He sent the letter to Batman a few days before he was going to commit his final circus performance. He wanted to be sure it got there so the news wouldn't shock them. Finally, his day of determination had arrived. He'd watched the sunrise one last time, savoring every second of sunshine. He showered, put on his costume, and before everyone had awoken, he latched a stereo onto his bike. Today was it. He stayed in his room a little longer. He wandered into the bathroom and pulled up the sleeve of his costume. He looked at the cuts that lined his upper arm and shoulder. He could remember the story behind each and every one of them. He didn't think anyone Understood the brute courage it took to cut for the first time. He reminisced about it as he stared into the mirror, which had now become his vortex back into another time.

He'd been nine years old at the time. He had been in the activity room of the orphanage, playing with the other children. The rooms were dark and wooden, and most of the children who had been there for quite a while had been wearing clothes that were in patches and tatters. He'd been playing Jacks with another boy when the caretaker, a lady in a long, high-collared, old-fashioned blue dress, called that it was time for lunch. The other boy had run off to obey the order, and had left Dick to pick up the jacks and put them away. The other children had filed out in an orderly fashion, when the caretaker spied Dick. Her well-aged eyes narrowed to slits behind her thickly-rimmed glasses as she walked over to him. As he was going to put them away, the dark red-haired woman, whose hair resembled that of Marge Simpson, slapped him smartly across the face, sending the Jacks flying.

"Get into line when you're told!" She barked. "You won't be having lunch today. Now clean this mess up."

Dick sat there, clutching his reddened cheek with wide, teary eyes. He'd cleaned up the Jacks and ran into the room he shared with six other boys. He shut the door and sank against it, sobbing quietly. On the opposite side of the room was a tiny window that let sunshine flood the tiny room. When Dick finally looked up, the sunshine reflected on something shiny. Always curious, he crawled toward it. He found it to be a small shard of glass. One of the boys had dropped his glass in the room last week, and had been moved into a room with harsher conditions on an upper floor. 'This piece must have fallen into the floor cracks...' He thought to himself. As he picked it up to throw it away, the sunlight hit it, causing miniature rainbows to explode around the room. For the first time since his parents death, he'd smiled. He twirled it between his fingers and watched the rainbows spin like a disco ball. He was so distracted by the rainbows that he hadn't realized how hard he'd been gripping the shard, and gasped and dropped it to the floor when he felt it cut into his palm. He watched with interest as the cut turned from red to crimson, and the first welt of blood rose to the surface. He felt the sting in his hand, but it felt good. The pain on the outside matched the pain on the inside. He picked up the shard again. 'I wonder if...' He began to think. The thought was cut off by the sound of kids running up the stairs. Frightened, he hid inside the closet, and crouched to the floor. When his door didn't open, he sighed in relief. What little light there was came from under the closet door. His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he looked at the tiny piece of glass. He looked at it, and in the hint of light caught just a bit of his own reflection. The insults and taunts of the other older children came back. "Birdie Boy!" Called one. "Circus Freak!" Called another.

"Bird brain!"

"Idiot!"

"Loser!"

"Momma's Boy!"

"Rube!"

The taunts and laughter swirled around in his mind, bringing fresh tears. 'They hate me', he thought. He looked at the image reflected back at him and wanted to howl at it in disgust. 'Now I hate me too.' He didn't let the anxiety stop him, and cut into his forearm with the shard. As the blood came out, a smile graced his face. There it was. Finally, he had relief.

The old taunts filled his mind again, and before he knew was happening, he punched the mirror with a gloved fist with all his might. It cracked at the center, but no glass fell out. He stared at it, seeing a million different reflections of himself in the pieces of glass. He smiled, a sadistic and self-satisfied grin. The mirror was broken.

So was he.