost feels like... a betrayal, not only just to Batman, but also to himself.
Now thoroughly disturbed, the entrance to the infirmary comes as a most welcoming sight and he staggers inside. Starfire whirls around, eyes rounding in alarm before they take in his lanky form.
"S-Star." Robin blinks, a little surprised that someone else is also up on this ungodly hour. "What are you doing here?"
She shrugs sheepishly before tentatively raising her bandaged finger. "I was preparing breakfast and was not paying attention. Well... the knife slipped."
"Breakfast? But it's..."--he squints at the digital clock on the table--"...it's three in the morning."
She looks a little embarrassed, with the lightest pink tainting her cheeks. "I... I could not sleep, so I decided to use my time in a more productive manner. ...As an old earth saying goes, the early... ahhm... worm... gets the bird?"
"It's the early bird gets the worm." He chuckles good-naturedly. Starfire's presence is... warming, and often brightens whatever gloom is plaguing him.
"Right! Ahhmmm... Robin, why are you here?"
"Errr... I..." He stutters, swings his left hand behind his a back a little too fast.
Starfire walks closer, head tilted slightly. She has obviously caught his haste attempt at hiding his wound. She asks softly, "What is wrong with your hand? Is it damaged?"
"Ahhh... it's nothing! Just... a small training accident. N-nothing to worry about!"
With a gentle kick of heels, she's in the air. She floats around, circles behind him before he can react. Emerald eyes widen, glimmering with sudden moisture. Robin tenses, mentally slapping himself.
She sniffs, then turns toward the counter. "I-I will go and retrieve the necessary medical supplies and equipment..." Then she stops and adds gently, "Robin, whatever it is, please do not carry the burden alone. We are your friends, and we will always be here for you."
"Starfire..."
She still has her back toward him, and the gesture alone is a shouting rejection, silently yet clearly declaring her reproach on his repeated display of distrust. He wants to reach out, to spin her around and explain. To explain that it's not her that he doesn't trust... it's himself.
She breathes out, "I... I will always be here for you."
Robin feels his inside twisted sharply. Whether it's in pain, regret, or in happiness, he does not know. And in those bewitching hours before the departure of this bleak night, he realizes that he does not have the courage to find out.
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^__~