"Control yourself, take only what you need from it." MGMT
Just OneMore Taste (Again)
By: Cas
Chapter Four: Over Thinking
"He needs rehab, that's what. I've got one kid who, I honestly believe, needs professional help and another who thinks being a snitch is worse than physically assaulting someone. Not to mention Jason admitted to doing hard drugs before." Bruce was venting. He'd sought Alfred out and now both were in the cave. "What did his school say again?"
Alfred glanced over at his bottle of cleaner that he'd set down at the computer. "I'm to accompany him to a meeting at the end of the week where he'll be expected to apologize to the boys he fought. Until he does, he's suspended."
"Apologizing isn't exactly something Jason does well."
The butler agreed with that. "Fortunately Master Jason enjoys being a vigilante, so I strongly believe a compromise can be made."
Bruce grunted. "And Dick? He was clean for months and just reverted like it was nothing. Yes, I understand that's what addicts do, they're never fully healed, but I thought he was stronger than that. And now the whole cutting ordeal, what the hell? Oh, and Jason told me I shouldn't worry, that Dick was a normal rich kid. So now we'll have to watch out for Jason doing harder drugs, because apparently that's possibility."
"I think Master Jason grew up surrounded by drug addicts, his own parents included … I doubt we have to worry. If anyone in this household is anti-drug use, it'd be him."
"Hn."
Deciding to take control of the conversation, Alfred offered his advice. "If Master Richard wants to cut he's going to cut. You can't stop him. It's like we discussed before, he needs to talk. He needs to realize himself that what he's doing is harmful. The most we can do is ask him to use clean blades and tell us if he accidentally cuts too deep."
Bruce hated that plan. "He's already cutting too deep. I got a look at the damage. He needs stitches, but he's refusing. He's just wrapping it tight and letting it clot."
"Which works too. It will just be a more prominent scar."
"Why not stitch it?"
"As you mentioned earlier, he's in need of professional help. The lad isn't thinking straight."
Bruce felt anger peak and he took a moment to force it back down. "It just seems that Leslie doesn't know what she's talking about. I thought it was our job to protect the little idiot, not watch him carve himself up. 'Hey, Dick. I see you cut yourself again, make sure to use clean blades?' We might as well supply the razors!" The billionaire shook his head and swatted a hand, signaling he was done. "Forget it. I'm going out for patrol."
"Have you informed Master Richard of his newly reinstated suspension?"
Bruce paused and shook his head. "I'll do that tonight."
Dick was relaxing outside his apartment, sitting on the stairs and texting Jason. It was still warm for late September, and Dick took advantage of the weather. Soon enough it'd be dark skies, snow and rain. Everything would turn cold and he'd miss nights like this.
Jason had apparently been in a fight at school, but refused to say more. Dick was slightly surprised, but given his little brothers temper he probably shouldn't be. There was a flicker as the screen suddenly changed and displayed Bruce calling. Dick hit ignore the first time, but when the call came again, moments later, he forced himself to answer. "Hi."
"We had a meeting and the group decided you're unfit for work until further notice. I trust you'll be compliant."
Dick had been expecting this. "Whatever." He hung up and pulled his messages back up. He wondered if his answer had been enough to appease his guardian. He really didn't want Bruce showing up unexpected again. Dick had changed the locks, but how much privacy did that allow him? Bruce would get in if he wanted. The hope was that the obvious hint (new locks) would keep the control freak at bay.
A new message popped up and Dick chuckled. It was a picture of the manor kitchen. Apparently Jason had managed to sneak out of his room. Thumbs moved quickly as Dick sent his reply.
THE NEXT DAY:
Tabloids were a pain in the ass. Bruce hated them. So when he was sent a link to the newest rumor he found himself as annoyed and disgusted as always. It was about Dick, claiming he had a drug problem and was spending his days and nights hooking up with anything and everything. Naturally Bruce's name littered the paper, and while it wasn't as foul as it could be, it was still fairly bad. It blamed his playboy lifestyle and lack of a parental role model.
Jason had come down for breakfast and shied away from the figure already seated. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
Bruce surveyed the budding hoodlum and could only imagine the sort of gossip the fourteen year old would kick up in the future. "Well, Jason, aren't you supposed to be at school?"
"You know I was suspended."
"Yes, but we never got to the why."
"Cause I broke a kids nose." Jason answered like a true smartass. He didn't even appear contrite.
Bruce set his phone down with a frown. "Still wondering as to the why."
The youth simply returned Bruce's stare, refusing to say anything more.
"You know what, Alfred can bring your breakfast to your room. Between you and Dick I'v had my fill of bullshit. Get out."
Jason did as told. Truth be told he'd rather eat in his bedroom than with Bruce. Shutting the door behind himself, Jason grabbed his phone and began to mess around. His thoughts were on Dick and what Adrian had said. He felt like it wasn't something he needed to tell Bruce. It was a stupid rumor and Jason didn't want anyone to think he was concerned about it. Though, if he did tell Bruce it would probably get him out of trouble.
Pros and cons.
Maybe Barbara would know what to do.
Bruce had thought his last visit had been bad. Well, this was worse.
Dick apartment was cluttered, dishes still unwashed, trash haphazardly tossed, and a shattered mirror. It wasn't hard to realize that things had gotten worse, and it made him worried. Being worried made him angry.
Bruce picked his way around the clutter to the closed bedroom door and pushed it open. Two in the afternoon and Dick was sound asleep with curtains drawn. The air was stale, no circulation which made it smell of booze and old food. The television was on, showing some video game. Dick's phone was somewhere nearby, the music coming from it was fairly angry.
And then there was Dick. His bed sheets were in a pile on the floor. The teenager was sprawled, wearing only boxers and a tee, across his bed. The uncovered mattress supported a variety of stains, some of which Bruce recognized as blood. The reason was etched onto Dick's arms. Probably ten or more deep cuts, none of which had been cleaned.
'I hope he sanitized the razor.' Bruce approached and gently examined the wounds. Most were swollen, but Dick was young enough. His body's ability to heal was disgustingly unfair. The billionaire tried to bat away the concern. If he didn't he knew this visit would end in a screaming match. He reached out to wake the eighteen-year-old but the name he was about to call caught in his throat. On the nightstand there was the usual powder, but this time it was accompanied by a bottle of benadryl. "DICK!" Bruce jerked the young man up into a sitting position. He had to support the teen as he gave a firm slap in an attempt to wake the figure.
Oh god, had he OD'd?
Checking for a pulse Bruce located an unusually slow beat. He was ready to slap his kid again when Dick groaned and opened his eyes. "Dick?"
Dick looked confused, his pupils too large. "I changed the locks?" He was swaying, obviously disoriented. "I changed the locks."
"You're going to rehab. I'm done waiting for you to talk or come to your senses. You're going and you're going today." Bruce tried to leave, but as soon as he released his grip Dick simply fell backwards onto the mattress. Bruce pulled him back up and gave a shake. "What did you take?"
Dick blinked, disoriented.
Once again Bruce checked the pulse. He noticed that one of Dick's cuts had reopened and was creating a steady trickle. The alcohol was making the blood thinner than normal and more of a mess. "You're bleeding." It was a stupid observation, one that proved Bruce wasn't thinking straight.
"Good. Blood feels good. It's warm and means I did a good job."
Bruce was disturbed by that comment. He focused on the pulse and was certain this wasn't an overdose. No, the teenager was just drunk and high. A stupid combination. "What all have you taken?"
Dick's eyes were closed again, but at least he was still conscious. "Mhmm, nothing."
"Why haven't you cleaned these cuts?" Bruce once more released his grip, letting Dick fall back, and quickly headed for the bathroom. He was thankful at least this room was decent. Grabbing a clean washcloth he ran it under warm water as he dug out some medical tape and cotton squares. Returning to the bedroom he sat on the edge of the bed and lifted one of the wounded arms. Blotting the wet cloth against damaged skin, he cleaned the dried and fresh blood.
Dick actually whined as if hurt.
"You dig razors into your body and yet cleaning the cuts is too painful?"
"Adrenaline from when I cut makes it not hurt."
Bruce just shook his head as he focused on the two deepest lines. He and Alfred had talked through this a few times. The best way to help Dick was to be understanding. To not make him feel bad. To try and get the Romani to talk it out. But, at this moment, all Bruce wanted to do was shake his son and scream at him to stop. "Why haven't you bothered with stitches? You know it'll scar worse."
Dick's eyes suddenly opened and he turned his head. He stared at Bruce before looked at the arm being cleaned and bandaged. "Scars show you how sorry I am."
"What?"
"Scars show you I'm sorry. I'm making me pay so you don't have to get mad at me." His words were slurred and slow. "I'm so sorry. Cutting stops my brain."
"You're drunk."
"Scars make me ugly. They show how sorry I am. They prove I'm strong."
Bruce didn't reply to the nonsensical words. He studied the irregular slashes and had to admit that it was strange. He'd come across enough cutters, and usually they had a pattern. Dick's arms looked like he'd just closed his eyes and slashed at random.
"Because I am sorry, ok? I'm a bad person, and I hate myself. I'm sorry, Bruce." Dick made to sit up and almost fell over.
Bruce caught the figure with a curse under his breath. He felt Dick's arms moving, as if trying to get away. "Dick, stop. Stop. You're still bleeding."
A sob was the response.
An unexpected sob that made the billionaire freeze. "Dick?" Drunk crying wasn't going to help anybody. He gently pushed the boy away, but it didn't stop the tears.
Dick seemed to balance himself sitting up as tears leaked down his face. He lifted his bloody arm and pushed it to cover his eyes. "I'm so sorry! I didn't want to be this way." His breaths hitched as Bruce forced the arm away. Those famous blue eyes didn't stop their revolt. "I don't want this."
"Don't want what, Dick?"
"Me! I don't want to be me anymore!" The real sobbing began then. Impossible to ignore sobbing that came from depths so dark they seemed impossible to locate. A violent sadness. Dick sat there, chocking on tears and hurried gasps for air.
Bruce felt like an idiot. Part of him was annoyed with this drunken display while the other part would gladly slit his own wrists to make Dick feel better. Alfred had said to be understanding, but at what point did understanding become enabling? Bruce had trained Dick, he'd raised him to be strong and smart and it seemed Dick had been neither lately. Empty alcohol bottles, crushed pills, self harm … What was the next move? If anything, matters appeared to be getting worse.
Suddenly there was added weight as Dick forced himself under Bruce's arm and pushed his head against the man's chest. Bruce made no motion to return the contact. He even went as far as to draw away. Dick's crying seemed to halt instantly at the physical response. The teen pulled away and swiped at his eyes and nose. "Sorry, I shouldn't have … Sorry."
Worst parent of the year goes to… Bruce forced himself to reposition so he was sitting to face Dick. He reached out and drew the youth close and forced a head to his shoulder. His first thought was how badly the kid needed a shower, the second was rehab. As expected, Dick drew closer, knees digging into his guardians thighs as vocal crying started back up. "Talk, Dick. Just talk."
"I hate myself so much, Bruce. I hate everything about me." A gasp as Dick lungs struggled through irregular breathing. "I want to be happy, please let me be happy."
Unsure of how to reply Bruce just nodded. Christ. 'He's in pain and I don't know how to stop it.'
"I wanna go home," Dick whimpered. "But- but I don't even know what that means anymore."
"You can come home, Dick."
Dick pulled away and stared up through wet eyelashes. "It won't matter, don't you get it? No matter where I go, I'll never be home again. Home was a place where I didn't have to think nonstop. I'm tired of thinking so much. Home was sleeping and laughing and … No matter where I go it hurts. I can't even sleep without drugs."
Bruce hadn't wanted to hear that. "You're drunk, Dick. You'll sober up and realize it's all ok." He awkwardly patted the teens back. Apparently that was enough of an invitation for Dick to curl back up, forcibly tucking his head under his guardians chin.
"You're wrong. Being high is the only way I feel ok." What Dick did next seemed subconscious. He lifted a hand and gave a startling aggressive slap to one of his deeper cuts. It started the blood flowing again.
Bruce forced his mouth to remain shut as he observed. Dick's panted breathing seemed to instantly slow as his whole body relaxed. 'Self soothing gone horribly wrong.'
Dick was silent for a few moments. "You don't want to be here."
Bruce was carefully tracing his hand against Dick's broken skin. He felt fever heat around a few infected cuts. "I don't want to see you like this. That's all. I want you well adjusted, chum."
For a few seconds it looked like Dick was about to reply. He opened his mouth only to instantly clamp it shut and shove away from his mentor. He took a few clumsy steps before crouching before the small trash can by the door.
As Bruce listened to the vomiting he reminded himself that the purging would help Dick sober up. That had to count for something. Getting to his feet he began to dig in the chest of drawers for clothing. He pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweat jacket. Finding a hat took a bit longer, but Bruce wasn't stupid enough to take Dick outdoors without safeguarding his identity a little. Especially with all the tabloids that were being run.
By the time he turned to tell his eldest to get up and dressed Dick was passed out on the carpet.
"Richard!" Bruce tossed the clothes on the bed and pulled the figure up a tad too rough. He was quickly finding this all too much. The worst part had to be that Dick wasn't going to remember any of this. He wouldn't remember how bad it was, how pitifully depressing. Somehow the boy seemed even more belligerent than before he'd thrown up. "Hey!"
Dick groaned as he struggled to stand. "B-Bruce? Why are you here?"
"Oh, for the love of god."
"I changed the locks."
Ignoring the feeble protests of confusion, Bruce forced Dick to sit on the bed. He then grabbed the jeans and rolled them over both of the teens feet, working them up. He forced Dick to stand before tugging them over hips and hooking the button. "This is pathetic, Richard Grayson."
"Why are you here?"
"You changed the locks, yeah, I heard you the first three times." Next up was to remove the soiled shirt, which was a mite easier. He was slipping Dick's arms into the zip hoodie when he met resistance.
"Stop!" Dick ordered. He was trying to turn away, pulling his arms back. His eyes were half open and unfocused, no doubt seeing double.
Refusing to let this ordeal take any longer, Bruce tugged both offending arms by the wrists and gave his son a violent jerk. "No! Be still!" His commanding voice was enough to warrant respect and he was able to zip the jacket up, place the ball cap on and tug the hood over. Anyone who knew Dick would recognize him, but it was all Bruce could manage. "We're going to walk to my car. I need you to focus, ok? The last thing- hey, listen-."
Dick's head had dipped back suddenly, but pulled forward at the angry tone.
"The last thing anyone wants is a picture or video of you wasted, stumbling or vomiting in the street. Got it? You can do this." Bruce snatched Dick's phone and wallet from the nightstand, and in a fit of childish frustration he purposely knocked over the book covered in powder and the half bottle of vodka. He'd come back later and search the place for the remaining alcohol, pills and other illegal substances.
Dick tried to lie back down, but Bruce grabbed him under his arm and jerked him to stand. It took a moment for Dick to find his footing, but once he did they started moving. They made it to the front door and Bruce pushed the Romani against the wall with an order to stay standing. He dug out a pair of flip flops (thank god, he hadn't looked forward to tying shoes) and waited as Dick stepped into them.
Standing back up, Bruce made a point to a take Dick's face between his hands, forcing the eighteen year old to look at him. "Focus. You can do this. I know you can do this."
All Dick offered in reply was a look of confusion.
"What are you going to do, Dick? Huh? Tell me." Bruce dropped one hand to grab his son by the elbow, but left the other against the smooth face that reminded him just how young this kid was. Eighteen and hardly able to grow facial hair. Eighteen and dangerously spiraling out of control.
"M'not supposed to throw up?"
"Yeah, pretty much." Bruce opened the door and the two began their journey to the car.
To be continued...
1. Your reviews help. A lot. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
2. Hit me up with mistakes. please.
3. Below is for anyone who deals with self harm. Be it someone you know or yourself. I kinda feel like I need to cover my bases here. I'll probably do one on drug use, but I'm dreading that.
TO THOSE WHO LOVE SOMEONE WHO SELF HARMS: I know cutting and self harm is scary to those who observe someone they love hurting themselves. I've struggled with anorexia, over exercise and cutting. The more my parents, boyfriends or friends tried to force me to stop, the more I dug my heels in and the worse it got, and it got bad. I've been slapped a few times by people who got too frustrated by it. This approach doesn't help.
You can't freak your kids out or make them feel bad. It doesn't help. Get them someone to talk to, be approachable, and know it's just a way for some people to cope. Remember, you want them to show you when they hurt themselves, not hide it. Help them clean up, remind them to be smart and disinfect before using blades. It might seem fucked up, but being someone safe to talk to helps more than trying to force them to stop.
TO THOSE WHO SELF HARM: Sometimes it's too embarrassing to get stitches, but it's best to. Trust me, upkeep for a deep cut can take months of painful cleaning and bandages. Infection is far more likely and the scar it'll leave behind isn't pretty, so get stitches. Please. And if your doctor makes you feel bad or ashamed, report it. That's not ok.
Treat infected cuts. You can get super sick. Deathly sick. Always treat that shit and always clean blades. Remember, infection leads to bigger scars.
My argument was always: "I'm only hurting myself." Not true. Be aware that self harm is scary to people who love you. Imagine someone you love doing what you're doing, you'd be sad. You'd be frustrated that you couldn't fix them. Sometimes self harm can't be helped, and that's cool, but make sure you try to get help. And yeah, therapy sucks, but do it, and if you hate one-on-one, try group therapy. Sometimes listening to what others are struggling with can help you not feel so alone.
I do not support self harm, I support treating it.
ok, now that I've been a preaching asshole, I'm going to head out. Peace.
