ME: Yay for Teen Titans!
DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN IT. SERIOUSLY NOW.
ME: Agh, my computer hates me...
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He comes home on a Wednesday, little after noon, and isn't surprised to find an empty house. After all, he never gives anybody any warning. Outside, it's starting to drizzle. He recognises all the makings of a bad day: Wednesdays are gloomy, and who ever cared for the rain?
He let himself in- with a lock-pick of course- and wondered for a while about the differences between heroes and villains, and how secrets and lies are the custom for both. And how's it's a serious bummer that he's lost his keys.
And it's strange sitting in the living room when nobody else is there. The TV isn't on, and there's altogether too much quiet. Noise, he decides, is one of those things you don't miss 'til it's gone. Companionship too.
But then again, he's a hard guy to make friends with.
It's Superhero 101: Distance yourself.
God, he thinks, Batman would have been proud. Well, maybe. And the rebellious teenager in him yells that it's not a thing to be pleased about, and that he should find the remote and turn on the damn TV. Before he thinks himself to death. Or just goes crazy.
On days like these, outcome number two seems all the more likely. On days like these- every single day- when he knows that Slade is still out there. Still out there and still laughing, whilst he's back here, lonely and falling apart. Days like these, which lead to restless nights filled with restless dreams filled with masks and shadows.
Briefly, he wonders if he's thinking himself to death anyway. Since after a while his head really, really starts to ache, and there's no clarity left to spare. It didn't used to be like this, he knows, and wonders if he can really blame it all on Slade anymore.
Or maybe it's just the silence in the tower is getting to him.
Yeah, that's gotta be it.
He's quiet though, still letting everything roll around his head (Alongside a voice, sounding oddly like Beastboy's, that laughs and tells him that's just what's left of his marbles he can hear…ha ha). And he's been quiet for a long, long time. It's just ironic that right now he's missing the noise more than ever. Companionship too. Boy, does he ever miss that.
Outside, it's really starting to pour down, and the living room windows are all fogged over. It's funny, he thinks, that things so big never seem to let in any light.
Well, it's almost funny. Maybe. If you're half-crazy, and using your brain to commit some weird kind of suicide.
And he'd like so much- oh, almost more than anything- to blame all this on Slade, even if it isn't the truth. He finds it hard, very hard, to accept that the doorway to obsession has always been there. In his head. Somebody just needed to let them self in…with a lock-pick, of course. Somebody who knew about the similarities between heroes and villains, and how easy they all are to exploit. And how secrets and lies are the keys to opening up both.
"I'm sorry, kid, but there was nothing we could do…they died as soon as they hit the ground…"
He finds it hard, very hard, to understand why one action can have so many terrible consequences, and create so many dark, new doorways. But then, maybe he's not supposed to understand at all.
Maybe, he thinks, just remembering can be enough. Sometimes.
The front door opens soon after this revelation, just before dinnertime, and somehow he knows that nobody's expecting to find an empty house. The same thing happens every year, after all. On a date that would always be gloomy, rain or shine.
But thank God there's no more silence. Even though he slips away before anybody can engage him in conversation, it's good to hear something other than his own thoughts.
The door to his room slides open, silently, and he falls upon his bed. Even though he knows that sleep won't come easy- or at all- it still feels good. Comforting.
They're all long dead now. Six years and counting.
He closes his eyes and remembers, faintly, the sound of bodies breaking as they hit the ground.
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