Jason's Journal Entry 1: 3 March
What if I had listened to you,
If I had heard the words you said?
Maybe today would be different,
Maybe I wouldn't be dead.
What If my mother were still alive,
If through the drugs she had survived?
Maybe today would be different,
Maybe I wouldn't have died.
What if my brother had stayed,
If he promised he would not leave?
Maybe today could be different,
Maybe I wouldn't be a rage-filled maniac killing drug dealers and murderers.
But everyone seems to doubt it.
(To tell the truth, so do I)
What if Joker hadn't killed me
What if Bruce didn't find me
What if Dick had talked to me
What if the bomb stopped ticking
In another world, a life awaits
One in which there is no taint
One in which I did survive
One in which I am alive
Where crime is nonexistient and Batman died with Thomas Wayne
Where my mother isn't a drug addict and I'm completely sane.
Although, that probably is something I should be worried about. After all, I've been there. It was the world of a perfectionist, a world in which nothing bad ever happened. It was so peaceful it was a nightmare; and I wished I was still dead. That was right before I realized I still was.
Death was hurtful, surprisingly. It ripped at your essence, your soul, it made you feel anger and hate for the ones you should love. You start blaming people for your death, making it someone's fault who was never involved and who you should have listened to, someone who was your shoulder to lean on and who forgave everything hurtful you ever said and did.
Death made you turn your back on that. It makes you think about every bad thing that ever happened, every mistake ever made, and turns it into a world in which that stuff doesn't happen. It throws everything wrong that you wish hadn't happened and throws it in your face. A world in which everyone has loving parents, the love of your life doesn't die after you get engaged, and the city is beautiful and sparkly and clean. And it just feels so goddamned wrong. Whoever designed death sure was sadistic.
I can't believe Dick ever convinced me to write in this stupid diary. He says it's a journal, but Tim is going to walk into the room sometime and ask me why I'm writing in it. He'll call it a diary and start irritating me like always. I hate Tim. I hate everyone. I hate life. I hate Bruce and his stupid Bats and all his stupid ideals! They're all so goddamed naive and stupid. At least Damian understands why I kill. He isn't afraid of blood.